Page 38 of The Other Half

“That’s too bad, because they are great eating.”

“It’s cruel!”

“Do you eat meat?” I arched a brow.

“Well, yeah,” she said, losing some of her determination.

“So, you’re not opposed to eating animals that spend their whole lives in captivity and are slaughtered, but eating a naturally caught fish or free-range animals that lived a good life is immoral?”

Her mouth opened, but she struggled to form words. Being a fisherman and a hunter, I’d been on this end of the argument enough times I was confident I’d win it.

“I love animals. I also enjoy harvesting them naturally rather than going to the store and buying a filet of fish from one raised in a glorified tank. Both my father and grandfather taught me how to humanely hunt and help with conservation. It’s what I was taught, and I never saw anything wrong with it. I toss back any young fish, allowing them to grow and reproduce, I never shoot does, only aged bucks. And every fall, I take enough ducks and turkeys to keep Hank and I supplied all winter along with our venison and fish. So, unless you’re a vegetarian, I think we can safely argue that eating a fish caught after a long, happy life in Kangaroo Lake is a lot more humane than eating one that had a life jammed into a container barely able to move, swimming in its own filth, fed an unnatural diet and loaded with antibiotics.”

I waited for the argument I knew would never come. In all my years of having it, no one other than vegetarians had a leg to stand on. Arching a brow, I smiled. “Maybe you should let me cook you a wild-caught fresh fish and let me know what you think. You don’t even need to see me catch it.”

The minute the words came out of my mouth I froze, wishing I could shove them back in. Did I just invite her to dinner?

“You’ll catch it and kill it humanely?”

I was nodding. Why was I nodding? Stop it, Jake! Stop inviting her to dinner!

“And I don’t have to see it looking like, you know, a fish with eyes and stuff?”

“No faces. I’ll have it fileted before you get there.” I couldn’t stop myself. The words that meant I’d be having dinner with Cassie at my house kept pouring out like I’d broken the faucet and the handle was stuck open.

“Okay. Deal.” She smiled, and it sent my stomach tumbling into the abyss again. “I’m sorry I made you toss back dinner.”

Laughing, I shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ve got a frozen pizza at home.”

“Frozen pizza?” Her nose crinkled up. “Now I really feel bad. Let me buy you dinner and a drink. A thank you for taking me fishing and an apology for making you put it back.”

“You don’t need to do that.” My head was shaking back and forth, and I was grateful this time it did my bidding instead of nodding like I knew it wanted to.

“Please? I owe you. And honestly, I’m starving and have no food at my house.”

Great. Now I would seem like a total dick if I said no. There it went, my head nodded before I’d given it the go-ahead. “Fine. We can run to the Pen Pub.”

Her smile lit up the dark now surrounding us. “Okay.”

With a heavy sigh, I gathered up our fishing rods and tossed them in the back of the truck. Hank hopped down and got in, situating himself in the center before Cassie jumped in beside him. After I closed her in, I grumbled at my loss of sanity while I made my way to the driver’s side. Remembering this was all Jo’s fault, I made a mental note.

Kill Jo after dinner.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Cassie

Jake jumped in the driver’s seat and I tried to steal another look at him, but Hank’s big head blocked the way. His long pink tongue lolled out while he panted, little drops of drool landing in a puddle at his feet.

“Where is this place?” I asked, craning my head around the big dog so I could see Jake’s face situated underneath his camo cap.

“Just a mile up the road.” Those blue eyes locked with mine for only a second, but it was all it took to send me back into a free-fall of desire. If you had told me a week ago I’d be lusting over a guy in relaxed fit jeans and flannel shirts, I’d have asked what kind of drugs you’d taken. But here I was, hot and bothered once again by the big guy in the big truck. Donovan wouldn’t have been caught dead in a truck, preferring the limo or, on the rare occasion when he felt like driving, the Lamborghini.

Donovan. I’d barely thought of him since my talk with Grandpa. Knowing he was bad for me, along with the rest of my friends, I’d sent them all a message I’d be going away for a while, and out of touch. I’d ignored the few messages they’d sent asking me where, and eventually they’d disappeared. Even though I hadn’t officially broken up with him, I hoped he’d gotten the hint. And knowing him, he already had a gaggle of girls crawling across his lap while he sat on his yacht somewhere in the Caribbean. Considering I never really cared about him, or any of my “friends” for that matter, it didn’t bother me at all thinking he’d already replaced me. Now that I had some distance from them and a little clarity, I saw what my grandpa had pointed out. I saw how toxic they were to me, and how lonely I was even when they were with me. They weren’t real friends, and I knew that now.

The truck started down the road and it rumbled through me, mimicking the vibrations that had traveled down my spine when Jake had wrapped his arms around me to help me fish. Being enveloped in his arms flooded me with a sense of security I hadn’t felt since before I could remember. Safety lingered in his arms, a powerful protection paired with a chemistry I knew he couldn’t deny. All I wanted was for that fish to fight me all night long so I could stay there just a little longer.

“What kind of cuisine do they have there?” I asked, peeking around Hank.