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Hooked On You
by Cathryn Fox

Copyright © 2020 by Cathryn Fox. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

Kira

You know in an action movie, when the hero just saved the day and everything goes into slow-mo as he walks toward the heroine, to emphasize the guy’s sexiness? Cue the big finale kiss, right? When they ride off into the sunset, have you ever sighed happily and thought, one day, that’s going to happen to me?

Yeah, me neither.

But right now, after driving almost seven days straight, traveling from my academia world in Victoria, British Columbia, to a small fishing town in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, I’m about as close as I’ll ever get to that romantic scenario. Unfortunately, two things are missing from the picture. One, the hot lobster fisherman coming my way has no idea who I am, and two, I’m definitely not the kind of girl a guy like him would even notice.

I’d have to grow two big claws, a tail, and a hard shell before I found myself in that hottie’s hands. It’s not that I’m a troll or anything. I’m average looking, but I’m a mathematician—a logical thinker—who has no time for fantasy. Okay, well, maybe that’s not entirely true. I have dated in the past, and later tonight, when I’m finally tucked into bed at my late grandmother’s B&B, a fantasy or two starring Mr. Hot Fisherman might play out in my mind’s eye.

Might?

Yeah, that’s happening for sure.

“Hey,” the fisherman says, snapping me back to the present. Wait, is he talking to me? Dammit, what the heck did he just say? “Hey,” he calls out again, and I glance over my right shoulder to see if he’s calling out to some curvy brunette behind me, but I’m the only one crossing the road. I turn back in time to see long muscular legs work to close the gap between us.

Cue the slow-mo.

I’m about to smooth my hair in some flirty gesture—okay, I’m an academic, but every now and then I curl up with a Cosmo—but my muscles seize when he drops the crate of lobsters he’s carrying and runs toward me.

What the heck? This isn’t how it happens in the movies.

The ringing of bells reaches my ears, followed by chains rattling and heavy, pounding footsteps. I angle my head to the left, toward the clattering noise, but it’s not human feet hammering down the pavement. No, it’s hooves. Hooves! My God, there’s a runaway horse and buggy barreling down the road, and I’m in its direct path. I’m about to move, jump clear out of my perfectly sensible driving shoes, when something knocks the air from my lungs and sends me spinning across the road like the Tasmanian devil.

“I’ve got you,” I hear as we hit the curb with an undignified thud, and I try to suck in air as we come to an abrupt halt. I gasp but can’t seem to fill my lungs, or even think properly. My inability to do the most basic involuntarily action—like breathing—has very little to do with my near-death experience and everything to do with the hottest fisherman on the planet pinning me to the hard ground with his even harder body.

I open my mouth and try to say something, anything, but only manage a high-pitched sound like a chipmunk jacked up on red bull.

Great, just great.

“Are you okay?” he asks. Worry lines bracket the most gorgeous green eyes I’ve ever seen as he assesses me. His hand goes to my hair, and with the rough pad of his thumb, he brushes a wayward lock from my cheek.

“I…I…can’t breathe,” I manage to get out.

“Shit.” He slides off my bruised body. Dressed in orange bib pants, held up by black suspenders, and a white, button-down dress shirt that conflicts with his fishing apparel, he kneels beside me and goes back on the heels of his rubber boots. That look shouldn’t be sexy. On any other man, it wouldn’t be, but on him, oh my ovaries.

I force myself to tear my gaze away. Embarrassment floods me as I look around, blink the scene into focus, and take note of the gathering crowd. In the distance, the horse slows and glances back at me over his shoulder. He shakes his head and gives a little neigh as if to say “next time you’re fish bait.”

“What just happened?” I ask.

“That was Eddie. Eddie is an asshole.”

Vision wobbly, I look beyond asshole Eddie, out over the Atlantic waters. Under the guise of admiring the manicured golf course in the distance, I give my brain a moment to stop rattling around inside my head. “What does Eddie have against me?”

Mr. Hot Fisherman chuckles slightly. “It’s not just you. Eddie hates the world. Every now and then, he likes to show his owner Doug that he’s the boss, and breaks free for a good hard run. God help anyone in his path.”

“Every now and then, his owner should walk him by a glue factory,” I say. “That ought to set him straight.” Okay, I’m kidding. Seriously, I am. I’m an animal lover. Still…

This time he laughs out loud, and holy hell, the sound goes right through me and hits every erogenous spot along the way. Alrighty, girly parts, keep it together.

“Let me help,” he says softly and takes my hand. With a small tug, I’m on my feet, and I bend forward to take a few more fast breaths, but all I can smell is this guy’s scent—fresh soap and testosterone. I brush at my jeans and wipe away the debris and pebbles stuck to my rear end. How’s that for attractive?

“I’m so sorry,” a strange man roars, his hand holding down his black top hat to keep it from blowing away in the breeze. I note his crusty exterior and weather-worn face as he slows long enough to gauge the damage. “You can have a free ride later,” he informs me before running to capture his belligerent horse. Curses fly from his mouth, and the tails of his long black jacket flap in the cool fall wind as he catches and berates the undomesticated animal. But Eddie is snorting and doesn’t appear to be paying him much attention. Wow, I had no idea horses could be such jerks.

“That would be Doug,” Hot fisherman says, but I’d already figured as much. His eyes narrow and run down the length of my body, before slowly tracking back up my neck. “I didn’t mean to tackle you so hard. I just reacted.” He whistles softly. “Seriously, though, that was a close one.”

“It’s okay.” I wipe my sweaty hands clean and hold one out to him. “If you hadn’t jumped me, I could have been another one of Eddie’s casualties.” Jumped me? Oh God, bad choice of words, Kira. In need of a distraction, I turn and glare at the horse, but he simply neighs and shakes his head. Screw you, too, buddy.

I turn back to Hot Fisherman in time to catch a crooked grin curling up one side of his mouth as his big hand swallows mine whole. “Normally, I buy a woman dinner first.”

What. The. Hell.

Hot Fisherman is flirting with me?

That’s what I get for suggesting he jumped me. Well, I wasn’t really suggesting it. Then again…Freud and all.

“I’m Nate, by the way.”

The warmth of his hand seeps under my skin, and I pull my arm back before my mind goes on another journey. Around the university, I’m known as the absent-minded mathematician when working on a theorem, and I’d prefer it if this man didn’t see me as distracted—despite the fact that I’m completely out of my element. How could I not be?

Nate seems funny and playful and put himself in harm’s way to save me. He really is the hero of this story, and he’s different from the surly fishermen I met when I used to summer at my late grandmother’s house, not to mention the men in my social circle. This guy’s face hasn’t been touched by harsh winds or brutal storms, and those green eyes—the color reminds me of the Pacific Ocean stirred up during a summer squall—are simply fascinating as they gaze at me and await an answer.

He’s waiting for you to answer!

“Nate,” I say and quickly pull myself from my daydream.

“Montgomery.”

“Nice to meet you, Nate Montgomery. I’m Kira Palmer.” I glance around him, and my pulse jumps when I see a dozen or so lobsters crawling around on the ground. “I’ll pay for those,” I say quickly.

He follows my gaze and looks over his shoulder. “They’re fine.” He gives a casual shrug. “I was just bringing them to my mechanic. He’s doing a rush repair job on my car.”

“You pay for repairs with lobsters?” I ask, and head toward the escaping crustaceans.

He gives me a look that suggests I’m insane, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. “You’re obviously not from around here.” He walks with me, his long legs slowing to pace with my shorter ones. A cold breeze rushes over me, and goose bumps form on my skin as I fix the top button on my blouse. Has it been open all this time? Was that why his gaze lingered there a moment too long?

Oh, please, you are so not his type.

“You’re right. I’m not a local and where I’m from,” I pause and rub my thumb and index finger together. “we pay with this thing called money.”

“Money?” He scratches his head like he’s searching the recesses of his mind. “Oh, you’re talking about those strange coins called loonies and toonies.”

I laugh at his teasing. Hot and funny. That’s not something I come across every day—or ever. My field is dominated by serious men, but Nate here not only gives me all the girly tingles, he makes me want to flirt back. Too bad I’m not very good at it.

“Sometimes we even use bills,” I say. I glance at the angry lobsters trying to make a run for it and drop to my knees to help Nate gather them up. After today’s long drive, I stopped at the docks instead of driving straight to the B&B, thinking I’d treat myself to a seafood dinner.

“I haven’t had lobster in years,” I say, almost to myself. Gram always cooked mine, saving me from having to plunge the crustacean into a pot of boiling water. I laugh softly, recalling the time Gram wrestled with the world’s meanest lobster. Not that I can blame him for being nasty, not after what we did to him.

“This one time, someone told my grandmother,” I pause and jerk my finger toward her abandoned house on the hill. “To put the lobster in the freezer for five minutes before cooking. It was supposed to make it go to sleep before we dropped it in the pot. Hypothetically, it’s a more humane way of cooking them.” From my crouched position, I glance up at Nate, and block the afternoon sun from my eyes.

He shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“I know that now,” I say. “My God, I’d never seen such a pissed off lobster in my entire life.”

Nate laughs out loud, and I smile. But as I think of Gram, guilt hits like a sucker punch, and my throat squeezes so tight the gripping pain nearly debilitates me. I hate that I’d stayed away so long, that I wasn’t here for her when she needed me. After her death a little over a year ago, my mom flew to Nova Scotia to bury Gram next to Grandad. I might have been tied down in a project, but I would have left it for Gram’s service. Not that mom had one—didn’t think it was necessary. How could she ever think that? Gram deserved that and so much more, from all of us.

I still feel like I haven’t had a chance to say a proper goodbye. Gram was the only one I could ever really talk to, the only one I ever shared my dreams with. Mom, of course, would hear nothing of me becoming an artist and steered me toward academia. She and Dad are research professors at the University of Victoria.

The reality is I’m a daydreamer, a girl with her head in the clouds. At the end of the day, I love what I do. There’s nothing like using mathematical modeling and computational methods to formulate and solve problems. I truly love the beauty in patterns, shapes, proofs, and concepts. G. H. Hardy once said, “A mathematician, like a painter or poet, is a maker of patterns.” I guess that’s why my hobby and my research go hand in hand.

“You sure you’re okay?” Nate asks.

My thoughts come crashing back to the present, and I blink up at him. “Yes. Why?”

“Maybe you have a concussion.” He drops to one knee beside me and waves his hand in front of my face as he scans my eyes. “You disappeared there for a moment.”

I almost snort at that. Is it any wonder I’ve given up on finding happily ever after? When I’m working or daydreaming, I tune everyone and everything out. One time, while deep into my thesis, I forgot all about a date and showed up to a restaurant three hours late. The guy was long gone, and I never heard from him again.

Just as well. He was a visiting physicist at the university. That’s the kind of guy I attract, and ten times out of ten, it’s because they want to pick my brain about something. Wouldn’t it be nice for a guy to want my body for once? How is that for backward thinking in the twenty-first century?

“I came to the docks to buy a lobster, but I think I’ve changed my mind.”

His eyes narrow. “Yeah?” I crinkle my nose and jump back when one snappy claw lunges for my fingers. “Careful,” Nate says and puts his hand on my shoulder to give it a gentle squeeze. And what do I do in response? Oh, just stare at him like he’s a damn knight in shining armor. But my brain keeps releasing a cocktail of chemicals every time he displays and act of protectiveness. Insane really, but it probably stems from the fact that I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time now.

Working hard not to overthink that, I say, “I’ve never boiled one before and don’t think I can bring myself to do it.”

“First, you don’t boil, you steam.” He picks up the lobster, and the damn thing twists and turns and tries to snap him.

“Aren’t the claws supposed to have elastics bands around them to protect you from getting hurt?”

His lips quirk and amusement dances in his eyes as his attention wanders to my earring. “Maybe after they showered this morning, they forgot to accessorize.” Grinning, I roll my eyes at the joke, and he goes thoughtful, serious, and says, “The bands serve two purposes. To stop them from fighting with each other, and yes, to protect those handling them. But these guys just came from the water and haven’t been banded yet. I don’t want you to try to pick any up, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, as my stupid brain releases another round of dopamine. All those happy chemicals are making it hard to think straight.

He angles his head and scrubs his chin like he’s trying to place me. “You really aren’t from around here, are you?”

“Victoria, British Columbia,” I say.

He gives a low, slow whistle and drops the lobsters back into the crate. “The other side of the country. You’re a long way from home.”

“I am,” I say, not bothering to tell him that I’m here to work on my theorem as I prepare Gram’s house for sale. No need to bore him to death. Ah, but talking about quantum computers to the lobsters might be a better choice than the freezer to lull them to sleep. I’ll have to remember that.

“Vacation? Here to see your grandmother?”

“Something like that.” He picks up the crate, and I stand. “Thanks again for saving me.”

“About that,” he begins. “I believe there is a maritime law that says if you save a life, you’re responsible for that life.”

“Maritime law governs nautical issues,” I counter, but I suspect he’s playing with me. I mean, he is a fisherman and undoubtedly versed in all things ocean-related. He raises a brow like he’s impressed with my knowledge. Interesting. I only know two types of men—those intent on picking my brain, and those intimidated by my brain. “It’s a Chinese proverb, and I think it goes like this, if you save a life, the person’s life you saved is indebted to you.”

“I like that even better,” he says, his grin widening. “Now that you’re indebted to me…”

As he lets his words fall off, I engage my mouth before my brain and blurt, “How about dinner? I’ll cook for you.”

What the hell am I doing? I have work to do, a house to sell—and the sooner the better. Not only do I never ask men out, I don’t cook. Not well, anyway. Plus, I suck at making small talk. My work is my life and does not make for good dinner conversation. It’s boring to those outside my circle and would likely put this man into a coma. But there is a part of me that feels I owe him something. That horse could have killed me.

“Payment for saving me. It’s the least I can do,” I add. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea here.

“Sure, when?”

“Tonight,” I say. Better to get this over with, so I can turn my focus to more important things. Like work and Gram’s B&B. It’s been vacant for quite some time now and must need repairs before I can list it with a realtor. “If you’re not busy, that is.”

“I’m not busy.”

I grab a notepad from my purse, scribble Gram’s address down, and hold it out to him. “Is seven okay?”

“Sounds great.” With his hands full of lobsters, he gestures toward the pocket in his shirt, and I stuff my paper in, get a feel of his hard pectoral muscles. I quickly pull my hand back and make a move to go, but stop when he says, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

To cop a feel? Nope, nope, already did that.

“No, what?”

“Doug offered you a free ride.” He gestures with a nod. “He does a great tour of the town. You’d probably enjoy it.”

I scan the street, find Doug feeding his horse an apple. I sigh. “Yeah, right after the second coming, or better yet, after I prove that a quantum computer has really followed my instructions and used them correctly.” Which could be at least five more years. The second coming is likely to happen first.

As I head toward my car—wondering why the hell I just talked about my research—his laughter fills the air. The man must think I’m a lunatic. I hurry to my vehicle and work to remember where the grocery store is. I’ll have to get supplies before he shows up, not that I have any idea what to cook for him, and damn, I’m so tired of living off fast food and cupcakes.

I take a fast glance at him over my shoulder, and the strangest little shiver goes through me. Okay, the hot fisherman is a distraction I don’t need. A thank-you dinner tonight, small talk that has nothing to do with my work—I’m not interested in watching him nod off—then I’ll never set eyes on his gorgeous face or body again.

Yeah, I got this. Sort of.

Not really.