27. Libby
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
libby
In a twist that will surprise absolutely no one, I woke up in Fisher’s bed alone. Again.
Though there’s a niggle of disappointment deep in my chest, I can’t be angry about it. I have no idea what Sutton and Fisher’s routine looks like. Maybe she likes to snuggle in the morning. Maybe he likes to go for a run.
Would I like to be snuggled?
Yes. More than I can explain.
I learn something new about myself every day, and apparently one of those things is that I like to snuggle.
I sit with that for a moment, soaking in the implication. And I can’t deny that I like how sore my body is after last night. And how soft his sheets are. And how they smell like him.
Boy, am I obsessed.
This is bad.
Or maybe it’s good?
As I replay last night, the way he kissed me, the way he tasted, how it felt the moment he sank inside me—like being torn apart, but in a good way.
Every time he touched me somewhere new, it felt like another beginning. Each graze of his fingers or his mouth or his cock wiped away the memories of unwanted touches. My body, which used to flinch when a man so much as came near, wakes up for Fisher.
The chill that used to engulf me has been replaced by a rush of warmth. The same way the summer sun warms the frost that encases this island in the late spring.
As butterflies flap wildly in my chest, I let out a silent shriek and kick my feet, making the sheets go flying. When I arrived on that trash boat, I never could have imagined feeling this way. I had no intention of falling for someone. But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Rather than sneak out of his room like in the past, I pull a sweatshirt over my pajama top and step into the hall with my head held high.
I find Sutton downstairs on the couch beneath a blanket, eyes trained on the television.
“Morning, pretty girl,” I say, holding tight to the confidence I felt when I was still in bed. If I don’t act like this is weird, hopefully she won’t feel like it is.
Because it is.
I’m not the girl who dates the guy with a kid.
I’m not the girl who has time to date, let alone time to be an important person in a child’s life.
Scratch that. Elizabeth Sweet is not that kind of girl.
More and more, I’m finding that Libby actually is.
Sutton lights up the moment she sees me. “Morning, Libby!”
“Where’d your da—” I snap my mouth shut before I blurt out the word dad . Maybe I’m not so good at this after all. “Fisher. Where’s Fisher?”
Seemingly unbothered by my near slip, she turns back to the television. “He’s outside somewhere.”
Maybe he’s a runner. Though he doesn’t seem like a runner. But if he was, what would he wear? The man wears Timberlands and jeans every day. He’s got nice thighs, though. He’d look amazing in a pair of gym shorts.
Good god. I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth and head toward the door. I shouldn’t be getting all hot and bothered while hanging out with Sutton.
Barefoot, I step onto the porch, and when I spot Bing, who is playing guard dog by rolling around in the grass, I can’t help but smile.
As the door creaks shut, his whole body spasms, and then he’s on his feet and charging toward me.
I drop to my knees and let him lick my face.
Once he’s covered every inch with slobber, I bury my head in his soft fur and hug him.
“Good morning, buddy. Yes, you are such a good boy. Yes you are,” I coo ridiculous words in his ear.
His tail bangs against the porch loudly, his butt shimmying in excitement, but he doesn’t pull away. Not until the sound of gravel crunching snags our attention. Clearly as obsessed with Fisher as I am, he spins, nearly knocking me over, and bounds toward his daddy.
I push to a stand, brushing at the dog hair that clings to my sweatshirt and legs. With a hat shading his eyes, Timberlands—surprise, surprise—a white T-shirt, and jeans, Fisher looks just as he always does.
He looks like mine.
The possessive word imprints itself on my heart, and as he comes closer, my body sags in relief. Just being in his presence comforts me. When I catch sight of the white bakery bag and iced coffee in his hand as he ambles up the driveway, I grin. “Do you ever make breakfast?”
He stops at the steps to the porch. He’s so tall that from there, he only has to tilt his head slightly to make eye contact. “No.”
He holds out the iced coffee.
“What’s this?”
“One of those gross sweet coffees. Sutton thought you’d like it.”
My mouth falls open. I haven’t had a fancy iced coffee since I arrived on this island. I didn’t think I could. “Where’d you get it?”
“The bakery.”
I bite back a scowl. It really was sweet of him to pick this up for me, even if the evil baker is the one who made it. With any luck, she doesn’t know it’s for me and it’s poison-free.
“Ah, and you got flirty donuts.” I snatch the bag from his hand and spin on my heel.
Behind me, Fisher follows, grumbling something along the lines of Ruckus Donuts. There’s nothing flirty about them . I temper a smile.
Inside, I hold up the donut bag and get Sutton’s attention, then head for the kitchen. As I tear paper towels from the roll and set them on the table, Fisher pulls the chocolate milk from the fridge and pours two glasses. One for himself and one for Sutton.
Once we’re all seated, with Fisher on one side of me and Sutton on the other, I take my first sip of iced coffee.
There’s no point in even trying to stop the moan that escapes me. Not when this drink is everything I’ve been missing. “I’ll pay you to pick one of these up for me every morning.” Like a fiend desperate for another hit, I suck on the straw until my cheeks hollow.
“Told you she’d like it.” Sutton grins at Fisher, and he winks back at her.
Their interaction warms my chest. The two of them schemed in order to give me something they thought I’d like.
They wanted me to feel comfortable. Both of them.
The warmth turns into the best kind of ache as I study them.
Their thoughtfulness makes me feel like I belong here with them.
Just like this. With Sutton on my left and Fisher on my right.
I can envision myself doing this every day.
That thought doesn’t scare me in the least. It does the opposite, actually. It makes me crave the possibility.
Even more than this stupidly delicious iced coffee.
“Will Putt-Putt be fixed in time for the parade?” Sutton asks.
Fisher grunts. “Maybe.”
Frowning, I look from him back to her, knowing she’ll give me a more thorough answer. “What parade?”
“For the fourth. People decorate their golf carts and some walk their animals in it too.” Her eyes snap over to Fisher. “Oh, we can totally put pink lipstick on Bing. And maybe sunglasses. He can sit between us in the front of the cart, and I’ll make him wave to everyone.”
I giggle at the image I’ve conjured in my head of poor Bing being done up. Also, everyone? There are barely enough people on this island to make a parade. Who are the spectators?
Unsurprisingly, Fisher answers with a single word. “No.”
With a wink at Sutton, I pick up my phone. “I can order Fourth of July stuff from Amazon. We can dress him in that.”
“Oh, yes!” She bounces in her seat, her messy blond hair swaying. “Can we do that?”
“No,” Fisher growls. “My dog, my decision.”
Phone unlocked, I pull up the Amazon app, tilt closer to Sutton, and scroll.
“Is anyone listening to me?”
I look up and catch Fisher’s lips twitching.
He can pretend to be annoyed—it’s our thing—but so long as I keep catching those little smiles, I’ll push right back.
Holding my phone out to Sutton, I give her permission to go crazy with her selection.
Then, with a hand on Fisher’s thigh, I lean into him. “What’s on the agenda for you today?”
“Work,” he says gruffly as he peers down at my hand.
“But you don’t have a job,” I tease.
With a sigh, he tips his head back. “And yet I do all the jobs.”
“Can we come with you?”
“Yes! I want to come,” Sutton says without looking up from the phone. I can’t wait to see all the things she’s added to my cart. “But only if you promise to take us to the puffins.”
I sit a little straighter. “Puffins?”
“Yeah, they kind of look like penguins,” she explains, nose still buried in the device.
“Oh, I know what a puffin is.” Sort of . “I read a book where the characters had a pet puffin, but I thought the author came up with a fictional kind of bird.”
Fisher frowns. “A fictional kind of bird? What kind of book was it?”
“A romance.” I shift in my seat, smiling at the memory of the story.
It was one of my favorite reads last year.
“The male main character was a major league pitcher. During a game, he threw the ball and it hit the puffin.” I hum, head tilted, thinking of how best to explain the next part.
“I have to start at the beginning in order for it to make sense. First the pitcher met this woman at a bar and then there was this great se—” I bite my lip.
“He scored that night. In that bar. It was a total home run and?—”
Groaning, he drops his head into his hands. “Stop. Please. I get it.”
Sutton quirks a brow, apparently done with the Amazon cart. “Why would he score a home run in a bar?”
“Because he was a bad boy,” Fisher grits out.
I giggle. “Yup. Anyway, I thought the bird was fake.”
“Nope. Puffins are adorable, and Fisher knows all the best spots to find them.”
“They’re birds,” he says like he’s told her this before. “We don’t live in a zoo. I can’t promise we’ll see one.”
Sutton shakes her head resolutely. “You’ll see.”