"Watch for snappers, little lady." Sara pitched her voice low and scrunched her face to mimic Uncle Petey's Minnesota twang. As if grumpy reptiles were the worst of her problems. The calamine lotion cracked, flaking off from the healing welts on her cheeks and rained down on her white tank top. Straight into her cleavage. Great, just great. Her pole and tackle box clattered on the deck as she flapped her shirt out, trying to scrub away the pinkish flakes clinging to her sweaty under-boobs.

She could be in Alaska right now! Swimming with walruses and running with wild moose, or something of the like. Not that she would know any cruise extra-curricular activities since she was stranded in the heartland, in as rustic a town as you could get, with Chickenpox, a month before her high school Senior year.

All because Sara never went to Laurie Englebert's 8th birthday party and missed out on a class-wide epidemic as a kid. It was just her and the creepy asthmatic with the fanny pack in the classroom for a solid week.

Who could've guessed her two week stint of babysitting for vacation spending money would doom her to Uncle Petey's cabin in Minnesota back country? Miles from anything notable, left with nothing better to do than fish and scratch while her parents and younger brother had the time of their lives. He still had dial- up internet.

This summer sucked.

Fuming, Sara gave the tackle box a kick, immediately regretting it since she wore flip flops. After hopping around, clutching her foot and nearly falling in the murky water, she slumped onto the deck to fiddle with bait and hooks. Her uncle refused to turn on the ancient AC unit in the living room. It was too hot to hang out inside the man's stuffy cabin, and after he'd showed her how, she found she actually liked fishing. Not that she would admit anything of the sort to her friends back home in upstate New York.

Out here it was peaceful and, more important, secluded. She could laze about in nothing but short shorts and a tank top, covered in calamine and fish guts with no one the wiser. It was the lone upswing to this disaster of a summer; no one had to see her in this condition.

Sara flicked her wrist, listening to the reel whiz as her line went out over the water and the soft plunk as it landed. Uncle Petey's cabin was situated on a bend of the river, the current slow and sluggish, but it often pulled her hook around a blind corner. Fine for her since the fish liked to hide in the shallow rocky pools on the other side of the spit of trees.

She skimmed her toes along the surface, waiting for the inevitable tug on the line. A few minutes passed. There was faint splashing downstream from her. Did she hear someone laughing?

Her line squealed as it caught, running hard and fast with whatever took her bait. She locked the reel, yanking hard as her catch fought back, bending her pole almost double. Holy crackers, it was a big one. It felt like one of those giant catfish her uncle teased her about, jokingly called them the F.O.U.S.'s (Fish of Unusual Size). She didn't think they existed, though the action on her pole made her wonder.

Sara hooked her knees up under the dock and gave the mightiest yank she could muster. It looked like the line was about to snap when a hoarse shout caused her to jump and fumble the pole. The tension went slack, dragging toward her. Puzzled, she reeled in her catch, watching a bright swatch of color peep at her beneath the muddy water.

"What the heck?" Was her epic catch really a plastic bag snagged on a sunken log? Wouldn't be the first time she--

Sara pulled a pair of swim trunks from the water. She held them up, admiring the Iron Man print pattern when an angry shout made her drop them on her feet with a wet splat. She saw the hair first, dripping but still stuck up in every direction. Even soaked, she could tell it was a shocking shade of dark red. Her eyes continued their downward progression, pausing at the blaze of anger in those lovely hazel eyes. Why so angry? Oh, oh my...

Her eyes lingered over his torso, lines of river water running over the defined muscles of his chest. Her jaw might have gone slack following those abdominals all the way down to where his hands were obviously covering his very naked lower half.

"Dude?!" He snarled at her and flipped his dripping hair up out of his face. She followed the arc of droplets in the air, admiring the movement of his body before the anger and accusation in his voice registered. Sara looked down at the swim trunks on her feet, then back at the muscled boy glaring at her.

"Oh," she said with an awkward laugh, pinching a corner of the trunks as she held them up. "These must be yours."

"Can I have them back now?" To his credit, she could hear an amazing amount of patience through his gritted teeth.

"Yeah, sure," she tossed the trunks to him, watching them sail through the air as they hit his chest with a sodden smack. "Sorry about that."

His jaw worked as he peeled them off and turned his back to her so he could shimmy into the trunks under the cover of the river.

"I hear there're snappers in there," said Sara. His shoulders stiffened. The redhead frog marched for the shore, making enough noise to scare every fish off for miles. He gave her one last over the shoulder glare as he emerged from the water, marching off down the shore.

"Sorry, again!" She called. The stranger had to be mighty pissed at her; she could see a trickle of blood down the back of his thigh. She grinned at the fine curves of his butt peeking through the gaping rip in his trunks.

She thought about telling him he had a 'window', honest, but her mind wandered.

Bemused, Sara gathered up her gear and headed back inside.

Uncle Petey didn't glance up from his Men's Journal as she strolled in. "Catch anything interesting today?" His accent rolled through the consonants.

Sara scratched the back of her knee against the door frame. "I caught a boy."

One of Uncle Petey's brows rose up. "Come again?"

"A red-head. With a comic book fetish."

Her uncle pursed his lips, letting the journal drop to his knees as he looking at his niece. He was her mother's brother, and a bachelor by trade, but after living with five older sisters, he had a comprehensive knowledge of teenage girls.

"Red-head? Sounds like one of Martin's boys. The youngest is about your age. Trevor, if I remember correctly."

The Martin boys? Did everyone out here have packs of siblings? Must be why mom stopped at her and her younger brother. Who left her high and dry for the family cruise, the little snot. Her mood soured.

"I'm going to go soak in the tub," she grumbled.

"I put a fresh box of that oatmeal bath mix in there for ya, hun," he said as he returned to his journal. She was almost out of the room when his voice stopped her. "What did you think of the Martin boy, Sara?"

Would it offend her uncle's fine sensibilities if she said 'nice butt'?

"He seemed..." Furious with her? A lean, mean, fighting machine? Nice?

"Suave." Suave? Where had that come from? This is what she got for studying S.A.T. vocab all week.

Uncle Petey's lips twitched. He turned a page. "I hear during the summer he works at his mother's Ice Cream pallor in town. Best strawberry sherbet in the county."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Sara, desperate to retreat. She practically ran from the room when Uncle Petey's eyebrows performed a suggestive waggle. It wasn't until she was up to her nose in an oatmeal bath that she allowed the possibility to turn over in her head.

Strawberry sherbet held a certain appeal.

**

Sara drummed the turquoise Formica table top as she tried very hard not to give away her spying on Trevor 'Iron Man' Martin from beneath the brim of her baseball cap. It was hard to keep a low profile when she looked like she crawled out of a swamp.

Expecting a summer of misery, she packed for comfort over style. Her suit case was full of stained tank tops and frayed shorts suitable to sacrifice to swabs of witch hazel, calamine lotion, and her new found hobby.

Sara had not planned to venture beyond Uncle Petey's dock until she passed the highly attractive crusty scab stage of her chickenpox.

Yet here she was, swathed in her uncle's spare flannel, sweating like an ice cube on a hot stove. Air conditioning only went so far, even in an ice cream parlor. Her clothes stuck to her sweaty skin, exacerbating her itchiness to the point of grinding her teeth. Least she was covered.

She watched him scooping a pistachio cone, the muscles of his forearms flexing. He looked cute in that little white servers cap. He hadn't batted an eye lash when she ordered her scoop of sherbet, so she figured she was in the clear to enjoy a nice leisurely ogle before she had to slink back to the sweat box of a cabin. At the prospect of venturing back into the heat, she popped a mouthful of the strawberry sherbet, letting it melt on her tongue. Dang, Uncle Petey was right. It was the best she'd ever had. Maybe she could get a serving to go.

Sara glanced back at the counter to find her handsome scooper M.I.A.

Her eyes darted, trying to figure out where he disappeared to when Trevor slid into the seat across from her. Oh, sugar.

She cringed and peeked up at him under the brim of her hat, trying to gauge his reaction. Judging by the flare of his nostrils he was not pleased to see her.

"What are you doing here?" He sat with his arms crossed, stiff as a board. She could bounce a tennis ball off him. She cleared her throat, fishing through the damp pockets (ugh!) of her sweat soaked flannel for the purchase she'd made at the corner drug store.

"I wanted to apologize again for the, uh, incident," she said, setting the box down between them. He glanced at the box and proceeded to stare at her. She shifted. Her sense of humor was about to get her in trouble again. Was his eye twitching? "You really do have the best sherbet," she said to fill the sucking void of silence.

He snatched up the box and held it up to eye level. "Marvel Avengers band aids?"

She shrugged, studying her sherbet. Wow, were those real strawberries in there? "Uh, yes, you know...for your butt."

The box crumpled a little in his hand. She looked up to find him covering his face, which was somehow worse than the stare. Boy what she would give for a corner to rub against right now. Her skin felt like it was crawling with ants.

"How did I end up with your trunks? I mean logistically, my pole should have snapped before I yanked your swim suit off--"

He dropped the box to press a finger to her lips. "Stop talking, fish-girl," he said. She tried not to bristle at the nick name, pleased he was talking to her at all.

"It's Sara, Sara Kimball," she said, her words distorted by the finger pressed to her lips.

"Why are you wearing a wool flannel in 95 degree weather, Sara Kimball?"

She puffed out her cheeks, slouching in her seat away from Trevor Martin and his patronizing finger.

"New weight loss program," she muttered, stabbing at the remains of her sherbet. Screw getting a scoop to go.

"Weight loss?"

She couldn't help looking up at the incredulity in his voice. That expression almost made up for the sweaty humiliation she endured.

"Yes, instead of going to a sauna, you wear it as you go," she said, no so subtly rubbing her shoulder blades against her chair. Her skin was in full revolt, an all over itch flaring so bad she wanted to claw off her clothes and slather herself with calamine.

"What is wrong with your skin?"

There it was. Party over. Sara pushed back her chair, planting her hands on the table. "Sorry to have bothered you. I have somewhere to be." Like back at the cabin in a tub full of oatmeal. Her cheeks burned as she hustled passed the staring Trevor. They had nothing on the outside heat which hit her in the face like a steaming wet towel. She broke into a fast trot, tearing off the horrendous flannel as soon as the ice cream parlor was out of sight. The street was mostly empty, probably because most sane people hid indoors during this kind of heat, with proper air conditioning. The few pedestrians she did pass paid little mind to a sullen teenage girl with an unfortunate skin condition and swamp pits.

It was hard to resist stopping at the nearest tree and rub against it like an itchy grizzly bear. Somehow she made it back to the cabin, blessedly empty of Uncle Petey and his twenty questions. She went straight for the tub, drawing an oatmeal bath to soak away her awkward session with Trevor Martin.

**

The knock came around 4pm. Her uncle was still out of the house, not that he would knock on his own front door, and Sara contemplated not answering it at all when it came again, sharp, impatient, and hard enough to possibly leave a dent in the door. If she could put a knock to a person, she'd call it a Trevor Martin special. The thought made her smile until she opened the door to the surly ice cream scooper.

Sara squeaked and slammed it right in his bewildered face. Her current appearance was a far cry from the flannel fiasco of the morning. She was back in her summer uniform of ratty tank top and shorts. Her top sported Rainbow Dash on the front, the cartoon pony cheekily winking from just below her cleavage. Her skin was smeared with calamine lotion and her hair was wrapped up in a towel. Why was that red headed lummox here?

"Sara?" His confused voice seeped through the door.

She blew out a sigh, opening it a crack to peer at him. "What do you want?"

He eyed her through the crack for a moment and grinned. The grin blindsided her; bright, even teeth, dimples, and utterly charming. If she'd been wearing socks he would have knocked them off. Her heart skipped a light fandango while Sara scowled at him.

"Those are unfair tactics, Martin," she said, opening the door a little wider. Her words made that ridiculous grin widen as he thrust a thermos through the gap. "What's this?"

"My mom swears by carrot and coriander soup," he said. She waited for the punchline but Trevor Martin appeared completely sincere. Sara nibbled her lip.

"Soup, in this weather?"

He nodded. "For your chicken pox."

"Um, thank you," she said, reaching for the offering. Trevor took the opportunity to nudge his way into the cabin. "What do you think you're doing?" Sara sputtered, mortified by his presence.

Trevor shrugged. "Your uncle told me to let myself in, said you'd be all weird about it," he frowned. "Does he ever run the AC?"

"I think it's against his principles," she muttered. "You talked to my uncle before coming over here?"

"I wanted to know what happened to you," Trevor said with a careless shrug. "You were being all evasive. I've never met anyone who caught chicken pox at 17."

She clutched the warm thermos to her chest, biting down on the numerous comebacks dangling from her tongue. This was not the way to make friends and influence people. "What can I say? I'm a rarity."

"Oh, I knew that when I found you fishing," he winked at her, going through the kitchen cabinets with unmistakable familiarity.

"You've been here before," she said. There he went flashing that disarming grin at her again. When had he decided to be so friendly with her?

"Well, yes, your uncle taught the majority of us local boys how to fish and which spots of the river were safest to swim in. Most of us have been in and out of this cabin since we were old enough to bait a hook," he said. He didn't even look sheepish about the admission. He set out a bowl and spoon, gesturing for the thermos.

Sara pursed her lips as she handed it off. She took the opportunity to shake herself loose from the towel, hoping to feel slightly less frumpy in the presence of the hot ice cream scooper. When dry, her hair was a pleasing shade of sun kissed honey, blonde like her mom and uncle. Not so much when damp. It looked like wet wheat grass. She slumped into the chair as Trevor slid a faintly steaming bowl of bright orange soup in front of her.

"Why carrots and coriander?" She sniffed it, surprised by the spicy scent. A glass of ice water appeared next to her bowl. Trevor sat across from her with his own glass, swiping his forearm across his sweaty hair line.

"My mother nursed four boys through simultaneous bouts of chicken pox. She swears it clears up your skin twice as fast," he said, sipping ice water.

"Cheapskate or not, Pete should really let you run that AC. You must be itching like crazy in this heat."

Sara sipped a spoonful. The soup had a tiny bite to it; just enough to make her tongue tingle. "It's not too bad," she lied. It was awful. She spent hours soaking in the tub to keep from scratching her skin off.

"So, how did you catch chicken pox at 17?" Trevor's hazel eyes twinkled at her over the rim of his glass. She sniffed, eating her soup.

"How did I magically yank off your swim trunks with a fishing hook?"

He made a face at her. "Nice rebuttal."

"Rebuttal? Someone's been studying their SAT vocab." She licked the spoon clean and pointed it at him.

Trevor laughed. It was a nice laugh, a full body laugh with shaking shoulders and flexing muscles. Sara sighed happily into her orange soup.

"Alright," he held up his hands in mock surrender. "I'll tell you how you managed to reel in my trunks if you let me bring you more soup tomorrow."

For a moment, Sara forgot about the splotches of dried lotion flaking on her face and the stained Rainbow Dash tank top. Her smile was genuine and relaxed and she'd swear up and down that the carrot and coriander soup was already working its magic because her skin didn't itch at all.

Trevor blinked at her, his face going slack for a moment. He shook himself. "Deal?"

Sara licked her spoon again, catching a last hint of sweet spice. "Sure, if you let me take you fishing."

He smirked. "Deal."

**

Sara cornered Uncle Petey the moment he walked in the door.

"You told Trevor to shove his way in the house?"

Her uncle gave her a five yard stare; Men's Journal in the crook of his elbow. "Were you going to let him in otherwise?"

Sara folded her arms. "No."

He nodded in affirmation, settling on his recliner with a flap of paper. "Take pity on the poor boy. He made the soup himself."

That perked her interest. Not only had the hot ice cream scooper brought her soup, but made it also? "Really?"

"Your mother and his were thick as thieves in our younger years," said Uncle Petey into the magazine. It reminded her of something else Trevor told her.

"You really taught all those little boys how to fish? I thought you didn't want kids."

Uncle Petey snorted. "I like kids. Don't want to keep them," he said, flipping a page. "Besides," he said, "With my luck they'd all be girls."

**

The soup didn't perform any overnight miracles. Not unless she counted Trevor's promise to return. Okay, that was a true miracle considering what a hot mess she was.

Trevor showed up promptly at 4pm. Uncle Petey must have known since he made himself scarce. He'd also thoughtfully provided her with a clean t-shirt in lieu of her grotty tank tops. Ever the thoughtful man, her uncle. She opened the door to find her new favorite ginger in a weathered t-shirt and shorts, a fishing pole slung over one shoulder, and a brown paper bag in the other. His appearance immediately relaxed her; they would match soon between bait and fishy bits.

"What goodies have you brought today?" She smiled. He cleared his throat, handing the bag off to her; another thermos of soup, and what appeared to be a pouch of herbs and bread crumbs.

"This," he said, tapping the pouch, "is fish fry, in case we catch anything." Was this another promise for potential cooking?

"Oh, we are catching something," said Sara, snagging her pole from behind the door. "To the dock!"

They were soon situated side by side on her uncle's dock, feet kicking over the water, and knees touching. Trevor's legs were so long he was ankle deep in the river.

"I wasn't kidding about the snappers in there," Sara teased, "Watch your toes."

"Not too worried. We are making enough noise to scare 'em off," he said, flicking his wrist. The reel whizzed as his weighted hook sailed out.

"Suit yourself, but don't blame me if you lose any to surly reptiles," she said, pouring herself a cup of soup. They continued to banter back and forth, enjoying the mild heat, the mugginess kept at bay by the river. The sunshine beat down and drew out their sweat, but the bugs kept off. Sara balanced her pole between her knees and tilted her face to study her "date".

That hair made his head appear on fire, but he had a surprising lack of freckles. The sunshine cast a warm brown light to his eyes.

"I'm about to offend your feminine sensibilities, Ms. Kimball, you might want to cover your eyes," he drawled, yanking his shirt over his head with one hand, deftly keeping his fishing pole above water and lax.

Sara looked away to hide her blush, grinning to herself. "I assure you Mr. Martin, my sensibilities are far from offended." Was this flirting? It sounded more like an old timey film to her ears, but she was enjoying it. It was the most enjoyment she'd had since she got here. She tried not to let him catch her ogling him, but he just waggled his eyebrows at her, a move he must have picked up from Uncle Petey. Sara dissolved into giggles.

"Alright, time to hear the truth. How did you lose your shorts to a mere fishhook, Martin?" Sara raised her eye brows at him.

Trevor made a face at her, jagging his line a few times in the hopes of tricking a passing fish. "Want the truth?"

"I did ask," she said, nudging his bare shoulder.

"There I was, trying to cool off with a swim, with a couple of my brothers. They were by the shore, having a splash fight," he said, his tone all serious, hedging the tension in true story teller fashion. "So I swam out a bit further when suddenly, I felt something scratching my thigh. I thought something floated up my trunks and got stuck. I stood up and shimmied out of them, just for a second, to make sure nothing was in there when they were yanked from my hands, leaving me in the middle of the river, naked as a newborn. There went my trunks, skimming round the bend."

Sara burst out laughing, nearly dropping her pole in the water.

"All that laughing really affects a man's confidence," he said, his eyes light and creased with mirth.

"I'm sorry," she said, her cheeks aching from laughing so hard. She wiped her eyes, smiling up at him. "I truly am. Is your leg okay? I hope the hook didn't scratch you too deep."

He raised a brow, shifting the cuff of his shorts just high enough for her to catch a hint of an Avengers Band-Aid. "Healing up just fine," he said, dropping the cuff. "Besides, a little pain was worth meeting you."

So smooth! Sara nibbled the inside of her lip, her heart and stomach fluttering with a million strong swarm of butterflies. Her pulse ratcheted up a few notches. "Chicken pox and all?" She chanced a glance up at him, and jolted as his lips caught her by surprise, soft and brushing over hers in light promise. He tasted like carrots and coriander.

Trevor pulled back, his eyes warm and spicy like his breath. "You won't have chicken pox forever, Sara Kimball."

Sara blushed to the roots of her hair. Perhaps, this summer wasn't so awful after all. She eyed the shirtless Trevor. Yeah, things were definitely taking a turn for the better. Covered in splotches of calamine, earthworm dirt under her fingernails, and sweat on her skin, she still got a kiss from one hot ginger. She wondered if she could sneak another before the day was out.

The reel squealed as the line went taut.