Sometimes Lee wrote of the scenery and her feelings about it. Sometimes, she wrote a play-by-play description of the day. But most of the time, more of the time, she wrote of Hunter. What she put down in her journal had nothing to do with her organized, precisely written notes for the article. She wouldn’t permit it. What she didn’t understand, and what she wouldn’t write down in either space, was that she was losing sleep. And she was having fun.

Though he was cannily evasive on personal details, she was gathering information. Even now, barely halfway through the allotted time, Lee had enough for a solid, successful article—more, she knew, than she’d expected to gather. But she wanted even more, for her readers and, undeniably, for herself.

“I don’t see how any self-respecting fish could be fooled by something like this.” Lee fiddled with the small rubbery fly Hunter attached to her line.

“Myopic,” Hunter countered, bending to choose his own lure. “Fish are notoriously nearsighted.”

“I don’t believe you.” Clumsily, she cast off. “But this time I’m going to catch one.”

“You’ll need to get your fly in the water first.” He glanced down at the line tangled on the bank of the creek before expertly casting his own.

He wouldn’t even offer to help. After a week in his company, Lee had learned not to expect it. She’d also learned that if she wanted to compete with him in this, or in a discussion of eighteenth-century English literature, she had to get into the spirit of things.

It wasn’t simple and it wasn’t quick, but kneeling, Lee worked on the tangles until she was back to square one. She shot a look at Hunter, who appeared much too engrossed with the surface of the creek to notice her progress. By now, Lee knew better. He saw everything that went on around him, whether he looked or not.

Standing a few feet away, Lee tried again. This time, her lure landed with a quiet plop.

Hunter saw the rare, quick grin break out, but said nothing. She was, he’d learned, a woman who generally took herself too seriously. Yet he saw the sweetness beneath, and the warmth Lee tried to be so frugal with.

She had a low, smoky laugh she didn’t use often enough. It only made him want to urge it out of her.

The past week hadn’t been easy for her. Hunter hadn’t intended it to be. You learned more about people by observing them in difficult situations than at a catered cocktail party. He was adding to the layers of the first impression he’d had, at the airport in Flagstaff. But he had layers still to go.