A Reason to Stay (4 page)

Suddenly, arms folded around her back and she felt their strength pull her in an upward motion through the water. Seconds later, her head broke the surface. She sputtered, choked.

“Are you all right?” Chuck grabbed her arm and pulled her back onto the deck of the boat, next to where her notes and microphone lay abandoned.

Faith rubbed at her eyes. After barely daring to open them, she grabbed at a piece of something slimy clinging to her face. She yanked the offending plant off her cheek and coughed.

A spindly stick of a man with teeth too big for his face rushed up the dock. “Hey, that's my boat!”

Chuck held up his hand. “Sorry, dude. We're sorry.”

“Is the lady okay?” the owner asked, frowning.

Chuck stood. “Yeah, she's fine. Just wet.”

She wiped her face again, already feeling the heat of humiliation warming her cheeks. What had she been thinking? She'd let her zeal for a good shot unknowingly place her in a vulnerable situation that led straight to catastrophe. Now what was she going to do?

Chuck helped her rescuer into the boat then. The dark-haired volunteer, the one she'd purposely ignored, perched himself next to her. He was drenched, his legs dangling off the bow of the flat bass boat. Tiny pieces of green plant particles clung to his yellow
vest. He gave her a sideways look, and Faith couldn't help but notice his blue-jean eyes lined with thick dark lashes.

“Uh, thank you,” she murmured, grateful the embarrassing incident hadn't been broadcast on a live shot. It was bad enough the small crowd watching from the shore had seen.

Hopefully, Chuck could edit the footage and save the broadcast. Unfortunately, they'd have to wrap the footage with what they had. And she'd missed having him shoot a great close-up of her closing out the segment.

Her hands brushed dripping auburn hair from her wet shoulders. She'd also have to see to it the cuts didn't show up on some blooper reel at a future office party. As it was, she'd have to bribe Chuck not to make her the laughingstock at the studio for weeks to come.

The guy who'd pulled her from the water studied her, his dark blue eyes narrowing as he sized her up.

“What?” she said, her tone a bit more curt than intended.

He held up his palms. “Hey, sorry.”

Immediately, she felt like a heel. She shook her head. “No, I'm sorry. It's just that, well—”

“Do you always do that?” he interrupted with an annoying grin.

“I beg your pardon?” He was teasing her, and she didn't like it. Not bothering to hide the fact, she tucked her bare foot beneath her and scanned the boat for her missing shoe. “Do you mean staying focused, because a good reporter—”

“Uh-huh.” His eyes twinkled and he grinned even wider. “I meant ignoring someone's warning.”

He was
laughing
at her.

She grabbed her shoe and slipped it on her foot. “Look, thank you and all—but we're busy here.” She retrieved the microphone she'd dropped.

He lifted his chin and looked toward the sky, still grinning.

She scrambled to her feet. “Yeah, so I guess all this is pretty funny.”

Only feet away, Chuck watched them with apparent amusement as he apologized again to the owner of the boat and promised him they'd be moving along. Even her cameraman was grinning now.

Faith wrung out her dripping hair. “Glad everyone is so easily entertained, but we still have work to do.”

“Hey, I don't mean to state the obvious here.” Chuck shook his head as he wound a thick black cord. “But you can't go back on air like that. You'll need to find a shower or something.”

Faith gave him a tight-lipped nod. “There's got to be a motel close,” she ventured, already planning to keep the expenditure off her expense report. Why risk inquiry and further embarrassment? Instead she'd take it out of her personal budget—cut back on her trips to Starbucks this month.

Her smug rescuer ran his fingers through his wet dark hair and stood. “Hate to tell you this,” he warned, following her off the boat. “But you aren't going to find an open motel room between here and the Woodlands, not during the Texas Bass Championship.”

Drat! She hadn't thought of the mob of people in town for the event. Faith looked to Chuck as if expecting him to come up with another plan. He remained quiet, obviously not having one.

The guy from the boat jumped onto the dock and extended his hand. “My name is Geary—Geary Marin. Look, I live just over there.” He pointed to a condominium complex on the point across the inlet. “You're welcome to use my place.”

She dared a closer look, noticed his ratty cowboy boots, wet and crisscrossed with scratches. He wore faded jeans, a belt with some type of fish on it, and a light blue shirt. He bent and retrieved a Bassmaster baseball cap from off the dock, where he must have dropped it before making his water rescue. His rolled shirtsleeves revealed forearms deeply tanned and muscled.

Cute, but definitely redneck.

She wondered what he did for a living—when he wasn't playing volunteer.

She squared her shoulders and shook her head. “No—I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He turned and headed for his red boat tethered to the dock. “Take care,” he said as he moved on.

She realized then that she didn't have a better choice. Or any other choice, for that matter. Where else would she be able to clean up?

In a moment of panic, she reached in his direction. “Wait!”

Geary turned.

“Look, I guess my options are fairly slim here.” Faith glanced at Chuck. “You're coming with, right?”

Chuck nodded, clearly amused at the situation. “We'd better get a move on if you still want to try for interviews with some of the wives.”

She nodded. “We'll have to stop at a drugstore for a hair dryer.”

Geary Marin slipped his cap in place. “Not a good idea if you're in a hurry.” He cocked his head in the direction of the highway, now clogged with traffic. “Why don't you let me take you over to my place in the boat?” He raised an eyebrow. “That is, if you are up for taking some advice.”

She ignored his loaded remark and simply repeated herself. “I need a hair dryer.”

“You can use mine,” he offered.

Okay, she was already uneasy going to this stranger's house. Using the guy's personal toiletry items was going well beyond her comfort level.

“We don't really have a choice, Faith.” Chuck was already heaving his black bag into Geary's boat. He turned and tossed his keys to her. “What are you waiting for? Get your other suit out of the news van and let's go.”

F
rom inside Geary Marin's boat, Faith watched the marina fade from sight as wind whipped her hair. She turned and nestled deeper in the seat, her hand clutching the handle on the side as they raced across the water at a speed that made her a bit nervous.

As if reading her mind, he shouted over top of the engine, “You okay?”

She nodded and held on tighter as the boat hit rough water, hating that her only choice had been to accept his invitation. He was nice to offer and all, but she didn't really have time for this little detour. The sooner she could get showered and back to business, the better.

In what seemed like no time, they neared the shoreline and he slowed, easing the boat to the dock. The condominium complex was not so unlike her own, except for the expansive lawn between the buildings and the lake, and all the pretty landscaped beds filled with sego palms and hibiscus. Her own building near downtown Houston was surrounded by cement parking lot and sadly lacked any foliage.

Faith wasn't sure what a fishing enthusiast's place would look like, but when he opened the door, there were no muddy fishing
boots near the entrance, no lures or empty frozen dinner trays stacked on the counter as she expected.

The modest living area was neat and orderly, everything in its place, like something out of a magazine. Modern even, with walls painted the lightest shade of gray, the sofa slipcovered in a textured chevron print in a darker shade. The lamp shades were definitely Pottery Barn.

Frankly, his decorating taste surpassed her own, even if she picked up all the clothes off the floor of her tiny apartment.

“Can I get you something to drink?” their host asked.

Chuck dropped his camera bag on the floor. “Sure. A beer, if you've got it.”

“Sorry. I have sweet tea or lemonade.”

Chuck shrugged. “Lemonade, I guess.”

Faith shook her head. “I just need a shower, thanks.” She needed to hurry and get cleaned up and out of here. Even now, she should be shooting crowd reaction to the tournament.

Noticing several other networks setting up in the parking lot as they'd started across the lake annoyed her to no end. She'd been benched by her own stupidity. The only thing she could do now was hurry and get back to the action.

Geary smiled. “Shower is in this direction.” He led her down a hallway lined with doorways and framed photos. He stopped at his linen closet and pulled out a few extra towels.

“Are these your bass?” she asked, pointing to a couple of shots with him holding sizeable fish in front of him.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Those were all caught here at the lake. Snagged that fifteen-pounder about twenty yards off the dock out back.”

Another showed him on a stage accepting a large trophy. “So, you fish these tournaments too?”

“Yup,” he said as he handed off the towels.

“But not this one?”

He shook his head. “Not this one. I didn't have enough points this year to qualify.” He led her to a bathroom located at the end of the hall. “This is the guest bath. There's shampoo over there.” He pulled out a drawer next to the sink. “And here's a hair dryer.”

She extended her appreciation, glad he wasn't expecting her to use his personal shower and hair dryer. Something about that seemed just too—well, too intimate.

“Okay, well, I'll just leave you to your business.” He smiled and backed out the doorway, shutting the door behind him.

She turned and glanced at herself in the mirror. What a wreck! Thank goodness he'd offered her his place to clean up. Otherwise, she wasn't sure what she would've done.

She hung her change of clothes on the door hook.

If pressed, she'd have to admit he wasn't hard to look at. Under different circumstances she might even find him attractive, although she'd never really gone for outdoor types.

Faith dumped the damp blouse on the floor and unzipped her skirt.

She'd not gone for anyone, really. There had been a couple of guys in college she was mildly interested in, but she'd needed to focus and not get bogged down with romantic complications.

It was cliché perhaps to blame her parents for her attitude toward men, but watching their relationship had definitely colored her own view about such things and influenced nearly every decision she made, particularly the ones about love, marriage, and the way she had chosen to live her life.

Her earliest memories included waking to shouting and her mother's accusations about her father sneaking home in the predawn hours, followed by slamming doors and the sound of glass breaking.

If she ever married, she'd choose a stable, trustworthy man who would be dedicated to her and supportive of her career. And they would never ever fight like that.

In the shower, she mentally revised her rundown sheet to include this unexpected alteration in the schedule. She'd still like to get crowd reaction shots, but her main interest was in the wives. If she teased the story and built up what was at stake for the challengers through the eyes of their spouses, she might expand the viewing audience and create more appeal. Research showed viewers would be more affected when a news story created an emotional connection, and she intended to take full advantage of every tool at her disposal.

Finished, she stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in one of Geary's thick bath towels. High quality, like the kind found in expensive hotels. Surprising for a guy who fished bass tournaments.

She hurried her makeup, wanting to get back across the lake as soon as possible. When she emerged from down the hallway a half hour later, she unfortunately learned Geary had made sandwiches and a fresh fruit salad, expecting them to stay for lunch.

“It's nearly time to eat and the restaurants will be packed,” he explained as he carried a tray to the small dining table.

Chuck was already moving toward a chair. While she was in a hurry, she had to admit she was pretty hungry. Reluctantly, she gave in and smiled. “Thank you. But you didn't have to go to all this trouble.”

“No trouble,” he assured her as he pulled out a chair.

She thanked him and moved into the seat. “The entrants are scheduled to come in at four o'clock,” she warned. “Chuck, I don't want to run into any problems with timing.”

Chuck grabbed his iPhone to check a text. “No worries. We'll have plenty of time to push film back to the station for the evening broadcast.” He checked his watch. “And we can still squeeze in your special interest segments before the anglers return for the weigh-ins.”

Relieved, she pointed to a framed photo perched on the counter and attempted small talk. “Your family?”

Geary turned back to the counter for the salad. “Yeah, that's us. A crazy bunch, for sure.” He held up a pitcher. “Tea, or lemonade?”

“Tea's fine, thanks.” She placed a napkin on her lap. “So do they all live around here? Your family?”

“We have aunts, uncles, and cousins scattered all over Texas, but my immediate family members all live here in Conroe.”

Chuck finished his text and slid his smartphone back in his jeans pocket. “Must be nice at holidays.” He grabbed a sandwich from the platter.

Geary set the pitcher on the counter, then slid into his place at the table. “Uh, do either of you mind if I say the blessing?”

Chuck dropped his sandwich on the paper plate in front of him. “Sorry, no. Sure, go ahead.”

Faith lowered her head, thinking that answered a lot.

First, their host rescued her from the drink, then extended hospitality even when her earlier tone had been brisk. She thought about the photos down the hall, the one of him in his graduation gown flanked by a man and woman, likely his parents. There was a photo of a younger gal with a resemblance to him taken in front of what looked like a church. His sister, maybe? She was very pregnant and her face beaming. There were shots of him playing baseball, several of him fishing, and one of him with his arms wrapped around the feeble shoulders of an elderly man.

None of him with a girlfriend or wife.

He finished the blessing, then offered up the bowl of fruit salad. “So, I take it this is the first bass tournament for both of you?”

Chuck didn't look compelled to answer anytime soon, given his mouth was full of turkey sandwich. So she responded.

“Yes,” she admitted, taking the bowl from Geary's hand. “But I knew this shoot was coming up, and I did my research.”

He moved a sandwich from the platter onto his plate. “What kind of research?”

She explained how she'd spent hours on the internet, studying
how the tournament was composed of winners from six divisions, combining the top PAA anglers from the FLW Tour, Bassmaster Elite Series, and PAA Bass Pro Shops Tournament Series. She'd memorized the tournament rules and learned not only the professional but the personal histories of the fifty competing anglers, including their wives' names and where they grew up.

“Really? All that?” he teased her with a slight grin.

She let herself smile back, pondering his laid-back style, his precise housekeeping skills, and the fact he kept enough groceries in his refrigerator to host an impromptu luncheon.

She had to admit she was also slightly enamored with the fact that he didn't seem put off by her frank style and driven nature. A lot of men were.

That, and the few men she'd encountered drank too much and had octopus hands. Seems they believed if they bought her dinner, she needed to pay them back in some physical manner. Same as those older men who had taught her journalism classes, who intimated her affections would be well awarded with recommendation letters.

Yes, she wanted to climb the corporate news ladder, but not that way.

She ate her sandwich while Geary and Chuck talked about how the high temps might affect the depths the bass anglers would have to go to snag a winner.

Chuck shook his head. “I really admire you, man. Not many have one of those on their shelves.” He pointed to a trophy.

“Did I miss something here?” she said, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

Chuck reached for his lemonade glass. “Are you kidding, Faith? Don't you know about Geary Marin?”

She shook her head, hating that Chuck knew something she didn't. She looked across the table at their host. “So, who
are
you?” she asked.

Chuck set his glass down. He grinned and exchanged glances with Geary. “This guy was last year's second-place winner.”

Oh, great! She'd researched the most minute details and knew the first ten-pounder caught in B.A.S.S. competition history was snagged on February 8, 1973, by J. D. Skinner on the St. Johns River, but somehow she'd climbed in a shower belonging to a runner-up in the main hoo-ha and missed it. And he was now sitting across the table from her—grinning.

Again.

If falling in the drink hadn't impressed him, she'd certainly just sealed the deal by touting herself as being in the know while completely missing the fact that he was a major contender in the bass fishing world.

Stalling, she took a long sip of her tea.

Finally, she looked him in the eyes (those really nice eyes) and made things even worse. “So, why didn't you qualify this year?”

He gently pushed his plate back. “I had something important that demanded my attention.”

“More critical than the possibility of winning over a hundred thousand dollars?”

He nodded. “I bowed out this spring in order to take care of my grandpa.”

She blinked, understanding creeping into her thick head. She dared to open her big mouth again. “Your grandpa?”

Geary stood and gathered the empty plates. “Yeah, he suffered pancreatic cancer last year. Terminal.” Sadness instantly shadowed his features. “Family matters to me, and sometimes everything else has to go on hold. It was a privilege to care for him clear till the end.”

Faith melted like a candle to a flame. This was the second time she'd acted like a heel, and instead of leveraging his position and taking advantage, he extended a pleasant and polite attitude, even so far as being nice back to her.

Chuck coughed uncomfortably. “Sorry, man. That's rough.”

“Yes, me too—I'm so sorry,” she said in earnest, recalling the photo in the hallway. “You must have loved him.”

“Yes, I did.” Geary tossed the used paper plates in the trash. “He was a very special man.”

She scrambled to help clear the table.

He held up his palm, seeming to ignore the fact she'd struck out three times on the impression meter. “Nah, leave it for later. Let's get y'all back to that tournament.”

He delivered them across the lake and to the main dock in record time, bypassing the masses of crowds that had now gathered and packed all the roadways and parking lots.

Geary then offered to make introductions to several of the tournament officials standing in the holding area by the stage, which gave her ample opportunity to secure exclusive interview footage.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked when she'd finished. She unclipped her lavalier mike. “Especially after—uh, this morning.”

“Because I'm hoping you'll stay for the fireworks show tonight.”

Those gorgeous eyes seemed to twinkle, and one thing became immediately clear. After he'd been so charming, she couldn't possibly say no.