22. Libby
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
libby
My cheeks heat with mortification as I frown down at the ground. “I’m fine.” I inhale deeply and let the breath out nice and slow, willing my heart to stop pounding. It’s not the accident that has me out of sorts. It’s Fisher.
“I’m not twelve. I don’t have crushes.” His words whoosh around in my brain, like a fire extinguisher meant to drown out all the silly little thoughts I’ve had about him. I should have known that I’m nothing more than a job to him. A nuisance. An obligation.
I press my fingers into the dirt and push myself up. When I sway to the left, Fisher hops up and sweeps me off my feet. “Still fine?” he rumbles in that cocky, self-assured tone.
I blow out a breath through my nose, averting my gaze. “Let me go.”
Rather than loosening his hold, he grips me tighter. “You heard Eddy. You can’t be left alone.”
Eddy frowns apologetically. “He’s right, Libby. I’m sorry. I’d offer to come over and keep you company, but I promised Lindsey I’d stay home with her tonight since I’ll be off-island for the next week.”
Not wanting her to feel obligated, I put on my best mask and smile. “Of course. Thank you for coming.” It’s ridiculous trying to have an adult conversation while Fisher holds me like I’m a freaking baby, but I can’t exactly overpower the brute, so I’m stuck for the moment.
“Keep her awake for at least a few hours,” she tells him. “If she shows any signs of confusion, call me immediately, and I’ll come over. But I really do think she’s okay.” She frowns at my golf cart, which is definitely not okay. “And no driving for the next twenty-four hours.”
I sigh. “I think my driving days are over, at least for now.”
Fisher grunts in Wilder’s direction. “Can you have Ryder come take a look at the golf cart?”
His best friend grins. “I already called him. He’ll have that thing as good as new for you, Libby. Don’t worry.”
I highly doubt it, but I don’t want to sound ungrateful, so I force another one of my practiced smiles. “Thank you.”
Apparently done with the conversation, Fisher turns and strides away.
“You didn’t even say goodbye,” I mutter.
He glances down at me like he doesn’t understand. He probably doesn’t. The man confuses the hell out of me.
“Go ahead.” I slump in his arms. “You can say it.”
Lips dipping down at the corners, he side-eyes me. “Say what?”
“I told you so.” I sigh. “I had no business driving the golf cart if I didn’t know how to operate it.”
He grunts. “I taught you how to drive it, and I’ve watched you drive it plenty. Accidents happen.”
My stomach does that swoopy thing again. What does he mean he watched me drive it plenty? Like he followed me around? My heart pinches. That’s kind of sweet, even if it is a little stalker-y.
As we continue down the path in silence, I get lost in my head trying to figure this man out. When the brewery comes into view, disappointment rears its ugly head. “I want to go to the brewery.”
“No.”
“Maggie said I’d get a mug,” I pout. I really wanted a mug.
His lips twitch like he finds me slightly amusing. “I’ll get you a mug, but not tonight.”
There’s already a line of people outside the brewery waiting for tables.
Dammit. Just what I need. An audience. I bury my face in his chest to hide, and only when I inhale do I realize what a terrible idea it was.
Fisher smells delicious. Like he put cologne on.
I’m not sure I’ve ever smelled his cologne.
“Did you just sniff me?” He sounds amused, but I can’t see his expression because I refuse to remove my face from his chest.
“Everyone is staring,” I mumble, my lips brushing against the fabric of his T-shirt.
He chuckles, the vibrations working their way through his chest and all the way into my heart. “So? Thought you liked attention, Princess.”
“Not if they take pictures and sell them.”
“No one does that here.” His words come out gruff, like the sheer idea of it angers him.
“Maybe not to you, but someone in town could. Or a tourist. They’d make a lot of money off a single image, and then everyone would know I’m here.
” Annoyance mixes with my blood and spreads to every part of my body.
Pranks are one thing. An angry Brad discovering my whereabouts has far more concerning implications.
As if he can sense my panic, Fisher lowers his head, his breath warm when he says, “I’ll arrest them.” He punctuates the statement with a kiss to the top of my head. I think. It happens so quick that I can’t be sure.
I lift my chin and look up at him, as if his expression will give him away. I’m met with his typical stoicism. It’s infuriating how easily he can look so devoid of emotion. “You’re not a real sheriff,” I remind him.
His eyes glitter with amusement, though once again, they’re the only thing that gives him away. The rest of his face is as impassive as it gets. “No one here seems to believe that.”
“Do you even have handcuffs?”
His pupils blow out, nearly eclipsing his dark irises for half a second. Or maybe I imagined it. I can’t tell. I’m too blinded by the smile that lances his face. “Yes, I do.”
“Oh,” I mutter, at a loss for how to respond and too entranced by the way he’s watching me to think coherently.
“Yeah, oh.” He looks away, that damn smile turning to a smirk, like he’s pleased with himself.
Is he pleased with himself? Is he—could he be—oh god, I think he’s flirting with me.
“Maybe I really do have a concussion, because I swear you’re smiling, Sheriff.”
He flexes his lips like he’s trying to remove the expression, but it remains in place the rest of the way home.
When we reach the fork in the road that divides our houses, he doesn’t even slow. “Where are you going?”
“You’ll stay at my place.”
“Why can’t we stay at mine?” I’m being difficult for the sake of being difficult. I know that. But I want to shower, and my bed is calling my name.
“Because there’s actual food at my house, and from the sounds of your stomach, you’re hungry.”
I smack his shoulder lightly. “Rude. You’re supposed to pretend you didn’t hear that.”
He chuckles. “Impossible, Princess. I notice everything when it comes to you.” His brown eyes widen, then he shakes his head, like he didn’t mean to say that. “I mean?—”
“Don’t take it back now, Sheriff.” I nod to the ground. “I’ll come to your house, but can I please shower at mine? I promise I’ll be over shortly.”
To my surprise, he eases me to the ground without argument. I work to steady my balance. Not because I feel dizzy this time, but because the move is so unexpected. The man’s yo-yo game must be strong. “All right, then.” I turn and head to my place. “I’ll be over soon.”
When I turn to wave over my shoulder, he barrels into me, grasping my arms to keep me from tumbling. “Jesus.”
“What are you doing?”
The grunt he lets out puts me at ease. This is the Fisher I’ve come to know. “Letting you shower like I said.”
Hand on my hip, I huff. “Then why are you following me?”
“Did you not hear Eddy?” He thumbs over his shoulder. “I need to watch you.”
My mouth falls open. “Fisher—oh my god, I don’t know your last name.”
“Jones,” he says, that smirk twitching at his lips again.
I give him a patronizing smile. “Fisher Jones, you are not watching me shower.”
He rolls his eyes and gives me an equally imperious look. “Obviously.”
I drop my hand to my side and a sensation akin to disappointment washes through me. “Then why are you following me?” My voice has less spunk to it now.
He sidesteps me and strides for my house. “I’ll stay outside the bathroom. Just holler if you get dizzy.”
Knowing there is no way he’s going to budge on this—stubborn ass—I stomp up the steps and hold the door for him. Inside, I insist he wait downstairs, but he follows me up the steps, only stopping when we hit my bedroom door.
I survey the room, looking at it through his eyes.
It’s simple. I’ve added a pale pink comforter and two pillows since I arrived.
One pillow is pink and in teal it says Just Keep Swimming .
The other is teal with pink writing and says If it makes you happy…
They’re perfect for me, the New Libby. At least for now, while I figure out what makes me happy, I’ll just keep swimming.
The lamp on my bedside table is teal. The table on the other side of the mattress is bare. I didn’t bother buying a second lamp. When it’s only me in the bed, what’s the point?
As I mull that over, it hits me. That would make me happy: the need for a second lamp.
I must have hit my head harder than I realized.
With a sigh, I push away the thought of a matching set of lamps for the nonexistent partner in my life and go in search of clothing. I pull sweats and a T-shirt from the dresser, opting for comfort since, apparently, I’ll be up most of the night.
Fisher’s still looming in the doorway, and as I try to exit, he doesn’t budge, so I’m forced to squeeze past him. Fine, if he wants to be that way, I can play this game too.
With my head tipped up so I can watch his every expression, I slide right up against him, my breasts smashing against his chest as I do.
He stops breathing and his jaw clicks as he mashes his teeth together.
His exhale is harsh, his nostrils flaring.
Maybe I’m moving more slowly than I would have if he’d been a gentleman and shuffled out of the way, but if he’s going to mess with me, then he’ll have to suffer the consequences.
Inch by inch, I roll myself across him, relishing the way his Adam’s apple bobs and his pupils dilate.
The man wants me. And screwing with him like this is the perfect distraction to the shit show that is my life.
When I finally make it to the bathroom door, I lean out into the hall and waggle my fingers. “See you in a few.”
A half hour later, I’m dressed and sitting at Fisher’s kitchen table while he minces garlic. Watching his arm bounce as he makes each slice is almost relaxing. When he turns and drops the garlic into the pan, making it sizzle to life, I can’t help but ogle his ass.
He gives the garlic a quick stir, then spins and eyes me. “You’re falling asleep.”
I blink slowly and yawn. “I’m just sitting here.”
“Stay awake,” he says gruffly. I almost wonder if he says things so simply because he just expects people to listen.
Like he could will my body into doing his bidding.
Though only for an instant, because the thought quickly has my mind veering to images of other ways he could speak to my body.
Now there’s no way I could fall asleep. Though in my attempt to hide the flush that’s rising up my chest, I lay my head against my shoulder.
A second later, I’m startled upright again when he barks, “You need to stay awake. Talk to me.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “About what?”
“Tell me something.”
“Why don’t you tell me something?” I fight back.
“Fine. A question for a question.” He looks over his shoulder at me, one brow arched like he’s waiting for me to agree.
I offer him a simple nod, eager for him to focus on what he’s making before he notices how flushed I am.
Humming to myself, I inspect the room. “Why do you hate living here?”
Those eyes of his are on me again. “Why do you think I hate living here?”
I jut my chin. “Is that your question?”
“No.”
“So then answer mine.”
Finally, he turns again, his back rising, then slowly falling like he’s letting out a slow breath as he browns the steak.
“Don’t sugarcoat it,” I remind him.
Between one breath and the next, the air shifts, and suddenly he’s spewing words, though he’s still not facing me.
“This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I never planned to come back here.
Before my brother”—his body stiffens—“Before the accident, I lived in Boston.” He half turns and stares me down.
“Don’t get me wrong. I love Sutton more than anything.
That’s why I’m here. Because she needs me.
But I never planned to be a father. Or a winter lobsterman or a pretend sheriff.
” His shoulders fall. “I don’t like people. And they’re everywhere here.”
“There are only sixty-nine of us,” I say softly.
“And sixty-seven of them are all up in my business,” he grumbles.
I sit up straighter. “Hey, you made me sit here. I wanted to stay home.”
“Didn’t include you, Princess. You have to know by now that you’re different.” With a frown, he stares at me for a beat too long. “I seem to always want you around.”
The admission makes my stomach flip. Those butterflies I’d thought had been extinguished are now back to flapping wildly, and the room seems to have taken on a hazy pink hue.
I’m either entirely too affected by Fisher’s simple words or these are signs of a concussion. I don’t want to stop this conversation, though, so I don’t mention my symptoms.
Instead, I tilt my head and examine him more closely. What is it about him that’s so intriguing? “So why not take Sutton back to Boston?”
“Isn’t it my turn to ask a question?”
Lips twisting, I consider telling him no. But he’ll only argue, so I give a simple shrug.
He folds his arms across his chest and lifts both brows, dark eyes intent on me. “Why are you really here? And don’t sugarcoat it.”