The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman 2)

Chapter One

Six months in Thailand turned into twelve months in Thailand with Brendon. Rory was right. Friendships had a way of turning into more.

Playful nudges.

Teasing.

Flirty glances.

Hand-holding.

Stolen kisses.

All the little things checked off the boxes. If the boxes were checked, it had to be love. Right?

A stop in Tokyo and another in Los Angeles was all that stood between me and my mom—between me and the naked fisherman.

Brendon spent the month prior to our trip home hinting about marriage.

Did I see myself having a destination wedding or a church wedding?

How many kids did I want?

Would I choose to live in the city or in the mountains?

A dog and two cats? Or no cats and two dogs?

Brendon still had his job waiting for him at the law firm in Denver. He would make good money with room for advancement, maybe even make partner one day.

I had the chance to do … nothing. Well, not true. There would be kids to raise, dogs to walk, and cakes to bake.

Fisher made good money. If I was destined for the life of a wife and stay-at-home mom, why did I leave him? I thought about Fisher more in the days leading up to our departure than I had done for the previous twelve months.

Brendon convinced me to prolong our trip by a few days so we could spend a few nights in Tokyo.

“Reese, slow down,” he mumbled over my mouth—my anxious mouth—as we took the elevator to the hotel room.

I had this clawing feeling that Brendon’s reason for the extra days in Tokyo had everything to do with a marriage proposal.

Proposal.

Wedding.

Sex.

That was his plan.

I had other plans. For some reason, I didn’t want to lose my virginity, or what was left of it, on my wedding night. What if I married Brendon and the sex wasn’t good? What if I spent every second comparing him to Fisher?

I had to know.

“Whoa … seriously, what’s up with you?” Brendon pulled my hand away from his crotch just as the elevator doors opened.

“I don’t want to wait. I know … I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want to wait.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Reese, I think you’re just experiencing some mixed feelings over going home after being away for a year. Go take a shower, drink some water, and sleep on it. Okay?” He stopped at the door to my room.

His answer to sex was shower, hydrate, and sleep on it? Would every man I met reject me? Would I ever have sex?

“Okay.” I nodded. “You’re right. Night.”

That night, I showered, thought about Fisher, and I touched myself.

The next morning, we were first in line to go to the observation tower of the Tokyo Skytree. With Mt. Fuji visible in the distance on the clear day, Brendon got on one knee and proposed to me with his grandmother’s diamond ring.

Onlookers smiled and gasped, all eyes on us. No … all eyes on me.

“You’re the woman of my dreams, Therese Capshaw, and I think I knew it from the day we met. Do me the honor of being my wife.”

My brain was paralyzed. But in the moment, all I could do to make everyone stop staring at me, including Brendon, was nod.

“Yes!” He slipped the ring on my finger and stood, pulling me in for a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I was engaged, and I got a kiss on the cheek.

On the way back to our hotel, I pulled on his arm, tugging him into a drugstore.

“What are you doing?” He laughed.

I led him up one aisle and down the next, stopping at the condoms.

He narrowed his eyes. “Reese …”

“It doesn’t mean we have to; it just means … we’re prepared.”

“Prepared to sin?”

“Prepared to not have to explain why we need to rush our wedding if we do happen to sin.”

Brendon shook his head, and I knew he wasn’t comfortable with it, but I wasn’t comfortable marrying him and not having sex with him first. And that should have been the only sign I needed.

But I was still that teenaged adult with so much to learn, and my favorite teacher happened to be half a world away and retired from teaching me any more than tough love and the oh-so-important “sink or swim.”

With a miserable grimace and his teeth digging into his lip, Brendon nodded.

That nod led to anticipation.

Anticipation led to the allure of the forbidden.

He might not have initiated it on his own, but when we found ourselves in his hotel room after dinner that night, things quickly moved in the direction of that box of condoms.

“I love you so much,” Brendon chanted over and over between kisses and amid discarding our clothes. Maybe he thought God wouldn’t be so critical of our decision if he kept reminding me (and God) how much he loved me. It wasn’t merely a physical need—and hopefully not an immoral act; we were in love and committed to each other.