The Naked Fisherman (Fisherman 1)

“Because he’s worried that my cooking is too important to me. So he wants someone else to try my cooking first because he said he’s not in the business of trying my cooking.”

“Maybe he’s never tried a woman’s cooking … like her first official dinner, and he’s nervous about it.”

“No.” I took a bite of my sandwich and chewed it a few seconds. “He’s tried other women’s first dinners because it apparently didn’t matter to them.”

“Well, does your cooking matter to you?”

“No. Yes. Gah! I don’t know. I mean … can’t it somewhat matter to me yet still be okay for him to try it before anyone else does? I’m not asking him to … open a restaurant for me.”

Christina laughed. “I love this conversation. So you go out to eat a lot, and you both enjoy that and mutually want to eat out, but he just won’t try your cooking?”

“Right. But, Christina … I’m not on the pill. And we’ve been doing things that are risky, but again, not penetration. And I casually asked him what he would do if I ended up pregnant, and he changed. Like his whole demeanor changed. He refused to discuss it with me unless I find out that I am pregnant … which I highly doubt I am.”

“Uh … Reese, why would you even think that if you … if he didn’t try your cooking?”

“Because he … you know. And I … you know. And what if there was a mixing of … ingredients …”

“A mixing where?”

“Just … never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m not near my ovulation time.”

“Kudos to you for knowing that.”

“I use an app.”

“Oh. That’s smart. So what do you need from me? I’m obviously no help. Sorry, bae.”

“Well, I guess I want to know what you think I should do? He obviously is just in it for the physical part. And I want to have sex with him … but he won’t, despite his total disconnect to the emotional part.”

“And you’re sure you want him to?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I know that I wouldn’t say no, even if I’d be filled with regret.”

“Call Arnie. He’ll take it. Probably won’t even care if it’s more than a one and done. Then you can … cook for anyone without this being an issue.”

I didn’t want to cook for anyone but Fisher.

“Thanks.” I sighed. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Okay. Call me if you need anything, even if I’m not much help.”

“Will do.”

“Good morning.” Fisher walked out of the garage with a mug of coffee in his hand just as I rounded the corner to his truck.

Dang! He looked hot that morning.

Jeans.

Tee.

Work boots.

Wet hair.

Scruffy face.

The same as other days, but different too.

Just … hotter.

“Morning.” I couldn’t maintain eye contact with him. Looking at him without thinking about him naked presented itself as the world’s most impossible task. Truth? There was a reason I’d thought of him as the “naked fisherman” since the day we met.

“Coffee’s still hot inside if you want a cup to go.” He opened his door as I opened my side.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

As we pulled out of the driveway, he shot me a brief glance. “How was your weekend?”

I tried and failed to hide my grin. As if he didn’t know …

“Fine. How was yours?”

“Not too bad. Mowed the lawn. Went to my brother’s concert. Did a few loads of laundry. Oh … and I got a damn good hand job last night.”

My head whipped in his direction. “I didn’t give you a hand job.”

He sipped his coffee while focusing on the road. “Your hand did the job. That’s pretty much the definition of a hand job.”

My words fell flat before finding an actual voice to go with them. I didn’t give him a hand job. I held his cock while I pleasured myself. I held it to prevent it from going inside of me. I wasn’t …

Or was I?

I cleared my throat. “What am I doing today?”

“What’s your job today? Hmm … let me think on that. What do you want your job to be today?”

On a nervous laugh, I shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

“Oh, my choice? I like that.”

“I think we should stick to construction stuff.”

“As opposed to?” He spared me another lightning-fast side glance.

“I think you should teach me something today.”

“Fine. After we make our morning stops, we’ll grab lunch and go to my workshop.”

“You have a workshop?”

Driving with one hand casually draped over the top of the steering wheel and his other hand holding his coffee, he smiled. “Of course. I was there until just before midnight last night working on wardrobe drawers.”

After we … did what we did, he left. And I had a breakdown on the phone with Christina. Once again, my actions showed my age. Fisher didn’t have time to call a friend and overanalyze what had happened between him and the girl from the basement (it wasn’t a glamorous label, but it wasn’t inaccurate either) because he was a real adult with a job and responsibilities. He didn’t have his virginity to babysit 24-7. Sex was—not a life-changing choice that required copious amounts of prayer, guilt, overthinking, and dramatization.