Hooked On You

By Cathryn Fox

“Hooked on You is a sweet treat read that will give you all the good feels!” - USA Today and WSJ bestselling author Avery Flynn

I’m a bookworm, a mathematician, not the kind of girl a hot lobster fisherman would notice.

Until he did.

I’m not in small town Nova Scotia to hook up. I’m here to settle my grandmother’s estate and sell the B&B, which I soon discover has been overrun with seasonal fishermen and operated on the honor system. The hard-core fishing folks become an instant family––the one I never had. Then there’s the blind pet cow, who has a crush on my hot fisherman, Nate. Okay, technically he’s not mine. I have no desire to get reeled in.

Until I do.

Soon, the little town grows on me, and the fisherman? It’s not long until I take the bait and we’re playing house at the B&B. Things are looking up.

Until they aren’t.

Rumors about a new plant and jobs being in jeopardy start swirling around town like a nor’easter, and all the signs point to my guy being behind the scandal. Should I give him enough line to play it out and learn his true intentions, or cut and run before I’m hooked?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Apr 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781682815953

Cathryn Fox

A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Cathryn Fox has two teenagers who keep her busy and a husband who is convinced he can turn her into a mixed martial arts fan. Cathryn can never find balance in her life and is always trying to keep up with emails, Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter. She spends her days writing page-turning books filled with heat and heart, and loves to hear from her readers.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Preview of The Burbs and the Bees

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Cathryn Fox. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Preview of The Burbs and the Bees copyright © 2020 by Cathryn Fox

Entangled Publishing, LLC

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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Candace Havens

Cover design by Bree Archer

Cover photography by gstockstudio/DepositPhotos

FollowTheFlow/GettyImages

ISBN 978-1-68281-595-3

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition April 2020

Dear Reader,

Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

xoxo

Liz Pelletier, Publisher

This one is for you Mark. You have always supported me, especially through the writing of this big book. You let me bounce ideas off you, read parts to you, and you even laughed when you were supposed to! You cheered me on, eased my doubts, and helped me immerse myself in this story by walking the streets of Lunenburg so I could take pictures, and go for a horse drawn carriage ride on Eddie. I love you.

Chapter One

Kira

You know in an action movie, when the hero just saved the day and everything goes into slow-mo as he walks toward the heroine, to emphasize the guy’s sexiness? Cue the big finale kiss, right? When they ride off into the sunset, have you ever sighed happily and thought, one day, that’s going to happen to me?

Yeah, me neither.

But right now, after driving almost seven days straight, traveling from my academia world in Victoria, British Columbia, to a small fishing town in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, I’m about as close as I’ll ever get to that romantic scenario. Unfortunately, two things are missing from the picture. One, the hot lobster fisherman coming my way has no idea who I am, and two, I’m definitely not the kind of girl a guy like him would even notice.

I’d have to grow two big claws, a tail, and a hard shell before I found myself in that hottie’s hands. It’s not that I’m a troll or anything. I’m average looking, but I’m a mathematician—a logical thinker—who has no time for fantasy. Okay, well, maybe that’s not entirely true. I have dated in the past, and later tonight, when I’m finally tucked into bed at my late grandmother’s B&B, a fantasy or two starring Mr. Hot Fisherman might play out in my mind’s eye.

Might?

Yeah, that’s happening for sure.

Hey, the fisherman says, snapping me back to the present. Wait, is he talking to me? Dammit, what the heck did he just say? Hey, he calls out again, and I glance over my right shoulder to see if he’s calling out to some curvy brunette behind me, but I’m the only one crossing the road. I turn back in time to see long muscular legs work to close the gap between us.

Cue the slow-mo.

I’m about to smooth my hair in some flirty gesture—okay, I’m an academic, but every now and then I curl up with a Cosmo—but my muscles seize when he drops the crate of lobsters he’s carrying and runs toward me.

What the heck? This isn’t how it happens in the movies.

The ringing of bells reaches my ears, followed by chains rattling and heavy, pounding footsteps. I angle my head to the left, toward the clattering noise, but it’s not human feet hammering down the pavement. No, it’s hooves. Hooves! My God, there’s a runaway horse and buggy barreling down the road, and I’m in its direct path. I’m about to move, jump clear out of my perfectly sensible driving shoes, when something knocks the air from my lungs and sends me spinning across the road like the Tasmanian devil.

I’ve got you, I hear as we hit the curb with an undignified thud, and I try to suck in air as we come to an abrupt halt. I gasp but can’t seem to fill my lungs, or even think properly. My inability to do the most basic involuntarily action—like breathing—has very little to do with my near-death experience and everything to do with the hottest fisherman on the planet pinning me to the hard ground with his even harder body.

I open my mouth and try to say something, anything, but only manage a high-pitched sound like a chipmunk jacked up on red bull.

Great, just great.

Are you okay? he asks. Worry lines bracket the most gorgeous green eyes I’ve ever seen as he assesses me. His hand goes to my hair, and with the rough pad of his thumb, he brushes a wayward lock from my cheek.

I…I…can’t breathe, I manage to get out.

Shit. He slides off my bruised body. Dressed in orange bib pants, held up by black suspenders, and a white, button-down dress shirt that conflicts with his fishing apparel, he kneels beside me and goes back on the heels of his rubber boots. That look shouldn’t be sexy. On any other man, it wouldn’t be, but on him, oh my ovaries.

I force myself to tear my gaze away. Embarrassment floods me as I look around, blink the scene into focus, and take note of the gathering crowd. In the distance, the horse slows and glances back at me over his shoulder. He shakes his head and gives a little neigh as if to say next time you’re fish bait.

What just happened? I ask.

That was Eddie. Eddie is an asshole.

Vision wobbly, I look beyond asshole Eddie, out over the Atlantic waters. Under the guise of admiring the manicured golf course in the distance, I give my brain a moment to stop rattling around inside my head. What does Eddie have against me?

Mr. Hot Fisherman chuckles slightly. It’s not just you. Eddie hates the world. Every now and then, he likes to show his owner Doug that he’s the boss, and breaks free for a good hard run. God help anyone in his path.

Every now and then, his owner should walk him by a glue factory, I say. That ought to set him straight. Okay, I’m kidding. Seriously, I am. I’m an animal lover. Still…

This time he laughs out loud, and holy hell, the sound goes right through me and hits every erogenous spot along the way. Alrighty, girly parts, keep it together.

Let me help, he says softly and takes my hand. With a small tug, I’m on my feet, and I bend forward to take a few more fast breaths, but all I can smell is this guy’s scent—fresh soap and testosterone. I brush at my jeans and wipe away the debris and pebbles stuck to my rear end. How’s that for attractive?

I’m so sorry, a strange man roars, his hand holding down his black top hat to keep it from blowing away in the breeze. I note his crusty exterior and weather-worn face as he slows long enough to gauge the damage. You can have a free ride later, he informs me before running to capture his belligerent horse. Curses fly from his mouth, and the tails of his long black jacket flap in the cool fall wind as he catches and berates the undomesticated animal. But Eddie is snorting and doesn’t appear to be paying him much attention. Wow, I had no idea horses could be such jerks.

That would be Doug, Hot fisherman says, but I’d already figured as much. His eyes narrow and run down the length of my body, before slowly tracking back up my neck. I didn’t mean to tackle you so hard. I just reacted. He whistles softly. Seriously, though, that was a close one.

It’s okay. I wipe my sweaty hands clean and hold one out to him. If you hadn’t jumped me, I could have been another one of Eddie’s casualties. Jumped me? Oh God, bad choice of words, Kira. In need of a distraction, I turn and glare at the horse, but he simply neighs and shakes his head. Screw you, too, buddy.

I turn back to Hot Fisherman in time to catch a crooked grin curling up one side of his mouth as his big hand swallows mine whole. Normally, I buy a woman dinner first.

What. The. Hell.

Hot Fisherman is flirting with me?

That’s what I get for suggesting he jumped me. Well, I wasn’t really suggesting it. Then again…Freud and all.

I’m Nate, by the way.

The warmth of his hand seeps under my skin, and I pull my arm back before my mind goes on another journey. Around the university, I’m known as the absent-minded mathematician when working on a theorem, and I’d prefer it if this man didn’t see me as distracted—despite the fact that I’m completely out of my element. How could I not be?

Nate seems funny and playful and put himself in harm’s way to save me. He really is the hero of this story, and he’s different from the surly fishermen I met when I used to summer at my late grandmother’s house, not to mention the men in my social circle. This guy’s face hasn’t been touched by harsh winds or brutal storms, and those green eyes—the color reminds me of the Pacific Ocean stirred up during a summer squall—are simply fascinating as they gaze at me and await an answer.

He’s waiting for you to answer!

Nate, I say and quickly pull myself from my daydream.

Montgomery.

Nice to meet you, Nate Montgomery. I’m Kira Palmer. I glance around him, and my pulse jumps when I see a dozen or so lobsters crawling around on the ground. I’ll pay for those, I say quickly.

He follows my gaze and looks over his shoulder. They’re fine. He gives a casual shrug. I was just bringing them to my mechanic. He’s doing a rush repair job on my car.

You pay for repairs with lobsters? I ask, and head toward the escaping crustaceans.

He gives me a look that suggests I’m insane, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. You’re obviously not from around here. He walks with me, his long legs slowing to pace with my shorter ones. A cold breeze rushes over me, and goose bumps form on my skin as I fix the top button on my blouse. Has it been open all this time? Was that why his gaze lingered there a moment too long?

Oh, please, you are so not his type.

You’re right. I’m not a local and where I’m from, I pause and rub my thumb and index finger together. we pay with this thing called money.

Money? He scratches his head like he’s searching the recesses of his mind. Oh, you’re talking about those strange coins called loonies and toonies.

I laugh at his teasing. Hot and funny. That’s not something I come across every day—or ever. My field is dominated by serious men, but Nate here not only gives me all the girly tingles, he makes me want to flirt back. Too bad I’m not very good at it.

Sometimes we even use bills, I say. I glance at the angry lobsters trying to make a run for it and drop to my knees to help Nate gather them up. After today’s long drive, I stopped at the docks instead of driving straight to the B&B, thinking I’d treat myself to a seafood dinner.

I haven’t had lobster in years, I say, almost to myself. Gram always cooked mine, saving me from having to plunge the crustacean into a pot of boiling water. I laugh softly, recalling the time Gram wrestled with the world’s meanest lobster. Not that I can blame him for being nasty, not after what we did to him.

This one time, someone told my grandmother, I pause and jerk my finger toward her abandoned house on the hill. To put the lobster in the freezer for five minutes before cooking. It was supposed to make it go to sleep before we dropped it in the pot. Hypothetically, it’s a more humane way of cooking them. From my crouched position, I glance up at Nate, and block the afternoon sun from my eyes.

He shakes his head. It’s not.

I know that now, I say. My God, I’d never seen such a pissed off lobster in my entire life.

Nate laughs out loud, and I smile. But as I think of Gram, guilt hits like a sucker punch, and my throat squeezes so tight the gripping pain nearly debilitates me. I hate that I’d stayed away so long, that I wasn’t here for her when she needed me. After her death a little over a year ago, my mom flew to Nova Scotia to bury Gram next to Grandad. I might have been tied down in a project, but I would have left it for Gram’s service. Not that mom had one—didn’t think it was necessary. How could she ever think that? Gram deserved that and so much more, from all of us.

I still feel like I haven’t had a chance to say a proper goodbye. Gram was the only one I could ever really talk to, the only one I ever shared my dreams with. Mom, of course, would hear nothing of me becoming an artist and steered me toward academia. She and Dad are research professors at the University of Victoria.

The reality is I’m a daydreamer, a girl with her head in the clouds. At the end of the day, I love what I do. There’s nothing like using mathematical modeling and computational methods to formulate and solve problems. I truly love the beauty in patterns, shapes, proofs, and concepts. G. H. Hardy once said, A mathematician, like a painter or poet, is a maker of patterns. I guess that’s why my hobby and my research go hand in hand.

You sure you’re okay? Nate asks.

My thoughts come crashing back to the present, and I blink up at him. Yes. Why?

Maybe you have a concussion. He drops to one knee beside me and waves his hand in front of my face as he scans my eyes. You disappeared there for a moment.

I almost snort at that. Is it any wonder I’ve given up on finding happily ever after? When I’m working or daydreaming, I tune everyone and everything out. One time, while deep into my thesis, I forgot all about a date and showed up to a restaurant three hours late. The guy was long gone, and I never heard from him again.

Just as well. He was a visiting physicist at the university. That’s the kind of guy I attract, and ten times out of ten, it’s because they want to pick my brain about something. Wouldn’t it be nice for a guy to want my body for once? How is that for backward thinking in the twenty-first century?

I came to the docks to buy a lobster, but I think I’ve changed my mind.

His eyes narrow. Yeah? I crinkle my nose and jump back when one snappy claw lunges for my fingers. Careful, Nate says and puts his hand on my shoulder to give it a gentle squeeze. And what do I do in response? Oh, just stare at him like he’s a damn knight in shining armor. But my brain keeps releasing a cocktail of chemicals every time he displays and act of protectiveness. Insane really, but it probably stems from the fact that I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time now.

Working hard not to overthink that, I say, I’ve never boiled one before and don’t think I can bring myself to do it.

First, you don’t boil, you steam. He picks up the lobster, and the damn thing twists and turns and tries to snap him.

Aren’t the claws supposed to have elastics bands around them to protect you from getting hurt?

His lips quirk and amusement dances in his eyes as his attention wanders to my earring. Maybe after they showered this morning, they forgot to accessorize. Grinning, I roll my eyes at the joke, and he goes thoughtful, serious, and says, The bands serve two purposes. To stop them from fighting with each other, and yes, to protect those handling them. But these guys just came from the water and haven’t been banded yet. I don’t want you to try to pick any up, okay?

Okay, I say, as my stupid brain releases another round of dopamine. All those happy chemicals are making it hard to think straight.

He angles his head and scrubs his chin like he’s trying to place me. You really aren’t from around here, are you?

Victoria, British Columbia, I say.

He gives a low, slow whistle and drops the lobsters back into the crate. The other side of the country. You’re a long way from home.

I am, I say, not bothering to tell him that I’m here to work on my theorem as I prepare Gram’s house for sale. No need to bore him to death. Ah, but talking about quantum computers to the lobsters might be a better choice than the freezer to lull them to sleep. I’ll have to remember that.

Vacation? Here to see your grandmother?

Something like that. He picks up the crate, and I stand. Thanks again for saving me.

About that, he begins. I believe there is a maritime law that says if you save a life, you’re responsible for that life.

Maritime law governs nautical issues, I counter, but I suspect he’s playing with me. I mean, he is a fisherman and undoubtedly versed in all things ocean-related. He raises a brow like he’s impressed with my knowledge. Interesting. I only know two types of men—those intent on picking my brain, and those intimidated by my brain. It’s a Chinese proverb, and I think it goes like this, if you save a life, the person’s life you saved is indebted to you.

I like that even better, he says, his grin widening. Now that you’re indebted to me…

As he lets his words fall off, I engage my mouth before my brain and blurt, How about dinner? I’ll cook for you.

What the hell am I doing? I have work to do, a house to sell—and the sooner the better. Not only do I never ask men out, I don’t cook. Not well, anyway. Plus, I suck at making small talk. My work is my life and does not make for good dinner conversation. It’s boring to those outside my circle and would likely put this man into a coma. But there is a part of me that feels I owe him something. That horse could have killed me.

Payment for saving me. It’s the least I can do, I add. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea here.

Sure, when?

Tonight, I say. Better to get this over with, so I can turn my focus to more important things. Like work and Gram’s B&B. It’s been vacant for quite some time now and must need repairs before I can list it with a realtor. If you’re not busy, that is.

I’m not busy.

I grab a notepad from my purse, scribble Gram’s address down, and hold it out to him. Is seven okay?

Sounds great. With his hands full of lobsters, he gestures toward the pocket in his shirt, and I stuff my paper in, get a feel of his hard pectoral muscles. I quickly pull my hand back and make a move to go, but stop when he says, Aren’t you forgetting something?

To cop a feel? Nope, nope, already did that.

No, what?

Doug offered you a free ride. He gestures with a nod. He does a great tour of the town. You’d probably enjoy it.

I scan the street, find Doug feeding his horse an apple. I sigh. Yeah, right after the second coming, or better yet, after I prove that a quantum computer has really followed my instructions and used them correctly. Which could be at least five more years. The second coming is likely to happen first.

As I head toward my car—wondering why the hell I just talked about my research—his laughter fills the air. The man must think I’m a lunatic. I hurry to my vehicle and work to remember where the grocery store is. I’ll have to get supplies before he shows up, not that I have any idea what to cook for him, and damn, I’m so tired of living off fast food and cupcakes.

I take a fast glance at him over my shoulder, and the strangest little shiver goes through me. Okay, the hot fisherman is a distraction I don’t need. A thank-you dinner tonight, small talk that has nothing to do with my work—I’m not interested in watching him nod off—then I’ll never set eyes on his gorgeous face or body again.

Yeah, I got this. Sort of.

Not really.

Chapter Two

Nate

Crate of lobsters in hand, I stand on the road for a moment and watch Kira climb into her car, a rental judging by the sticker in the window. She gives a quick shoulder check and drives off, disappearing around a corner, out of my sight. What was it she said about quantum computers? I have no idea, and I can’t say as I’ve ever met anyone quite like her before. Cute, quirky, with a sense of humor. The perfect trifecta.

With a face free of makeup, and her mess of hair clipped haphazardly on the top her head, she has that whole girl next door thing going for her. But she looked a little lost when she was crossing the street, like she was having a hard time navigating this small coastal town. Damned if that doesn’t bring the protector out in me. And who the hell smells like cupcakes? I kind of like her, even though she’s different from the women in my social circles.

Tourist season has died down, but it was clear from the start that she wasn’t from around these parts. I guess it takes a CFA (come from away) as they call it here, to know one. But seriously, it’s mid-October, and she’s not dressed for Nova Scotia’s weather. Just last week there were snow flurries.

Then again, I don’t have a coat on, either—and it’s not because I hadn’t grown up in these parts. I took it off when I tugged on my fishing apparel to check on today’s catch. As the CEO of Hooked—a multi-million-dollar seafood company with its home base in Lunenburg, I don’t usually oversee the daily running of things. I leave that to my trusted employees because I have other matters that need my attention.

What I don’t need is the distraction of a quick-witted, pretty woman. Which begs the questions, why did I flirt with her, and agree to dinner? I’m not sure, but I’ll have to think about that later. Right now, I need to drop these lobsters off and get back to the office. I walk to my pickup truck, set the crate in the back, and climb into the driver’s seat. I swing around and head to Frank’s garage.

Chester Johnson waves to me as he saunters down the road, his cane leading the way. In this small town, everyone knows everyone.

I slow my truck and roll down the window. Hey, Chester, need a lift?

Headed up to Edna’s, he says and taps his cane.

Hop in. I’ll give you a lift. It’s on my way, I say, even though it’s not.

I lean across the cab and open the door for him. The last time I jumped out and tried to help him in, he nearly beat me to death with his cane. Pride is a big thing here. That was a lesson I learned the hard way when I arrived six months ago. I chuckle as I adjust the radio, and patiently wait for him to get in. He finally settles, but his breathing is heavy and labored.

I’m quite capable of walking. He purses his lips. Just in a hurry today.

Edna making her famous quiche? I put the truck into gear and head up the hill to Edna’s.

He smacks his lips. Nothing like it. It’s her fresh eggs.

I turn the heat up even more when he shivers.

You still staying at Gram’s?

My house isn’t ready yet.

He nods. You’ll get settled soon enough.

I bought a heritage house here in town for a couple of reasons. One, to live in while I attended to business in Lunenburg—except it isn’t live in ready yet—and two, as an investment. The plan isn’t to live in this small town permanently. Once I get the processing plant done, I’ll be