The Naked Fisherman (Fisherman 1)

I marched past Fisher’s driveway to Rory’s Outback parked on the street. Without giving him a single glance, I tossed my backpack in the back seat and slipped into the driver’s seat. Turning the key, nothing happened. I tried again. And again, nothing happened. Not a single sound.

“Are you kidding me? Dear Lord, please let this car start.” I tried one more time.

Silence. Not one peep like the engine was making a single effort to turn on. I’d just driven it to church and back. God wasn’t answering my prayer that day.

After reaching around and snatching my backpack from the back seat, I made the walk of shame past the driveway.

“Battery’s dead. I’ve been telling Rory for weeks she needs a new one. I’ll drop a new battery in it tomorrow after work.”

I glanced over at Fisher using a squeegee to remove the water from his clean garage floor. “I can call someone.”

“Or…” he shook his head and grinned “…you can call someone on your own.”

I sulked toward the side of the house.

“I’m going for a ride on my motorcycle. Want to come along?”

“I’m sure my mom would think riding on the back of your motorcycle is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.” He hooked the squeegee on the wall and grabbed a towel to dry his hands. “That’s why we won’t tell her.”

“Like you didn’t tell her I was going into the mountains?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“I’m going to work on my crossword puzzles.” I ducked my head and kept walking.

“I’m going to shower. I’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes. If you’re going, change into jeans.”

“Have fun,” I called back with virtually no sincerity.

Chapter Eight

After depositing my bag onto my bed, I made myself a sandwich. Ten minutes later, with half of my sandwich gone, I eyed the time on my phone.

Fisher was leaving in less than five minutes. On his motorcycle. I’d never been on a motorcycle. They were dangerous and would have required me to hold on to his waist. It was a terrible idea. I had things to do. Puzzles to construct. Bible passages to study before Wednesday night, if I planned on attending the singles’ group. That was where I would find a nice guy who didn’t swear or make suggestive comments.

A guy who wore a shirt.

A guy closer to my age.

A guy who didn’t care if I wore socks or not.

A guy who didn’t ride a motorcycle.

After letting those sensible thoughts settle in my mind, I tossed the rest of my sandwich in the trash, changed into jeans, grabbed my backpack, and sprinted around the house just as Fisher started to pull out of the driveway.

“Wait!”

He stopped and slid up the visor to his helmet. I had no idea if one could truly have an orgasm just by looking at a guy. It seemed unlikely. A myth. But … Fisher in jeans, black leather boots and jacket, and black gloves made me feel a little dizzy as something between my tummy and my chest tickled me in the most unfamiliar way. I imagined it was what it felt like to have a glass of wine or maybe get a little high. Not that I would ever find that out. I had a firm no drug policy for many reasons, but mainly because of my mom.

He said nothing, like I was supposed to read his mind, but really, I was asking him to read mine. That would have been embarrassing beyond my imagination.

“I’d like to go with you.”

He made me squirm with his silence for a few seconds before killing the engine and removing his helmet. “Follow me.”

In a matter of days, I’d become irritatingly infatuated with a man ten years older than me. I followed Fisher Mann into his garage, but I would have followed him off the edge of the mountain. That was the effect Devil in a Tool Belt had on me. I really hoped the whole once-saved-always-saved thing was true because there was a good chance I’d need that unconditional salvation.

“It’s a woman’s size.” He tugged a helmet onto my head and fastened it under my chin.

“For all your women?” I tried to play coy, but my face felt too heated to make anyone believe I could pull off coy or subtle at that point.

“Yes, for my harem.” Turning toward a cabinet, he retrieved a riding jacket like his. “You have long arms, so this might be a little small on you. Something is better than nothing.”

“Long arms? I don’t have long arms.” I threaded my arms through the jacket while he held it up for me. As he zipped the jacket, I tugged on the cuffs of the sleeves.

Fisher smirked. Yes, the sleeves were a little short.

“It’s okay. Your legs are long too. And guys will overlook your octopus arms because you have legs for days.”