The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman #2)(66)

“Going somewhere?” Rory asked as they picked up the cards and glasses from the table.

“I am.” I grinned.

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

Was she assuming I was coming home after they went to bed or not until morning? I was twenty-four. It didn’t matter. But what did matter was I knew she knew who I was leaving with and she didn’t give me anything but an honest smile.

“Goodnight.”

Everyone else told me goodnight as I went out the front door. A few snowflakes swirled in the cold air, and my lost fisherman was in his truck waiting for me.

When I climbed in, he gave me a reserved smile. I felt certain that was all he dared to give me after my unexpected call to him during Thanksgiving dinner with his family.

Fisher drove us to his house, and I wasn’t surprised. We didn’t speak on the short ride. When we arrived, he climbed out, but I didn’t. Stopping at the front of the truck, he looked at me expectantly for a few seconds before he made his way to my door and grabbed the handle. But he didn’t open it right away. He paused and that look spread across his face. The concentration. The wrinkled brow and narrowed eyes.

Then he lifted his gaze and kept it on me as he slowly opened my door.

“I opened your door for you, but I acted like I didn’t want to do it. I told you to pull the lever to make it open. I think I was an asshole to you.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if all his memory loss was physical from the accident or if some of it was psychological. Did he have emotional reasons for not wanting to remember his love for me? His love for Angie?

“Sometimes.” I nodded, but I grinned too. I had a love-hate relationship with Fisher’s asshole side.

I turned to get out, but I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist instead. “I’m sorry I was the asshole today when I called you. It was stupid. I don’t know what got into me.” I buried my face in his warm neck and kissed it.

Fisher shut the door and locked his truck before carrying me inside the house. “It’s all going to be over, settled, done. Soon. It just … has to be.”

I released him, easing to my feet. We took off our boots and he slipped off his fleece jacket as I pulled off my sweatshirt.

“Drink?” He curled my hair behind my ears.

“No,” I whispered, gazing up at him.

“Bed?” A hopeful grin stole his lips.

“No,” I whispered.

“Then what can I do for my beautiful girl?”

“Dance with me.”

Fisher’s eyebrows lifted a bit. “Dance?”

I nodded.

“I’m not sure I’m a dancer.”

I shrugged, retrieving my phone from my sweatshirt pocket. Taking his hand, I pulled him to the kitchen. “Dim the lights. I know you love ambient lighting.”

“How do you know that?” He turned on some accent lights and dimmed them while I tapped a song on my phone. Judah & The Lion’s “Only To Be With You.”

“Because I know you.”

“What if I want to know you like you know me?” He pulled me into his arms, and we swayed in a slow circle.

“You do, my lost fisherman … you do.”

“Did we dance? Are you trying to bring back more memories?”

“No.” I kissed his neck as his hands slid from my lower back to my butt. “Just making new ones.”

We danced and we kissed.

One song led to another song. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a dancer and neither was I. Our bodies molded and moved, perfectly together and in sync with each other’s own rhythm.

Fisher’s hands stayed on the outside of my clothes, yet touched me intimately.

The graze of his hand over my breast, my butt … the slide of his fingers up my inner thigh.

Open-mouthed kisses.

Soft moans.

More dancing.

We weren’t sneaking around. We weren’t rushed. It was just us, and we had the whole night.

I was exhausted with no desire to sleep.

I was turned on, but not wanting to take it any further yet.

I was perfectly content, but insanely eager.

We were messy and alive and living in the moment. Our love only mattered for a day.

A kiss.

A breath.

Eventually the songs ended, leaving us in silence dotted with the soft sounds of our kisses. Yet we kept swaying like we made our own music, like we had our own rhythm. I couldn’t help but imagine a life with Fisher. A real life where we’d enjoy dinner and talk about current events, work, or plan a trip.

After dinner we’d do the dishes and listen to music like tonight. It would lead to dancing and kissing, a seemingly unhurried passion, but we’d still leave our clothes in a trail down the hallway because we would forever be that couple. We’d make love in a frenzy before falling asleep in each other’s arms, only to wake in the morning and do it all over again, only slower and with the soft glow of the morning sun on us. We’d look into each other’s eyes the whole time, starting everyday perfectly connected.

Or … and I liked this dream the best … we’d eventually have to give up our morning sex because we’d wake to the pitter patter of tiny feet charging toward our bedroom to wake us up. And we’d steal long minutes every morning to tickle little bellies and kiss soft cheeks while a chorus of giggles and squeals filled the room.