Page 31 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

I nodded. “Night fishing.”

Cassie stared at me like I’d just invited her to a reenactment of the Oregon Trail.

“I promise, it doesn’t involve actual decision-making. Just the moon over the water, crickets chirping on the shore, and the occasional argument with a stubborn trout.”

She hesitated, then let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “If I end up windburned and emotionally unchanged, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair,” I said, already reaching for her jacket. “But at least you’ll be blaming me from somewhere with a view.”

She shook her head but followed me anyway. Small steps. But it felt like a beginning.

The drive to the lake took maybe fifteen minutes, but Cassie spent all fifteen giving me the side-eye like I’d tricked her into a cult.

“So let me get this straight,” she said as I turned down the gravel road. “You’re taking me to a body of water in the middle of the night, with no cell service, and I’m supposed to relax?”

“I brought snacks,” I said. “And tunes. This isn’t an abduction—it’s rural hospitality.”

She snorted. “You’re not helping your case.”

We pulled up to the edge of the lake just as the moonlight hit the surface like it had a personal deal with the lighting gods. The water shimmered in soft gold, and the trees whispered gently, like they were rooting for us.

Cassie stepped out and looked around, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. “Okay,” she admitted reluctantly. “This is... nice.”

I gave her a satisfied nod. “Fishing’s like a conversation with nature. Sometimes it talks back. Mostly, it ignores you. But either way, you leave feeling lighter.”

“Did you read that on a bumper sticker?”

“Nope. Came up with it myself while failing to catch trout for three straight summers.”

She smiled—faint, but it was there.

I grabbed the rods and a flashlight from the truck bed and handed her the one with the least personality damage. “Don’t worry, this one only mildly hates new people.”

“I feel so welcome.”

We made our way to the dock, the wood groaning under our steps. It wasn’t thrilled about visitors, but it would tolerate us if we behaved. I laid out the tackle, cooler, and a blanket in what I liked to call “the most disorganized system of organized leisure.”

Cassie dangled her legs over the edge, her sneakers swinging above the water. “I haven’t accepted the job yet, you know,” she announced without looking away from the water.

“I know.” Still, my mind wandered to what it would be like if she did stay—more night fishing trips together, maybe even seeing a movie. I glanced over to see her reaction, but she was still focused on the water.

Cassie rolled her shoulders. “You really do this often?” She changed the subject.

“More than I’ll admit. I come home empty-handed more often than I’d like.”

She watched her fishing line slip into the lake, brows furrowed with uncertainty as she shifted her grip on the rod.

“I used to do this with my mom,” she said quietly. “Back when I was little. Never at night, though. She’d bring lemonade and make up fish names. Called them things like Sir Wigglebottom and Professor Fins.”

I smiled. “Strong names. Very academic.”

Cassie’s lips curved. “She always said if we didn’t catch anything, we could at least tell good stories about what got away.”

“That’s half the point,” I said, casting my line. “That, and pretending you’re not secretly hoping the fish ignore you.”

She leaned back on her hands, face tilted toward the full moon. “This might not be awful.”

“Careful,” I said. “You’re dangerously close to enjoying yourself.”