Fisher's Light(39)

He takes a menacing step towards me and sticks his finger right in my face.

“How DARE you speak to me that way. You’ve been nothing but a thorn in my side ever since you sunk your claws into my son when he was a teenager. You and your poor, trashy family honestly think you belong on this island? The only reason my son and someone as smart as Stanford want anything to do with you is because they are easily swayed by loose women who spread their legs for—”

“That’s enough. Get your finger out of her face before I remove it for you.”

A low, furious voice from behind me cuts off Mr. Fisher, but I don’t bother turning around. Even without recognizing the voice, the heat from his body radiating against my back and the light smell of his cologne combined with the salty ocean water that always sticks to his skin would have given him away immediately.

“Put your ex-wife on a leash, son,” Mr. Fisher snarls through clenched teeth.

“I said that’s enough!” Fisher shouts this time. “If one more word about her comes out of your mouth I will sweep the f*cking sidewalk with your face in front of everyone in your precious town.”

The barely concealed fury in Fisher’s voice sends chills down my spine and goose bumps pebble my skin even as the bright, late afternoon sun shines down on us. The chills aren’t from fear or worry that Fisher might do something crazy, they’re from pure, unadulterated lust. He’s always defended me to his father, but it was always in a quiet, pleading sort of way. This is straight up, alpha male, I-protect-what’s-mine shit going on and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

This is not good. This is SO not good.

“Fisher, I—”

“Not another word,” Fisher growls, cutting him off. “Lucy, how about you head home now?”

Going by his quiet, firm voice, it’s really more of a demand than a question. I don’t really appreciate him ordering me around, but I’m not stupid. I’m smart enough to know when to walk away, and right now, I need to walk away.

I don’t say a word and I don’t look back at Fisher as I bypass his father and continue heading in the direction of the inn. I refuse to consider that Fisher could have been standing there all that time, listening to me expound on his virtues. He doesn’t need anything else feeding his already inflated ego, but it had to be done. I’m so sick and tired of my ex-father-in-law thinking he can push everyone around because he has more money than God.

I quicken my steps and make it back to the inn in record time, rushing through the front doors and into the living quarters without a word to Ellie and Trip, who are still in the front room, shooting me questioning looks as I brush right past them. I need a cold shower. A really, really long, cold shower. Maybe that will erase the sound of Fisher’s voice and what it did to me from my mind.





Chapter 17




Fisher’s Therapy Journal

Memory Date: December 30, 2005


“Oh, Fisher, it’s beautiful!” my mother exclaims as she pulls the sheet off of the bench I just finished for her. It was supposed to be a Christmas present, but I’ve had a hard couple of months ever since I got home from my deployment in September. It’s taken me a lot longer than I expected to acclimate myself back into my life here on the island and I’ve been consumed with spending all my time with Lucy to make up for the year and a half we spent apart.

She runs her hands over the varnished oak with swirling patterns carved into the seat back around the name Fisher that I burned into the wood. It’s the most intricate design I’ve ever done and the first time I worked with wood burning and it came out pretty damn good.

“I can’t wait to show this to everyone. I’m going to put it right in the foyer so it will be the first thing people see when they walk in the door,” she tells me excitedly as she wraps her arms around me and gives me a big hug.

“Are you still wasting your time with that nonsense?” my father asks in irritation as he walks into the living room and sits down on the couch, staring at the bench like it’s a dead carcass that I dragged into the house and left rotting on his carpet. My mother pulls away from me and shoots an irritated look at my father.

“It’s not nonsense, Jefferson, and it’s not a waste of time, it’s art. Fisher is incredibly talented. Just look at the detail he put into this bench!” my mother defends, running her hands over the bench lovingly.

“It’s a hobby and it most certainly is a waste of time. He should be going to college and preparing himself for a real career, not some frivolous pastime that isn’t going to make him any money, or going off to fight some stupid war that has nothing to do with us,” my father says in annoyance.