The Naked Fisherman (Fisherman 1)

I wanted him to not go.

I wanted him to stay with me.

I wanted him to touch me and make it feel good.

But I wanted him to do it without me having to ask.

“Time’s up.” He turned, making his way to the bedroom door with confident strides.

I balled my hands and clenched my teeth, fighting for one word, the smallest semblance of a voice.

Nothing.

He shut his door behind him and voices sounded from the other room. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my hands to my face, grumbling at myself for a few seconds before heading straight to the door and plastering my ear against it.

“Tiffany was the interior designer of the house you built in Golden last month,” Rose said.

“Oh really?” Fisher seemed a little too enthused.

“I was. It’s a beautiful home, Fisher. It’s my dream to have you build something for me someday.”

I rolled my eyes at Tiffany’s gushing reply.

“In fact, I’d take this house right here,” she continued.

Really? Could she have been any more obvious and needy? It was just … gross.

“I’d love to see what you did with the house in Golden,” Fisher said.

“Oh … absolutely. I’ll call the Jensens. They’d be totally cool with me showing it to you.” She laughed. “But I’m sure they know you quite well. I suppose you could call them too. Maybe we can make a date of it sometime.”

No. No. NO!

Peeling my ear from the door, I pressed both palms to it and sank into a squat, my forehead gently pressed to it as I closed my eyes and prayed for God to erase the past month from it.

Take me back to Texas.

And never let me think of Fisher Mann again.

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was one night. I should have stuffed my face and gone to sleep in a food coma. Instead, I skipped dinner and went for a run. Then I did an hour of yoga.

Shower.

Crossword puzzles.

Bible.

Prayer.

More prayer.

Ear to the upstairs door, listening for any sign of Fisher.

More prayer.

I went all in, asking for forgiveness for my thoughts and for putting Fisher’s penis in my mouth. Did God get a lot of penis prayers? It seemed unlikely. Maybe guys with STDs praying for a quick recovery and promising to return to celibacy.

I didn’t promise celibacy because technically, I was still celibate. Or so I told myself.

A little before one in the morning, I took my restless self to the screened-in porch, wearing a tee and white panties. Blanket in hand.

Reaching for the light switch, I accidentally hit another switch and strings of globe lights illuminated the porch. I didn’t know they were there. How did I miss them?

It was … enchanting.

I grinned. My first grin since Fisher left me for Tiffany and jazz music. Curling up in the corner of the patio sectional, I took a deep breath of the chilly night’s air and closed my eyes. That was all it took for my mind to settle and sleep to find me.

At some point, my eyes fluttered open, a weird feeling that someone was there.

Fisher …

He stood next to me, watching me sleep.

“What time is it?” I squinted my eyes.

“Two.”

“Where’s Rory?” I rubbed one eye.

“She stayed at Rose’s place to sober up.”

I nodded and yawned.

“Why are you sleeping out here?” he asked.

“Because I couldn’t sleep inside.”

“Why?” He toed off his shoes.

“I …” I lifted a shoulder, feeling embarrassed about my terrible thoughts. “I don’t know.”

He sat at the end of the sofa, stretching his legs out, swallowing the entire length. “Come here,” he whispered.

I gave his request a moment’s pause before crawling toward him with my blanket. Settling my body between his legs and over his chest, I nuzzled my face into his neck.

He still smelled like pine and soap. And not her.

I so desperately wanted to ask him if he did anything with her. Held her hand. Kissed her. Promised her another date. But I didn’t because I was enveloped in his arms in the middle of the night beneath the glow of several dozen globe lights, and it was pretty perfect.

A few minutes later, Fisher sat up partway, taking me with him, guiding my legs to straddle his midsection. He held the most contemplative expression on his face. I wanted to solve it like one of my puzzles, looking for clues in his eyes, the part of his lips, or his hand brushing the hair away from my face before caressing his knuckles down my neck.

I closed my eyes, reveling in the moment, in the way he made me feel like I was flying. Free of everything that kept me from finding myself, my voice, my place in the world.

When I opened my eyes, he feathered his other hand along my cheek, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. The night air was no comparison to the way Fisher’s touch elicited an endless emergence of goose bumps along my skin.