The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman #2)(13)

I nodded slowly. “I think love—the good kind—holds an equal mix of wonder and familiarity. That feeling like you know someone, yet you also know parts of them are still a mystery that you can’t wait to slowly discover. If there’s no wonder, I think the love can die. If there’s no familiarity, I think the love already feels dead. If I were the one marrying you, I would be bothered more than I am. But you chose her.”

Oh … my … sweet … lord …

That was not the right choice of words. And as much as I hoped and prayed Fisher would let my word choice slip by without a second thought, it didn’t happen.

“I chose her?”

FUCK!

Yes, I adopted that word into my vocabulary, like a favorite tool in a toolbox that I used only on a need-to basis.

“Gosh…” I twisted my lips and rolled my eyes dramatically “…that sounded really weird, didn’t it?” For good measure, I threw in an awkward laugh. “I’m so freaking tired from long days of driving. I meant proposed.” I shook my head. “Yeah, that’s what I meant. You proposed to her. Just her. Not like you had a choice between her and someone else. At least … not that I know of. And definitely not me, of course, because until your accident, I hadn’t seen you in five years. Gah …” I covered my face with my hands. “Please just tell me to shut up.”

He smirked just like the Fisher I knew five years earlier. Like the Fisher who didn’t choose me. The Fisher who was finally willing to take my virginity with the understanding that my husband (not him) would thank him someday.

“I find your rambling too entertaining to tell you to shut up.”

“Go home and find your fiancée entertaining.”

Something between a grunt and laugh left this chest. “I’ll do my best.”

“Night, Fisher. Thanks for your help.”

He turned and headed down the sidewalk. “Anytime.”





Chapter Seven





I played it cool the next day for a full three hours after waking before I walked the crossword puzzles over to Fisher’s house. Rory and Rose were at work, and I didn’t start my job until the following week, so no one was keeping tabs on me.

I knocked on the door several times.

No answer.

I rang the doorbell.

No answer.

As I gave up and started to retreat down the sidewalk, Fisher opened the door.

Just my luck …

He was wet and holding a towel around his waist. The past replayed itself. I liked the idea of a redo with Fisher.

“I’m running late, babe!” Angie appeared in the doorway in a pantsuit and her handbag dangling from one arm. She lifted onto her toes and kissed him on the lips. He kissed her back.

It wasn’t a long kiss, but it wasn’t one sided either.

“Morning, Reese. Can’t stay and chat. Byeee!” She waved to me with her left hand, big diamond, and manicured nails, just before hopping into her car.

I mumbled a barely audible “hi” and turned my attention to the resurrected naked fisherman. As I made my way to the front porch, he watched Angie back out of the driveway before shifting his attention to me.

“Good morning.”

My gaze struggled to stay on his face.

“Not pretty, huh?” he said.

I shook my head as if I hadn’t been staring at his road rash that was healing fairly well. “You’re alive. I think the prettiness of your skin should be an afterthought.”

He retreated into the house, leaving the door open—which I took as an invitation to go inside.

“Angie seemed in a good mood. You must have done something right for once.”

He continued down the hallway toward his (their) bedroom. “Apparently she just needed to get laid. Had I known, I could have obliged her sooner.” He shut the door behind him.

That was a pretty hard hit. It took a good pep talk to get my emotions in check before he reemerged from the bedroom.

He proposed to her.

She said yes.

Even if he didn’t remember her, it didn’t mean they couldn’t have sex. Sex didn’t have to involve emotions. Men paid for sex with prostitutes—not that Angie was a prostitute or Fisher was the kind of guy who would pay for sex. I needed a way to wrap my brain around it before the disappointment sent me spiraling out of control.

I took a seat at the island in the kitchen. A few minutes later, he came into the room in jeans and a white tee. Hair still wet. “My dick works, Nurse Capshaw. In case you’re still concerned.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster.

My breakfast was a mini vomit in my mouth that I swallowed back down. “Still so crude.”

“Crude?” He turned and leaned his butt against the counter, sipping his coffee. “Was I crude to you?”

Did he want the truth?

“Had my mom not been living in your basement, I’m pretty sure I could have won a sexual harassment lawsuit against you and your crudeness.” I might have been feeling a bit feral and defensive after confirmation that he screwed Angie the previous night.

How dare he have sex with his fiancée. (Internal eye roll at myself).

“Are you…” he squinted at me “…serious? I was inappropriate with you?”