Untraceable (16 page)

Everything
, I think.

“Nothing,” I say.

“So, you in?”

~~~~

Yellow star grass borders the overgrown trail. Beams of sun pour through the scattered canopy. Mo walks a few yards ahead of me. I’m preoccupied by his gait as he saunters along the path. He moves with a slight rhythm and confidence.

He sneaks a peek over his shoulder to check on me. I pretend to be studying my footsteps so he doesn’t catch me gawking. We traipse along the wooded track in silence, an unspoken agreement not to ruin the peace with mindless chatter.

After tracking our coordinates, I’ve come to the dreaded conclusion that I probably haven’t seen Mo’s secret hideaway. I scrunch my face. Crap. I know these woods are vast, but how can some dude all the way from England find a place I don’t know about when I’ve lived here my whole life?

“We there yet?” As soon as I say it, Dad’s silly response plays in my head.
What do you mean by ‘there’? Because wherever you go, there you are.
I smile to myself thinking about how he never answers a question directly.

Mo obviously doesn’t get the joke, because he responds, “Nearly. Does anything look familiar?”

“Keep walking, English boy.” I’m not about to admit anything yet. Might as well stretch out my inevitable defeat. I’m not looking forward to confessing the truth.

That I’m wrong. Something I hate almost as much as losing.

After winding around a few more bends, Mo stops in front of a huge rotted tree trunk that stretches across a wide creek. The wood appears to be scarred, battered by Mother Nature. We inch across the log to the other side. He jumps down and holds out his hand to help me.

“I got it.” I leap over the gap on my own. Why do guys always assume girls need help?

He points ahead. “We’re almost there. Nervous?”

“You wish,” I say.

We hike downhill, deeper into the green canvas splattered with brown hues. The broken path disappears as we trudge along a lane decorated with splotches of different-colored flowers. He stops and looks both ways before continuing down a patchy trail.

I tease him. “I’m starting to think you might be lost?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I’m traipsing through a dark forest with a stranger after only knowing you a day. What do you think?”

He smiles at me over his shoulder. “Sounds exciting!”

A few minutes later, he stops in front of a small opening, surrounded by thick foliage, and motions me through a leafy doorway. “Welcome to paradise, blossom.”

I blush at the nickname and duck into the tunnel. As soon as I pop out the other side, I gasp.

Walls of glittering rock surround us covered in patches of painted trillium and purple phacelia. The creek we passed earlier has relaxed some, allowing tiny waterfalls to trickle over clusters of smooth boulders.

I lower my guard and squeal in delight. “I’ve died and gone to flyfishing heaven.”

Mo arches his left eyebrow in surprise. “Does that mean you
haven’t
been here before?”

I love how he pronounces been as “bean.” Ignoring his question, I circle the area, staring up at the rocky towers encasing us.

“Well?” he presses.

I throw my hands up in the air. “Okay, fine! You win.”

A beam of triumph sparks across his face as he cups his hand behind his ear. “Sorry, but could you say that a tad louder?”

Playing along, I yell. “I said … you WIN!”

Mo’s smile brightens up even more. “A day to note in history, I’m sure.”

I gawk in amazement at the pure beauty surrounding me. “I’ve lived here a long time and have never seen anything like this before.”

“The Smokies are huge. Did you really think you knew every place out here?” He trails his fingers along the moist wall encasing us and pats it. “Look at these limestone formations.”

My eyebrows rise. “Interesting.”

Mo laughs. “Fine. I won’t talk about rocks, but it’s time for you to pay up.”

I hand him one of my flyfishing rods. “Only if we do it
my
way!”

He bats his black spidery eyelashes at me. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“Let’s start with the basics. You right handed or left handed?”

He wiggles his fingers on one hand. “A lefty.”

My stomach sinks. My dad was also a lefty. I shake my head and fight through the rising sadness. “Haven’t even started and already you’re high maintenance.”

“You’re calling
me
high maintenance? I had to save you on our first date.”

My heart drops into my belly. “Uh. What … what did you say?”

Mo protects his face with both hands and peers through his fingers. “You’re going to smack me, aren’t you?”

I giggle nervously, which sounds more like a witch on helium. So much for sexy. “Very funny. Of course not.”

He smiles an amazing toothy grin. “Good. My ego can only take one thrashing a day.”

I decide it’s safer to skip the awkward moment and move straight into the fishing lesson. “I need to change out your rod first.” I quickly flip the reel and re-thread the line. “There. Now let’s get down to business.”

“You’re the boss.”

I walk Mo through step-by-step instructions. “Grip the rod with your left hand and extend your thumb against the handle, directly opposite the reel.” He tries to mimic my hold and I correct his hand placement. “No, no, like this.” I move his hand down the rod. Once I realized we’ve touched, for fear of blushing, I keep my head tipped forward. “There.” My eyes meet his. “How does that feel?”

Mo speaks softly. “Brilliant.”

I break away and point to the river, pretending to be unfazed by his flirtiness. Reaching into my vest pocket, I pull out a bag of red chenille and pinch off a wad. I tie the fluff onto the end of his line.

Mo tugs his hair and groans. “What? No hook?”

“I’m fond of both my eyes, thank you very much.”

“Yes, they are smashing.”

This cannot be happening to me. I try not to stutter. “All right, stay close.”

Mo lines up behind me, and his breath singes my neck.

I have trouble ignoring how close he’s standing. “Uh, where was I? Oh yeah. I’ll show you how to false cast until you get the hang of it.” Concentrating on the water, I talk him through each step. “See that large boulder in the middle? That’s your fish. Pretend you’re surrounded by a clock. The twelve is directly above you. Pull the line back, aiming the rod at two o’clock.” I demonstrate the technique as I’m explaining it to him. “Then, as the line straightens out behind you, load your rod, and pull into your front cast, aiming the rod at ten o’clock.” Gripping the rod, I flick the end forward so the line loops around me like a cowboy’s lasso. “Now, you try.”

Even after I step aside, his heat remains boiling at each spot on my back where his body brushed mine. Mo begins casting. I correct his stance a couple times and reposition his grip. After a few casts, he picks it up, quite naturally. There’s hope for him yet.
 

The whole time I’m with Mo, Tommy’s words go through my head. About living and letting myself put aside my Dad’s case for a brief time. Something I couldn’t do with Wyn. For the next couple of hours, I try to do just that. Mo practices his casting while I fish a few yards away. We both remain close lipped, except for the occasional comment or joke. Every now and then—that is, about every minute—I sneak a peek at him, trying to decide who he looks more like, Hugh Jackman or Brody Jenner. Not that it matters much. It’s nice to fish with someone again. Especially someone hot.

Until today, I hadn’t realized how much I missed the companionship.

Eventually, Mo and I take a break just as the sun breaks through the ceiling of cloud cover. We snack next to the river, toasted by the heat. The water continues to stroke the tops of the damp, water-polished rocks, spilling over into small pools. Along the edge, flowers lean their blooms toward each other, exchanging secrets only nature can hear. I eat my double-decker MoonPie and can’t resist breaking the silence. “You like MoonPies?”

He shrugs. “Can’t say I’ve heard of them.”

“Wow, you are missing out. Guess it’s a Southern thing. What is your favorite food?”

Mo straddles the log we’re sitting on, facing me. “I’ll share, if you share.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Okay, but I get to ask the questions first.”

“Fine by me. I’m not afraid to reveal myself.”

My body shifts uneasily, and I clear my throat. “Uh, me neither.”

“Right. Well? Go on then.”

I square my body off to him. “Favorite food?”

Mo doesn’t even pause before answering. “Anything cooked over an open fire.”

“Heeeey, you have to be specific. Favorite color?”

“Black.”

I shake my head. “Cheater. Everyone knows black is not a color. Favorite book?”

He rubs both cheeks with the back of his fingers. "Hm, that’s a tough one. It’s not really a book, but Wordsworth’s poem, ‘The World Is Too Much With Us,’ would be high on my list.”

I try not to appear too amused. “Wow. You must be really smart.”

He shrugs and rolls his neck in a circle as if his muscles are aching. I resist the urge to rub his shoulders. “Depends on who you talk to. Now I’ll have a go.”

“Shoot.”

“Favorite color?”

I think for a second. “Sky blue.”

“Very specific. Favorite food?”

I pick at a piece of dead bark on the log, exposing a family of slugs. “Hm. Either MoonPies or Spicy Cheetos.”

Mo stops and appears a bit shocked. He pulls his t-shirt away from his chest as if he’s hot. “Seriously?”

“Sad but true.”

“Favorite book?”

Grimacing, I cover my face. “I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t read much.”

He tilts his head to one side and chews on a pine needle. “Pick something.”

“Fine.” I tap my forehead to bring forth a random book buried deep in my school curriculum. “I got it.
Stranger Danger.
”

Mo smirks. “You probably wrote it.”

I giggle at his joke, sounding a bit like a child who’s just heard the word “poop.” Attempting to sound more mature, I answer a few more questions with total composure and class. At some point, the Q&A session tapers off, and we sit in silence once again.

Seconds turn to minutes, which feel more like hours. Questions continue to skim through my mind, but I don’t dare ask them.

Do you think I’m cute? Do you date geeks? Do these pants make my butt look big?

I distract my crowding thoughts by braiding a few vines of wintercreeper into a flower bracelet and weaving in some orange trumpet flowers. Once I’m done, I hold up the finished bracelet. “Voila.”

“Let me see that.” He lays nature’s jewelry in his palm and studies the details. “Nice little masterpiece. Is it for me?”

I snatch it back. “Nope. These are very, very rare. Priceless, you might say. Only special
blokes
get these.”

“Hopefully, I can qualify.” He stares at me. For a second, it feels as if the world holds its breath before exhaling.

The comment throws me off guard. My mouth gapes a little. How can he just blurt out stuff like that so easily? My nerves take over my body. “Um, I gotta go!”

I scramble to my feet and grab my things, trotting along the stream. Unfortunately, I move too fast and slip on a slimy rock. My right ankle twists, and I flap my arms, trying to stay on both feet. Definitely not graceful. I fall to one side and grab onto a rock, scraping my arms. Mo reaches out and steadies me so I don’t tumble into the water.

“Thanks.” A dry klutz is better than a sopping one.