Chapter 7: The Fishing Trip

Jonah needed distance.

He woke at five in the morning with a dry throat and a headache drumming behind his eyes. His bed felt too empty and yet too crowded—Mara’s perfume still hung in the sheets. Her words from the night before kept looping through his thoughts like a drill sergeant’s cadence. Why do you fight so hard against people who love you?

He pulled on faded denim, a thick flannel shirt, and his old combat boots. In the garage, he grabbed his tackle box and two graphite spinning rods from the rack. He needed cold air, still water, and quiet. He needed to hear his own voice without the Bellamy women filling every pause.

He loaded the gear into the bed of his Ford F-150 and latched the tailgate. When he turned around, Mara was standing at the edge of her driveway.

The morning chill hadn’t driven her indoors. She wore an ivory silk robe tied loosely around her waist, her dark hair tumbling over one shoulder in soft, messy waves. Her bare feet rested on the damp gravel. The porch light behind her cast a warm glow through the silk, tracing the curves of her thighs and the narrow line of her waist. She looked soft, sleepy, and effortlessly stunning.

“You’re up early, handsome,” she said. Her voice carried a low, smoky rasp that went straight to his gut.

“Going up to Cedar Brook Lake,” Jonah said. He wiped his hands on a shop rag. “Just want to get a few casts in before the sun gets high.”

Mara crossed the property line slowly, unhurried. She stopped inches from his chest. The clean scent of almond lotion and warm skin cut right through the crisp morning breeze. She reached up and smoothed down the collar of his flannel with gentle, deliberate fingers.

“You’re still carrying last night, aren’t you?” she asked softly.

Jonah held her gaze. “I’m just clearing my head, Mara.”

She didn’t get angry. She didn’t pout or argue. Instead, her lips curved into a small, compassionate smile that made him feel like a fool for ever doubting her. She leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth. Her lips were soft and warm against his cool skin.

“Take all the time you need, baby,” she murmured against his cheek. Her hand rested flat over his heart, warm and steady. “The water will do you good. Just remember who’s waiting when you come home.”

“I won’t forget,” Jonah said.

“Good.” She patted his chest and stepped back, letting her eyes drift down his frame with open admiration. “Go catch us some dinner. We’ll be right here.”

Jonah climbed into the truck cab and started the engine. In the rearview mirror, he watched her walk back to her front door, the sway of her hips slow and deliberate. She turned once on the top step, raised a hand, and slipped inside.

He blew out a long breath and put the truck in reverse.

Cedar Brook Lake sat five miles west of the subdivision, tucked inside a dense rim of loblolly pines and sweetgum trees. It was a county reservoir with a small gravel boat ramp and a single wooden dock. On a crisp Tuesday morning in early autumn, the parking lot was empty.

Jonah backed his trailer down the ramp and slid his twelve-foot aluminum Jon boat into the glassy water. The boat had seen better years, but the hull was solid and the oarlocks were freshly greased. He tied the bow line to the dock cleat, parked the truck, and carried his gear down the ramp.

Within ten minutes, he was rowing away from shore.

The rhythmic dip of the oars broke the stillness. Cool mist hovered over the lake’s surface, rising in white tendrils that dissolved as the sun crested the tree line. The air smelled of wet cedar, moss, and decaying leaves—clean. Nothing like sandalwood or expensive perfume.

Jonah dropped the small mushroom anchor in twelve feet of water near a submerged weed bed. It hit the muddy bottom with a soft thud, and the rope went slack in his hands. He tied it off on the bow cleat and settled onto the center bench.

Silence took over the cove.

He tied a silver spoon to six-pound monofilament, tested the knot with his teeth, and cast toward the edge of the lily pads. The reel clicked. The lure splashed cleanly thirty yards out. He began a slow, steady retrieve, feeling the rhythmic flutter of the blade pulse through the rod tip.

Nothing hit. He didn’t care.

He cast again, then again, letting the mechanical repetition loosen the tension locked between his shoulder blades. For twenty years, his entire existence had been defined by vigilance. You watched the tree line. You checked the perimeter. You memorized vehicle plates, monitored choke points, and suspected every gift—because an unearned kindness was usually the prelude to an ambush.

The Army had kept him alive. But it had also turned him into a machine that couldn’t power down.

Is that what’s happening here?

He let the rod rest across his knees and reached for his thermos. The black coffee was scalding and bitter. He took a slow sip, staring out across the flat gray water.

Mara’s voice came back to him with painful clarity. You spend so much time braced for an attack that you don’t know how to receive love.

He turned the thought over in his mind like a spent cartridge. What if she was right?

He looked back at the last three months. Mara had never asked him for money or status. She’d cooked his meals, tended his cuts, washed his clothes, and welcomed him into a home that hummed with laughter and warmth. And her touch—he closed his eyes, remembering the sheer intensity of her hands on his skin. She gave herself to him with a ferocity that shook him to his core. She made him feel powerful, desired, and anchored in a way no other woman ever had.

And then there were the girls.

Jonah rubbed his jaw. He thought about Tessa standing by the pool, dripping wet in that tiny black thong, looking over her shoulder with that knowing, insolent smirk. He remembered the heat that had surged through him when he saw the perfect curve of her hips. He thought about Iris sitting on his kitchen counter, her wide, dark eyes fixed on his mouth, leaning so close he could feel the warmth radiating from her chest.

They weren’t children. Tessa was twenty; Iris was eighteen. They were fully grown women living in an open, unconventional household. They teased him because they found him attractive. They touched him because they felt safe around him.

Was it really so sinister? Or was he simply viewing a modern, free-spirited family through the rigid lens of his conservative military background?

Look at what you have, an inner voice argued.

He was thirty-eight years old, retired with a full pension, healthy, and living in a beautiful house. Right next door was a gorgeous, passionate woman who wanted to marry him, along with two stunning stepdaughters who adored him and treated him like a king. Most men worked their entire lives and never saw a fraction of that kind of affection. Most men would call him the luckiest bastard alive.