The morning dawns impossibly clear, sunlight streaming through the cabin windows like a peace offering after days of meteorological warfare.
I wake alone in Jake's bed, which shouldn't disappoint me as much as it does.
Get it together, Goodwin. One almost-hookup doesn't make him your boyfriend.
I find all three of them in the kitchen, Oscar scrambling eggs while Jake pours coffee and Konnor reads something on his phone with focused intensity.
The domesticity of it catches me off guard.
"She lives," Oscar announces when I appear in the doorway. "I was starting to worry the storm had claimed another victim."
"The storm and I reached an understanding." I accept the coffee Jake hands me without asking. "It gets to ruin my hair, I get to survive. Mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Your hair looks fine," Jake says, and there's a warmth in his voice that makes my stomach flip.
"It looks like I fought a hurricane and lost, but I appreciate the diplomatic lie."
Konnor sets down his phone. "We're going fishing."
The declaration lands with the authority of a royal decree, no room for negotiation or dissent.
"We are?" I glance between them. "All of us? Including me, the person who has literally never held a fishing rod?"
"Perfect," Oscar grins, sliding eggs onto plates. "Fresh canvas. I'll teach you everything you need to know, and you'll be catching dinner by noon."
"That seems optimistic given my current skill set, which hovers somewhere between 'nonexistent' and 'actively counterproductive.'"
"Pessimism is bad for the fish," Oscar declares. "They can sense it, and it makes them sad."
"The fish have feelings now?"
"All creatures have feelings, Kelly Bird." He winks. "Even corporate executives hiding from scandal in remote Florida cabins."
The nickname sticks despite my revealed identity, and I find I don't mind. Kelly Bird feels lighter than Kelly Goodwin—less burdened by expectations and failures.
An hour later, I'm standing at the edge of the river that Jake showed me days ago, holding a fishing rod that looks like it could double as a medieval weapon.
The water runs clear and bright over smooth stones, sunlight fracturing into diamonds on the surface, and the air smells like pine and possibility.
"I feel ridiculous," I announce to no one in particular.
"You look ridiculous," Oscar agrees cheerfully, positioning himself behind me with his chest pressed against my back. "But in an endearing way, like a baby deer learning to walk. Now, arms up, and follow my motion."
His hands cover mine on the rod, guiding my grip, adjusting my stance. The contact is warm, and I pretend not to notice the way his breath ghosts across my ear.
"Smooth arc, gentle release." His voice drops to something almost intimate. "Like you're throwing a kiss, not a punch. You want to seduce the line into cooperating, not beat it into submission."
"That's disturbingly sexual advice for a fishing lesson."
"Everything I do is disturbingly sexual. It's part of my charm." He demonstrates the motion, my arms moving with his, and the line arcs through the air before landing in the water with a satisfying plop. "There. Perfect first cast."
"I literally did nothing except stand here while you puppeteered my limbs."
"Baby steps, Kelly. Baby steps."
From his spot on the bank, Konnor watches with those dark surgeon's eyes, cataloging every movement like he's preparing to write a medical journal article on improper fishing technique.
"Your elbow's too high," he calls out. "You're fighting the rod instead of working with it. The motion should come from your wrist, not your shoulder."
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. "Thank you, Dr. Fishing. Any other anatomical critiques you'd like to share, or should I schedule a formal consultation?"
"Your stance is also wrong. Feet shoulder-width apart, weight on your back foot. You're standing like you're about to deliver a boardroom presentation, not catch a fish."
"Maybe I'm going to give the fish a quarterly earnings report. Did you consider that? Maybe that's my strategy."
Oscar snorts, and even Konnor's mouth twitches in what might be amusement if I squint hard enough and believe in miracles.
Meanwhile, Jake stands thirty feet upstream, casting with an efficiency that borders on supernatural.
His line arcs through the air, lands precisely where he wants it, and within minutes he's reeling in a fish that flashes silver in the sunlight.
"Show-off," Oscar mutters.
Jake unhooks his catch, deposits it in the cooler at his feet, and casts again without so much as a smug glance in our direction.
Which is somehow more irritating than actual gloating.
"How is he doing that?" I demand as Jake lands his third fish in twenty minutes. "Is he cheating? Is there a way to cheat at fishing? Because that seems statistically improbable."
"Some of us have actual skills," Jake calls over, shrugging with infuriating modesty. "Decades of practice, patience, and understanding how fish think."
"Witchcraft," Oscar declares. "He's sold his soul to the river gods in exchange for piscine cooperation. There's no other explanation."
"The explanation is that you talk too much and scare the fish away," Konnor observes from the bank, not looking up from his own line. "They can hear you pontificating about kiss-throwing from a hundred yards out."
"My pontificating is soothing. The fish find it meditative."
"The fish find it insufferable. I find it insufferable. Kelly's the only one too polite to say so."
"I'm not too polite," I interject. "I'm just strategic about my complaints. I save them for things that matter, like your critiquing my elbow position while I'm trying to learn a new skill."
My line tugs, and I nearly drop the rod in surprise.
"Pull up," Oscar instructs, suddenly focused. "Gentle but firm. You want to set the hook, not yank the fish's teeth out."
I do as he says, feeling the resistance on the other end, the strange aliveness of something fighting against my grip.
The reel whirs as I turn it, following Oscar's rapid-fire instructions, and thirty seconds later I'm holding a small bass that looks as shocked to be caught as I am to have caught it.
"I did it." The wonder in my voice is embarrassing, but I don't care. "I actually caught a fish. With my own hands."
"Technically with a rod and hook," Konnor corrects, "but yes, you caught a fish. Congratulations on your first successful interaction with aquatic wildlife."
"Let me have this moment without your surgical precision ruining it."
Jake appears at my side, examining my catch with genuine approval. "Nice one. Good size for a first timer."
"Oscar says my hook intimidates the fish," I tell him. "He claims they sense my corporate energy and flee in terror."
"Your hook intimidates the fish," Oscar confirms, taking the bass from my hands to add to the cooler. "They sense your corporate energy and flee. This one was clearly a rebel, willing to risk everything for a taste of the establishment."
"You're saying my fish is an anarchist?"
"I'm saying your fish had a death wish and poor judgment. Much like the rest of us, choosing to spend our vacation teaching a pregnant heiress to survive in the wilderness."
The word pregnant lands differently now—not a secret, just a fact. One of many facts about me they've accepted without drama or judgment.
By midday, I've caught exactly one small bass and accumulated more peace than I've felt in months.
I sit on the bank with my feet dangling toward the water, watching the three men move through their routine, and realize I've forgotten.
Forgotten about Mason and his betrayal. Forgotten about my father choosing a stranger over his own daughter. Forgotten about the company.
For hours, there's nothing except this moment, these men, and the simple pleasure of pretending life could always feel this uncomplicated.
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