Free Hooked by Betina Krahn Page A

declared with a huge smile, extending a meaty hand to her.
    A filly? The man had actually called her a filly? But there was teasing admiration in his eyes, and she couldn’t help returning his warm, friendly handshakes. “Glad to meet you, Stu. So, you’re Damon’s top chef?”
    “Aww, that’s what he calls me.” He gestured to Finn with a thumb. “I do a lot of fishin’, but for me, the best part of fishin’ is the eatin’. Over the years I’ve cooked at more fish camps than I can count. So Finn, here, hauls me out of retirement to come do these things every summer. It’s kinda fun, you know.”
    “It was fun,” she said with a chuckle “once I realized Finn was part of the act. At first I was ready to kill him for heckling you.”
    Stu barked a laugh and slapped Finn on the back. “This ol’ boy’s got better manners than that.” His eyes twinkled. “But not by much.”
    As they headed inside the store a short while Steph was still smiling.
    “Stu is quite a character.”
    “He’s aces, that man.” Finn paused to let her enter before him. “You’d never know by looking at him that he retired from Exon’s board.”
    She halted, wondering if he was kidding. “He was a VP, a major stockholder, and served on the board several terms,” Finn added.
    “Really?” She frowned. “But that talk about cooking at fishing camps…”
    “He’s one of the most devoted fishermen I know. He’s been at it for sixty years and claims fishing has kept him sane in the rest of his life, especially business. Fishing is like that, kind of a leveler. It’s just a man—or woman—and the rod and the water. There’s no status or room for pretense or evasion. It’s just you and the elements. And that attracts people from all levels and all walks of life.” He looked away as a wisp of emotion crossed his face. “It’s helped me to keep sane, too. San er. ”
    In the fishing department they watched people checking out reels and rods and equipment. Finn paused to help a few customers, then handed them off to a staff member to ring up the sale.
    “Okay, I have one thing to say about these,” Steph said as she held up a large set of gray-green waders and pressed them against her legs, modeling them. “Borrring. I mean, why not some patterns, or at least a broader color palette? Maybe some lovely blues and teals—or how about some bright pastels for the women who fi—”
    Finn clamped a hand over her mouth and looked around them with an expression of horror.
    “Please, I have a reputation to maintain.” He was teasing. Probably. The look on his face said he found the notion genuinely unsettling. He hung the waders back on the rack and spirited her on down the aisle.
    “Waders for fly-fishing are standardized—the same color, the same shape, the same cut—for a reason,” he explained. “Fish that go for flies have surprisingly good eyesight, and there are only certain colors that don’t alarm them or alert them to a predator’s presence. It’s tradition, too. Just like you don’t go to church on Sunday in cutoff jeans, you don’t go fly-fishing without your waders and a hat.”
    “Really?” She studied his face. “I mean, surely fish can’t tell whether it’s gray or tan or baby blue.”
    “You’d be surprised. Personally, I’m not about to test that theory.”
    “Well, then, how about buttons or some sequins…”
    Again he had the look of a man discovering someone had driven his car into a toxic waste dump.
    “Sequins?” He clamped his hands over his eyes and rubbed as if scouring away the image. “Honey, a tiny flash of light and the big one is gone. It’s why you don’t go fly-fishing with a radio blaring, or with a bunch of people horsing around in your boat. Fishing is a quiet sport for a reason.”
    He was so serious that she chewed her lip to keep from giggling.
    “Well, then, I fail to see how I can make waders a big part of Silk and Steele ’s inventory. I mean, without a few