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moved a sandwich from the platter onto his plate. “What kind of research?”
    She explained how she’d spent hours on the internet, studyinghow 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.
    â€œReally? 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.
    â€œDid 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.”
    â€œMore 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.”
    â€œYes, me too—I’m so sorry,” she said in earnest, recalling the photo