Fisher's Light(17)

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little tired,” I lie, answering his question distractedly as my thoughts continue to wander while he flags a waitress down and orders us drinks.

I really had no idea what I was doing the first night I went out with Stanford. Fisher had been my first everything. I didn’t know the one thing about satisfying someone other than the man I’d married and, based on the last words he spoke to me, I didn’t even do that well. I let all of those old, teenage insecurities blossom once again and I spent a year wallowing in misery, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Then Stanford came along and swept me away with romance and sweet words, soft kisses and light touches, making me feel cherished and worthy of the affection he gives me. I like the way he makes me feel, even if something I can’t quite put my finger on is missing. It’s the reason I keep putting him off when he attempts to go beyond second base.

Stanford pulls his phone from his suit pocket when it starts to buzz with an incoming call. Turning away from me, he starts talking rapidly to someone about interest rates and refinancing. He chews on his bottom lip during a pause in the conversation and I can’t help but stare at his mouth. I like kissing Stanford, I like feeling his hands on me, but I don’t crave it. I don’t dream about it when I’m away from him and I don’t feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t get him inside of me. Try as I might, I can’t help but crave that feeling, the twinge of nerves coupled a touch of fear that you’re about to do something unexpected and thrilling, elicit and a little dirty.

But I had that once.

And look how that turned out.

It went to shit and was I left feeling ashamed of who I was and the things I wanted.

So pleasant is my new normal.

This is what falling in love is supposed to feel like. It should be easy to be with someone, as natural as breathing, and it should leave you content, exactly the way I feel with Stanford. We barely know each other, so I’m sure that the rest will come. Six weeks of dating really isn’t that long when you think about it. Maybe it will just take time for the passion and butterflies to kick in. Hell, maybe I need to start being a little more forward with him and try my hand at making the first move.

Reaching across the table, I run the tips of my fingers over the top of his hand to try and get his attention. He turns his head and looks at me questioningly while I give him my best sultry smile.

“Do you need something?” he whispers, moving his hand to cover the mouthpiece.

“Just you,” I tell him softly with a wink.

“What do you mean there isn’t time to lock in that rate? I gave you that paperwork four days ago,” Stanford argues into the phone, turning back away from me and ignoring my attempts at flirting.

Make that two things in the negative column.

When Stanford is working, he doesn’t pay attention to anything around him, including me. It’s a little hard to get used to after being married to a man who made me feel like the center of his world when he was home from a deployment…until the next time he’d volunteer to go back and I started to wonder if he loved his fellow Marines more than me.

I haven’t told Stanford everything about Fisher. He knows the basics – that I was married to his boss’ son and we got divorced. He knows I’ve been single for a year and he knows I had no intention of getting serious with anyone, least of all someone who didn’t live here permanently on the island. I’ve been with one man my entire life, and I wasn’t about to start having flings with vacationers. Who knows what kind of gossip he’s heard around the island since he’s been here? I haven’t asked and he hasn’t offered it up. I don’t know where this thing will go with the two of us, but there’s no way I could taint a new relationship right off the bat with my sob story. I let him think I’m just a single, shy island resident who lives a sheltered life and he goes along with it. I don’t tell him that I still fantasize about my ex-husband and worry that I’ll never find another man who can make my body feel the way he did. I don’t admit that I think I’m damaged and will never be able to feel comfortable enough to let go and be the woman I’ve always wanted to be with someone else like I did with Fisher. I certainly don’t tell him that I’m neither shy, nor sheltered when it comes to sex and that I’m afraid of the things I fantasize about, the things I want and the things I need.

Stanford finally ends the call, scooting his chair closer to mine and rubbing his hand up and down my arm as he smiles at me. He doesn’t have any dimples, but that’s just another checkmark in his favor. Women turn stupid for dimples and I’m not about to be a stupid woman ever again.