The Naked Fisherman (Fisherman 1)

“I’m not a giraffe.”

“I didn’t say that.” He strutted to his bike, and I followed him … to his bike … off the side of the mountain.

He climbed onto his bike, and that feeling that stretched from the pit of my stomach to the center of my chest returned, only stronger as he helped me climb on behind him. When he reached around and grabbed my ass, pulling me closer to him, I almost died. It was the most forbidden feeling I had ever experienced. I realized how crazy that would seem to anyone else, but I was, in fact, the girl who spent the last three years of high school living with grandparents, attending a Christian academy.

“Rory can never know,” I said.

“Hold on,” Fisher replied.

I snaked my arms around his waist, trying not to actually press my hands to his stomach or my chest to his back.

“Hold on like your life depends on it … because it does.”

I tightened my grip, a lot. And two seconds later, he kicked the bike into gear, and we shot off down the street. It was unreal.

Me on the back of a motorcycle holding on to the sexiest man I had ever seen.

My heart in my throat.

The seeds of possibilities sprouting in my head.

It felt like an alternate universe where my mom hadn’t gone to prison. My dad hadn't died. And I never left Nebraska and the public school with all my friends. I was daring, and flirting with mischief was my only purpose. Church was a ritual, an afterthought. And the God I worshipped wasn’t anyone to fear. I was … normal.

Wild oats were mine to sow.

And my reality was whatever dream I dared to chase.

Fisher took me through town. I anticipated him heading back home, but he didn’t. He drove me up the winding roads into the mountains—the steep inclines and the rollercoaster trips down hills at insane speeds. We passed cars, weaving from one lane to the next. Rory would have died had she seen her only child on the back of Fisher’s motorcycle, flying through the increasingly steep terrain of the mountain highway.

“WOO HOO!” I let my lungs loose as we drove through the Eisenhower Tunnel.

Fisher’s hand left the handlebar for a few seconds to press against my leg, giving it a soft squeeze. My arms tightened around him. We rode and rode. My butt went numb. Eventually, he pulled off at a scenic stop. My legs were numb too as I hobbled off the bike and unfastened my helmet.

“If you’re enjoying the tour…” he took my helmet from me “…don’t forget to leave a Yelp review.”

I giggled. “Is this a side gig? And here I felt kind of special.” I inched closer to the guardrail and a canyon filled with trees for miles. The view … there were no words. “I bet this means nothing to you.”

“The view?” he asked.

Of course the view. What did he think I meant? Tossing him a quick sideways glance, I nodded. “Yeah, the view.”

“I think there are some things that are meant to provide a lifetime of awe. The mountains. The oceans. Rainbows. Shooting stars. First kisses.”

Ten years. There were ten years between us. And he admitted that fifty percent of everything that left his mouth was not to be trusted. First kisses … he was baiting me. I was surprised he didn’t say unicorns.

“I have jaded memories,” I said. “Not like my friends who vacationed every summer. Trips to Disney. Key West. The Grand Canyon. My big moments involved my parents fighting. My mom leaving our house in handcuffs. The day she was convicted. My dad didn’t want me there, but I begged him. I told him I would never forgive him if he didn’t let me go with him. She mouthed ‘I love you,’ as they took her away. I remember my dad telling me to let her go. He said she lost the privilege of being my mom because she chose the wrong path. He said she should have loved me more. And sometimes … I believed him. Then he died. Another memory taking up so much space in my head. So this…” I nodded to the view “…it’s a great picture to pin on top of the other pictures that don’t take my breath away.”

For several minutes, Fisher didn’t reply. I’m sure it all sounded crazy to him. It sounded crazy to me, yet I couldn’t roll my eyes and let it be someone else’s pathetic life.

“You deserve to have your breath taken away … every day.”

Those. Those ten words. They wrapped around my heart like sticky peanut butter and jelly fingers.

Pure.

Innocent.

Unforgettable.

Perfect.

“Well…” I kept my gaze on the feathery green canvas “…mission accomplished.”

“Want me to take a picture of you?” he asked, retrieving his phone from his pocket.

“Okay.” I bit my lower lip to hide my true level of giddiness.