Feels like Trouble (Lake Fisher 4)

I look back over my shoulder. “You just have one?”

He nods. “One and my office.”

“Can I go in?” I grin at him. “I want to see the new armoire.”

“Sure,” he says slowly, dragging the word out. His bedroom is amazingly spacious, with a large king-size bed in the middle of the room with two end tables flanking it. “That thing is huge,” he remarks as he takes in the new armoire.

“It’s pretty, though.”

“If big, clunky, and not-needed mean the same thing as pretty, then you’re right.”

I grab one of the posters at the foot of his bed. “Did your mom buy this?”

“No,” he says, suddenly ducking his head like he’s shy. “I did.”

“Very nice.” I poke his mattress. “So is this where the magic happens?” I grin at him.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

I sit down and bounce. “Don’t pretend like you never have women over, Grady Parker, or I’ll feel obligated to call you a liar.”

“Nobody has been in that bed but me,” he says. He walks to the closet and starts to retrieve clothes.

“Is it new?” I bounce again.

He shakes his head. “Not anymore. I bought it a few years ago.” He very

intently searches his drawers for a clean pair of boxers.

“Grady Parker,” I cajole, “I know you’re not a monk!”

“Never said I was.” He steps into the attached bathroom and starts to close the door. “Be back in a few.”

“Can I keep poking around?” I grin at him as he sticks his head back out to look at me.

He rolls his eyes. “If you must.” He closes the door behind him, so I immediately walk over to the bedside table and pull the drawer slowly open. It contains an old wallet, his old license, and some old credit cards and business cards, along with a bottle of lube which I avoid like it has the plague. Deep in the back is a box of condoms, which makes my heart hurt for reasons I can’t understand. I shove it with my finger and see that the expiration date was for two years ago. I breathe a small sigh of relief.

I open the bottom drawer and see nothing more than a small shoebox with my name on it. I open the drawer wider and look down. That’s definitely my name. I lift the edge of the lid, and I see a stack of folded notes inside. They all have his name on the front and they’re in my handwriting. Grady kept my notes and letters to him? They’re folded like kids do, in sections with one corner tucked to hold it together. I jump when the bathroom door opens and I hurriedly shove the drawer closed.

Grady stands there in the doorway with a towel around his hips, and he glares at me. “What are you doing?”

“Being nosy,” I admit quietly. His chest is bare, and he has a light dusting of dark hair right in the center of his chest which trails down…down… I jerk my eyes back up.

The last time I saw Grady without a shirt, we were fifteen. We were at Mary Ruth Clemmons’s pool party. And he didn’t look back then like he does now. Back then, he was skinny. Now he’s… not. I jerk my eyes away, because Grandma says staring is rude.

“Well, don’t go in the drawers on the other side of the bed. That’s where I keep the sex toys and dirty magazines.” He doesn’t mention my momentary insanity as I’d inspected his naked body.

I roll my eyes, but now I’m insanely curious. I would never touch a used sex toy, but I would like to see what he has—from a distance. I wait until he goes back into the bathroom and closes the door, then I swiftly open the incriminating drawer. But I never even catch a glimpse of what’s inside because suddenly the bathroom door flies open. “Gotcha!” Grady calls out triumphantly. Then he slams the door shut again, cackling like a deranged duck.

“You suck so bad, Grady Parker!” I yell at him. I can hear him laughing from the other side of the door. I huff out a breath and turn back to the mysterious drawer.

The only things in his bedside table drawers on that side are a bunch of pristine-white handkerchiefs for church, some cuff links, an old wristwatch with a cracked crystal, and a few other assorted pieces of jewelry like a man’s gold necklace and a class ring. That’s it.

I shut the drawers, somewhat disappointed, then wander down the hall. I open the door to the other room, which I assume is his office. It’s as neat and tidy as the rest of his home. There’s a big sturdy desk with a computer on top, and some filing cabinets. Some softball trophies parade across a shelf, interspersed with a few pictures of the team he sponsors every year for the softball tournaments. I peruse them slowly, trying to figure out which kid belongs to which adult I know in town.

“You done rambling?” he asks from behind me.

I wave my hand at him airily. “Not yet. Go back where you were so I can finish.”