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Dad accepts the keys that Earl jingles. “Cabin number four,” he mumbles, staring at the key chain.

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It’s my fault. I get it—I wasted everything. I screwed up college, even. Destroyed any hope for a full-ride scholarship. And it’s obvious that Dad’s never going to forgive me. In that moment, my hip is an open wound he’s just emptied an entire salt shaker into. Clint smiles at me, saying, “You’d never know you got hurt.”

That just goes to prove, right there, how little this guy really knows. Clint

body checking

Oneofthesedays,I’mgoingtocomeoutwithyou,”Kenziepromises. At first I think “one of these days” means “today,” but instead of climbing aboard, she stays on the dock and picks up a fistful of fishing poles.

“Don’t know why you haven’t yet,” I say, in the same tone I’d use talking to Greg or Todd. Friendly, open. Not like I
have
to have her out with us. Not like I’m pining. Or foaming at the mouth, like Todd.
Sure,
you can come out with us. But the world won’t end if you don’t.
I lean over the edge of the boat to accept the poles, then carry them beneath the cover that shades the passengers’ seats on the Lake of the Woods launch—one of the twenty-five-foot motorboats that Greg, Todd, and I use to take out ten or so vacationers at a time. We could fit in as many as fifteen, but Earl likes to keep the groups a little smaller than that. And it’s such a great gig, none of us would ever think about testing Earl’s rules.

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“Sure do bring a lot with you,” Kenzie observes as I motion for her to hand me my boxes of tackle, too. I learned on day one that it’s best to bring the just-in-cases—because there’s always at least one weekend fisherman every trip who realizes, halfway out into the lake, that he’s accidentally left something behind in his cabin. Or there’s always a couple of tourists, usually women, who swear they hadn’t intended to fish, but now that they’re here, and it’s such a beautiful day, and
pretty
please, any way we can fish, too?

Once I’ve placed all my stuff in the boat, I climb back out onto the dock. I’ve learned, too, that it seems more welcoming this way—if I’m waiting on the dock, vacationers assume there’s still space for them on the boat. And this morning, I want to get as many onboard as I possibly can.

I glance over at Kenzie. She’s smiling at me, one of those all-knowing
I’ll get you yet
grins. The early morning sun plays off the waves in her hair.

But I’ve got too many worries right now to get all upset about maybe leading Kenzie on just by being nice to her. I’m remembering the words I bounced around in the lobby two nights ago, when the Keyes family first arrived:
Fishing’s about as low-impact as it gets. Easy way
to start. And if you all come out, you’ll get a chance to see how Chelsea
and I are going to work together while you’re here.
Her dad had frowned at the suggestion. Tried to back out of it, but her mother persisted, nodding, liking the idea.
You guys take tomorrow to get settled in,
I’d offered.
The next
morning, I’ll take you all out on my first run of the day.
Talk about dumb. Now, instead of impressing one person, I’ve got to work her entire family. If I can take four or five vacationers in addition to the Keyes family, the others will offer a little bit of a distraction. But probably, I think as I spot the Keyes family in the distance, making the trek from cabin number four, it won’t be enough to really soothe my 61/262

nerves. The mom and the brother don’t worry me so much—frankly, that gangly brother of hers is no concern of mine at all, and the mother seems like she’ll be pleased with just about anything (the whole lemonade-from-lemons type). The dad, though? And
Chelsea
?

I keep thinking about the way Chelsea backed away from me at the lodge when I introduced myself. And the way she ignored me yesterday, turning her back on me from the large front porch of cabin number four when I waved from the dock. Makes me wonder why her dad signed her up for boot camp at all.

“What is it?” Kenzie asks. She follows my gaze up the dirt path toward the Keyes’ cabin. She pinches her face, lets out a long sigh. “Is that your ball player?”

I nod. Kenzie shades her eyes. “Broke her hip, huh?” she says, her voice sour.

“Yep,” I say, motioning another cluster of vacationers toward the dock—I count five heads. Five in addition to the Keyes family.
Thank
God …

“Too bad somebody didn’t break her
face,
” Kenzie mumbles, so quietly she probably doesn’t even think I’ve heard. But I have—and it makes my eyes shoot back up the path stretching toward cabin number four. Kenzie obviously sees Chelsea as some sort of competition, and this is the perfect opportunity for her to nitpick, to convince me Chelsea really isn’t
that
pretty. She can’t, though—because Chelsea’s damn near perfect. But without flaunting it. Khaki shorts, white T-shirt. None of that obvious look-at-me crap girls put on in the summer, tiny sundresses and skimpy shirts that don’t even hide so much as a belly button. Chelsea’s breasts and waist and hips tug at her simple clothes, filling them out in all the right spots, turning a plain old pair of shorts and a T-shirt into one of the sexiest outfits a girl has ever worn. Ouch.

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My eyes trace the outline of her hips, troll down her thighs. I remember her mom telling me, that first night, that Chelsea’d been swimming for exercise. My mind fills with the image of Chelsea in a bikini—a white one that has a tendency to turn see-through when wet. It’s the first time in two years that the sight of a woman has given me a fantasy like this. I feel a little dizzy; I even squat and tighten the laces of one of my sneakers as an excuse to put my head between my knees for a minute.

Kenzie raises her eyebrow at me when I finally look her way, like she’s reading my mind.

“Get real,” I tell her. “She’s only eighteen.”

“And you’re only nineteen,” Kenzie says.

“She’s my
client
.” There. That sounded professional enough. Forget
sounded
, it’s true. And besides, I’m not interested. After burning your fingers to black crisps, how smart is it, really, to put your hand against a red-hot burner a second time? A pointless summer fling. Who needs it?

“Client. Sure,” Kenzie mumbles. “Here,” she growls, pushing her camera into my hands. “Maybe one of these days you’ll buy one of your own.”

I shake my head, still protesting, but she rolls her eyes and says, “I gotta get to the lodge.” Her legs swallow the dock in three strides, and she scurries off. Kenzie and I have never been a couple, not even close, but the way I’ve just looked at Chelsea has smacked her—and that makes me feel like the crud Earl sometimes gives me the distinct honor of scraping off the bottom of the Lake of the Woods canoes. As Kenzie grows smaller, Chelsea approaches the dock, her long blond hair rippling and her incredible legs flexing with every step. And I know—nothing about the next three weeks is going to be easy. Chelsea

nothing but net

Helpyouin?”ClintaskswhenIhittheendofthedock.Hestretches his arm out, waiting for me to take his hand.

In the sunlight, his eyes are bluer than the sky or the lake, and somehow even purer than either. And the face that surrounds those eyes stands out far more clearly than it did inside the lodge the night we arrived—chiseled features, tan skin, teeth like glazed white pottery, a lock of dark hair tumbling across his forehead. His face sends shockwaves through me. Betraying the order from my brain to stay cool, my eyes are already traveling down the length of his body, taking in his muscular shoulders, his strong arms, tapered waist, sun-darkened calves.

The mere idea of spending an entire morning with him makes my face grow hotter by the millisecond. And my entire family’s going to be watching my every move. The whole outing is made infinitely worse by the fact that I had the entire day yesterday to think about it. To remember the way my body rang out like a cymbal just standing next to him in 64/262

the lodge. To wonder how I’d feel, spending the morning sitting next to him on a boat …

“Just take my hand,” he says. “I won’t drop you. Promise.” He’s smiling, flashing his perfect, straight teeth. My stomach starts doing some weird acrobatic routine.
Gabe,
I start chanting in my mind.
Gabe,
Gabe, Gabe …

I’d like to stick my nose in the air and step onto his stupid boat myself, knocking him onto his butt in the process, but I’m afraid of falling. Sure, the boat’s enormous. But after the year I’ve had, I’m terrified of anything that isn’t solid ground. To me, the boat looks about as steady as a rubber ducky, the way it bobs. What if I were to lose my footing, slip, and hit my hip on the way down? Doctors have warned me about the dangers of falling a second time. And I don’t particularly think spending what should be my freshman year of college recovering from hip
replacement
surgery would be a blast. I glance behind me, but the rest of my family and the five other tourists who plodded to the end of the dock are all onboard. There’s no one else to push ahead of me, to give me half a second to catch my breath. I’m all that’s left.

Reluctantly, I slip my hand into his, the touch of his skin causing my heart to beat double time. I try to hurry into the boat, eager to pull my hand away, to wiggle from the crazy beehive-swarm of emotions he arouses in me. But my foot slips on the ramp, and my heart stops. My very worst fear of all time is coming true. I’m falling, in terrorizing slow motion. My whole mind replays the footage I’ve watched hundreds of times—me in the last moments of my last game, body twisted, arm raised above my head as the ball rolls off my hook shot, my hip hurting, sure, aching already, but that pain was nothing compared to what hit me when I slipped and crashed and broke …

I open my mouth—
not again, not again—
and I’m about to scream when I fall into his arms. All I let out is a pitiful “
Ee—.
” His chest is 65/262

strong, and—
oh, God—
he smells so good. Like clean summer shirts just brought in from the clothesline.

“Thanks,” I manage to mumble.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m lifeguard certified. I’ll rescue you from the lake if you fall. Actually, I’d be glad to jump in on a hot morning like this.”

Actually, I might just jump in on purpose if you’re coming after
me
. The thought explodes into my brain from nowhere, rattling me like an earthquake. How could these thoughts be coming to me when I’m already in love with someone else? I can feel my cheeks turning strawberry pink. I finally squirm out of his grasp and hurry to take a seat next to Brandon, one of the twenty or so seats that surround the railing along the back of the boat (or is that the bow? The helm?).
That’s good,
Chelse. Distract yourself from the way you feel with a list of vocab
words.

“What’s the deal?” Brandon whispers, seeing right through me.

“Why are you acting so weird? You’d think you’d never seen a guy in your entire life.” He raises his camera and takes a picture, recording my sheer mortification.

“Knock it off,” I snap.

The truth is, I feel exactly like I did when I’d insisted on riding the Tilt-A-Whirl ten times straight on my tenth birthday—dizzy and weak. My mouth is dry. My hands are even trembling a little. While I’m still trying to get myself under control, Clint suddenly appears and wraps his hand around my biceps, hauling me to my feet. Lightning flows through me at his touch. So help me God,
lightning
.

“I need a model,” he says, leading me gently toward the center of the boat. We turn to face the passengers.

“We call these things Mae Wests,” he says, holding up a life jacket by the shoulders. I turn and slip my arms through the holes. 66/262

Clint works me like a top, spinning me around. His face—his
beau-
tiful
face—is right in front of mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek. My mind reels. I need something to say. Something to distract me from the fact that his hands are reaching toward the ribbons on the life jacket—ribbons lying right over my chest.

“So—so why’s it called a Mae West?” I manage.

“Oh, I bet I’m the only one here old enough to know who Mae West was,” a gray-haired woman shouts as she laces up her own jacket. “That lady’s boobs could fill up an entire movie screen! The only way I’ll ever get ’em that big is to wear one of these things.”

I look at Clint, horrified. He nods. “Yep,” he says. “You ever fall in the water, all you’ve got to do is pull this cord down here, and
poof!
”

He holds his arms out like he’s illustrating ample bosoms. “You’ll be an instant Mae West.”

I’m sure my entire face is now maroon as I scramble back into my seat. Brandon’s ready to swallow his tongue he’s laughing so hard. “This is too great,” he tells me. “I’m so glad we came. I don’t think your face will return to its normal color ever again.”

I glare as he snaps another picture.

Clint quickly steers the boat toward the middle of the lake, then slows the engine. As we putter along, he calls out, “Get your lines in the water! We’re going to troll.”

Instantly my mind fills with images of elves—wrinkly and short, in pointy hats and shoes. There’s no way that’s what the guy’s talking about.

“Hey, Chelsea, you want me to help you get that line in the water?”

Clint offers. He stands right behind me, his arms around my shoulders. I bite my lip.

“Here, let your line out. Just let it drag beside the boat.”

A whoop steals Clint’s attention away from me.

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“I got one! I got a bite!” the old woman who made that awful Mae West crack shouts. “Get your net, Clint! It’s a big one!”

Clint rushes to help her. I breathe a very grateful, yet (do I even admit it to myself?) slightly disappointed sigh of relief.

“It’s a beaut, Gladys,” Clint shouts as he pulls the fish into the boat. He holds it up for everyone to see. “Nice largemouth bass,” he says.

“Good eating size. Chef Charlie at the lodge will love to get his hands on this guy. Gladys will have a fine dinner tonight.” He places the fish on a stringer in his ice chest while everyone onboard congratulates her.