Ronan O’Malley, 59, has run O’Malley’s Bait & Tackle on the Oregon coast for eight years, ever since the state net ban pushed him out of the commercial salmon fishing gig he’d held since he was 18. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a winch accident in ‘07, calluses so thick on his palms he can pick up a hot coal from his backyard fire pit without flinching, and a grudge against the coastal conservation coalition that lobbied for the ban so deep he refuses to stock any gear branded with their logo. His best friend, the local fire chief, dragged him to the Salty Spur’s annual fire department fundraiser against his will, and he’s been nursing a cold lager leaned up against the scuffed pine bar for 45 minutes, pointedly ignoring the woman in the faded plaid flannel and mud-caked Xtratufs laughing with the volunteer crew across the room.
That’s Elara Voss, the coalition’s new regional director, the one who’s been sending him invites to sustainable fishing roundtables for six months straight, the one he’s been ghosting so hard his inbox has a separate folder for her emails. He’d pictured her as a stuffy desk jockey in a blazer, the kind who’d never touched a fishing rod in her life. Instead, she’s got a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, a silver hoop through one nostril, and a bicep tattoo of a king salmon that makes his jaw go tight for a reason he can’t entirely blame on anger.
The silent auction closes half an hour later, and Ronan’s been bidding on a custom hand-carved fishing rod built by a retired carpenter down in Newport, the kind he’d spend three months’ worth of tackle profits on if he had to. He’s just upped his bid to $275 when someone scribbles $300 on the sheet next to his name. He looks up, and Elara’s leaning against the table, pen behind her ear, grinning like she just pulled one over on him. He strides over, scowling, and bids $350 before she can blink. No one else bids, and the volunteer manning the table hands him the receipt with a snort.
Elara steps closer when the volunteer walks away, close enough that he can smell sea salt and jasmine shampoo on her, the faint tang of peach pie on her breath. Her elbow brushes his when she reaches for a napkin sitting next to his beer, and he doesn’t step back, even though every stubborn bone in his body is screaming that he should. “I knew it was you bidding,” she says, holding his gaze steady, no apology in her tone, just amusement. “Wanted to see if you’d actually put your money where your loud mouth is. Half the guys in this town talk about loving fishing more than their wives, but they won’t drop more than $50 on a rod that’ll last them 20 years.”
Ronan snorts, about to snap back that she doesn’t know the first thing about him, when the fire chief taps the mic on the small stage and announces the pie auction, the night’s big ticket item. “Up first, we got a homemade peach pie baked by Elara herself, secret family recipe, proceeds go straight to new wildfire gear for the crew.”
Bids start at $50, jump to $100, $150, $220. Ronan doesn’t even think before he barks out $400. The room goes quiet for half a second, then whoops. No one else bids. The chief grins at him, winks, and calls Elara up to hand the pie over.
She walks over to him, warm ceramic pie tin in her hands, and when she passes it to him their fingers brush, rough callus on her knuckle catching on the scar on his wrist, and he feels a jolt go up his arm that has nothing to do with the old winch injury. “There’s a note tucked under the crust,” she says, quiet enough no one else can hear, her thumb brushing the edge of the tin for half a beat before she pulls her hand away. “It’s my personal cell, not the office line. Stop by my place tomorrow if you want. We can talk about that new co-op for retired commercial fishermen we’re launching, the one that lets you run guided trips with sustainable hook-and-line gear. And we can split the pie. I baked extra filling just in case.”
Ronan nods, too surprised to make one of his usual snarky remarks, and carries the pie back to his table. He sets it down on the sticky plastic tablecloth, pries up the edge of the crumb crust with his pocket knife, and spots the neon pink post-it tucked under the rim, her number scrawled in messy cursive, a little doodle of a salmon next to it. He takes a bite of the pie, warm and sweet with a little tang of lemon in the filling, and pulls his phone out of his pocket to save her number before he can talk himself out of it.
