that needed to be rolled so her hands were unencumbered. Hands. Mikhail stared at her hands. They looked like the hands of a woman who did little physical work. The pedal pushers rode low on her hips. Hips. Where did those come from? She wore freshly bleached Keds on her rather large feet. Her hair was loosely tucked neatly behind her ears. No baseball cap or ponytail for today. Hannah owned little jewelry, costume or otherwise, and her only adornment was a gold choke chain around her thin neck with a cross dangling down. The piece of jewelry looked like something she never removed. Most men would ask just to make conversation. Mikhail decided not to. She pulled out a floppy straw hat and tucked it into her tackle box while she marched back to the truck to retrieve her cigarettes.
Mikhail stood by the boat and waited for her to return. He didn’t want to put anything in until she identified the location for everything piled on the shore. His breath caught in his throat and speech was next to impossible. Apparently, the temperature was warming up. She cruised down the path while simultaneously removing her well-worn blue jean jacket. Underneath, Hannah casually wore a paisley patterned, pale yellow halter-top that she had fashioned from one of her late uncle’s oversized bandanas. Her breasts were small without a hint of having suffered from the hands of gravity.
Her soothing-looking skin had obviously seen past summers on just this lake. The pale yellow material of the skimpy halter-top and dark brown sunspots blended beautifully into a pattern that Mikhail wanted to play ‘connect the dots on’ with his hands. She reached into the boat and exchanged her Keds for single strapped, brown leather sandals. This Pygmalion-like transformation from a lady running a show house to an irresistible temptation left Mikhail backing up and bumping into the log that held the rowboat fast.
Mikhail needed to think fast or he was going to fall into the lake. He avoided looking at her, any part of her, and hurriedly piled the gear wherever there was room. The hell with where she wanted it. She wasn’t playing fair. He headed full bore into unfamiliar territory for him. Hannah sensed his urgency and attempt to hide his feelings of male wantonness. She had intended on a reaction, but this was greater than anticipated. “I’ll row,” he briefly gruffed.
“Great, I’ll have a beer,” she nonchalantly answered. “There’s an anchor of sorts up there by you when you’ve decided on a good spot. It’s just an old coffee can filled with cement, but it’s always done the trick before.” Again she grinned to herself thinking that Mikhail was probably engrossed in her other ‘tricks’.
His thoughts humored him and calmed him at the same time. A beer sounded just like what the doctor ordered and he wanted one. “No thanks. I don’t drink. But you go right ahead and I’ll fish.” He found a semi-sunny spot, gently placed the anchor over the side, and prepared to fish.
Hannah popped the top of the brown beer bottle with a metal opener she kept tied to her belt loop. She opened her tackle box and revealed the contents. Books and magazines filled the tackle box. “This is what I do when I come here on weekends to be alone, all alone. Are you interested in hearing about this or should I shut up and let you bait that hook you’ve been holding for twenty minutes?”
“No, no go ahead,” he encouraged. He was left speechless anyway and as long as she talked, he didn’t have to say a word.
“There’s basically three kinds of reading material here. I have hundreds of old National Geographi c magazines that my uncle saved. When I want to travel around the world to all parts beautiful and mysterious, I read them. When I want to improve my mind, challenge my thinking, and expand my circle of thinking, I read the Classics using my library card in Kalispell. Catcher In The Rye and Les Miserables are a couple of my all-time favorites.
Mikhail stood by the boat and waited for her to return. He didn’t want to put anything in until she identified the location for everything piled on the shore. His breath caught in his throat and speech was next to impossible. Apparently, the temperature was warming up. She cruised down the path while simultaneously removing her well-worn blue jean jacket. Underneath, Hannah casually wore a paisley patterned, pale yellow halter-top that she had fashioned from one of her late uncle’s oversized bandanas. Her breasts were small without a hint of having suffered from the hands of gravity.
Her soothing-looking skin had obviously seen past summers on just this lake. The pale yellow material of the skimpy halter-top and dark brown sunspots blended beautifully into a pattern that Mikhail wanted to play ‘connect the dots on’ with his hands. She reached into the boat and exchanged her Keds for single strapped, brown leather sandals. This Pygmalion-like transformation from a lady running a show house to an irresistible temptation left Mikhail backing up and bumping into the log that held the rowboat fast.
Mikhail needed to think fast or he was going to fall into the lake. He avoided looking at her, any part of her, and hurriedly piled the gear wherever there was room. The hell with where she wanted it. She wasn’t playing fair. He headed full bore into unfamiliar territory for him. Hannah sensed his urgency and attempt to hide his feelings of male wantonness. She had intended on a reaction, but this was greater than anticipated. “I’ll row,” he briefly gruffed.
“Great, I’ll have a beer,” she nonchalantly answered. “There’s an anchor of sorts up there by you when you’ve decided on a good spot. It’s just an old coffee can filled with cement, but it’s always done the trick before.” Again she grinned to herself thinking that Mikhail was probably engrossed in her other ‘tricks’.
His thoughts humored him and calmed him at the same time. A beer sounded just like what the doctor ordered and he wanted one. “No thanks. I don’t drink. But you go right ahead and I’ll fish.” He found a semi-sunny spot, gently placed the anchor over the side, and prepared to fish.
Hannah popped the top of the brown beer bottle with a metal opener she kept tied to her belt loop. She opened her tackle box and revealed the contents. Books and magazines filled the tackle box. “This is what I do when I come here on weekends to be alone, all alone. Are you interested in hearing about this or should I shut up and let you bait that hook you’ve been holding for twenty minutes?”
“No, no go ahead,” he encouraged. He was left speechless anyway and as long as she talked, he didn’t have to say a word.
“There’s basically three kinds of reading material here. I have hundreds of old National Geographi c magazines that my uncle saved. When I want to travel around the world to all parts beautiful and mysterious, I read them. When I want to improve my mind, challenge my thinking, and expand my circle of thinking, I read the Classics using my library card in Kalispell. Catcher In The Rye and Les Miserables are a couple of my all-time favorites.
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