36. Libby
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
libby
A high-rise in Boston. The man lives in a high-rise in Boston. As we pull into the underground parking garage my thoughts are a jumbled mess and my heart is racing. I have to tell him everything tonight, but I’m still trying to wrap my head around all that he hasn’t told me.
He has a freaking apartment—a whole life here—that he just walked away from.
He went to Harvard. He knows Beckett Langfield and Zara Price. Cal was his college roommate. The stoic man beside me is best freaking friends with the least serious person I’ve ever met. Honestly, he makes Wilder look settled.
He’s a hacker. A genius hacker. Not a grumpy small-town sheriff.
None of it makes sense.
He’s frozen in this life. Maybe we’re similar that way, both unwilling to completely let go of the past. Though for completely different reasons.
I think he’s holding on to this old life, scared to let go because maybe then he’ll have to admit that he’s taken over his brother’s existence.
Keeping his apartment, his car here, means this facet of who he is still exists.
It allows him to believe he’s just doing the right thing rather than giving up everything.
But who the hell am I to talk?
Because I’ve spent months hiding from my problems.
We’re silent as Fisher gets our bags from the back seat and leads me to the elevator.
If I speak now, anything I say will come out wrong.
A jumble of thoughts that could sound judgmental.
And that’s the last thing I want. I’m struck by the differences between this Fisher Jones, the one who lives in a high-rise in Boston, and the Fisher Jones who drives a beat-up truck with no doors around a tiny island and wrangles a stubborn goat at least once a week.
I can see what his life used to look like. I can see him hanging out with Cal, flirting with women at an upscale bar. Laughing. Smiling.
Was that who he was?
Did he smile more before?
A painful jealousy floods me. I’m jealous of nameless, faceless women, of the people in his old life. I want to think I’m the one who makes him smile. Even still, I’d rather imagine that his life was full before Hunter’s and Marissa’s deaths.
There’s a whole other side of Fisher I don’t know, and that’s throwing me for a loop.
I thank my lucky stars when the elevator stops on the eighth floor rather than going straight to the penthouse.
The hallway is nondescript. Gray walls decorated with unremarkable images of Boston.
Neutral carpet and four identical black doors.
It’s not homey like his house on the island.
I’m trying to rectify the two versions of Fisher when he stops in front of one door and types in a code.
“Fancy,” I mumble as I step into the apartment.
Instantly, I’m hit with the smell of Lysol and…is that a vanilla Glade air freshener?
Yup, I clock one in the wall in the corner.
Fisher says “lights on,” and the living room is illuminated. The space is mostly taken up by black leather couches and a fancy La-Z-Boy. The only decorations are generic, as if the place was staged by a designer.
The kitchen and dining room are all one big space. The charcoal-colored island and the bowl of fruit on top of it really throw me. I clutch the back of one of the chairs pushed up to the slab of granite to steady myself. “I feel like I’ve stepped into the Matrix.”
With a chuckle, he heads for the hall. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to put our stuff in my room. You want a glass of wine?”
I frown at his back until he disappears.
Then I suck in a deep breath and spin in a circle.
When I spot the bar in the corner, I peer inside the wine fridge.
Then scan the rack beside it. Both are filled with expensive bottles.
Caymus, Opus One, Screaming Eagle. Who the fuck is this man and what has he done with Fisher?
I walk away, still too stunned to even fathom what I’m seeing, and pull open the fridge.
It’s the fancy kind that displays what’s inside while the doors are still closed.
And it’s fully stocked. In the center, there’s a row of cans of diet ginger ale, and when I pull open the freezer, I hiss a breath at the sight of my favorite flavors of sherbet lined up.
Fisher Jones…this man…he’s ruining me.
I slide it shut and go for a bottle of water.
“So wine?” Fisher reappears and heads straight to the wine rack. He dips lower, as if studying what he has.
Better question is what doesn’t he have?
I shake my head. “Fisher, you have a damn wine collection over there. Of course I want wine.”
From his crouched position, he looks over his shoulder, shooting me a smirk. “Red or white?”
“Dealer’s choice,” I mumble.
He grabs a bottle of Opus One, and I squeal a little inside. That’s exactly what I hoped he’d choose. He returns with two glasses and sets them on the counter. And as his forearms flex while he removes the cork, my mouth waters.
“I don’t get it.”
The cork comes out with a pop, and he quirks a brow. “Get what?”
“Why do you keep this place? It’s like a mausoleum. A shrine to your old life.” A life I’m realizing I know little about.
He scans the sterile space, then, with a shrug, pours the first glass. “Tonight we’re talking about you.”
I blow out a breath and nod at my wine. “Then keep pouring. I’ll need more than that.”
He smiles, but it’s a gentle one. Empathetic. “I’ve got you, Libby. You know that, right? There’s no scaring me off, and there’s nothing you could say that would change how I feel about you. I just want to know you. I want to be here for you. I want?—”
I press my finger to his lips. This man. The freaking man. “So many words, Hacker.”
His lips twitch beneath my fingers. I think he likes showing me this other side of him.
It’s got to be a relief to be himself rather than the sheriff.
The passion in his tone makes it clear that this is a larger part of who he is than I thought.
But at the heart of it all, there’s no doubt he’s still the man I fell for.
He nips at my finger and settles beside me. “Only for you.”
I take a slow sip of wine, trying to postpone the inevitable, but he watches me, waiting for me to swallow, and then grasps the seat of my chair and tugs until I’m wedged between his thighs.
Maybe it’s intentional, maybe it’s not, but somehow that gesture, his closeness, gives me the strength to speak.
“About six months ago, I was on set early. I did that often. I’d been on the show for twelve years, so the people behind the scenes, my room there—it all felt more like home than my actual home.
I’d go in and snack on my favorite foods and coffee and go over the script.
Maybe scroll social media. Mindless stuff, really.
” I shake my head. My chest hurts just thinking about that day.
There are so many things I wish could be different, but I can’t go back, and I wouldn’t anyway.
Knowing what was going on, I’m glad I was there.
“Anyway,” I take a sip of wine. “Brad’s character had just started dating a single mom on the show and we’d cast Reece as her daughter.
She’s sixteen, but she was playing a thirteen-year-old.
Honestly, I thought she was too old for his tastes.
I never thought he’d be that brazen. But when I realized what was happening, it was obvious he really wasn’t even hiding it.
They were running lines, which there was no reasonable explanation for since they had no scenes by themselves.
Lydia, the actress who played his girlfriend, was always in their scenes. ”
Realizing I’m throwing out a lot of facts, I pause to give Fisher a minute to catch up and to clarify if needed. But he only waits patiently, dark eyes locked on my face.
“He set his hand on her thigh, like this—” I mimic the move, resting my palm high on his inner thigh, and trail my fingers against him the way Brad did with Reece.
“She flinched when he made contact, but he kept going with the lines, and his fingers kept traveling higher until his hand was practically up her skirt.” I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
“That’s when I interrupted them. She practically jumped, though he didn’t even flinch.
Nope. He smirked. Then leaned back on the couch and acted completely innocent of any wrongdoing.
But I know exactly what I saw because he did the same kind of thing to me years ago. ”
Fisher goes rigid and hisses a “fuck.”
I force a smile, but it’s pointless. Fisher’s face is a mask of fury mixed with disgust. He’s not looking to be placated. He’s tortured, but he’s holding himself together for me. So that I don’t have to hold it together on my own.
Even so, a tear slides down my cheek unbidden.
He cups my face and swipes the moisture away gently with his thumbs. “Keep going.”
So I do. While he continues to wipe away my tears, I tell him the truth.
“I called him on it immediately, and, of course, he denied it. Said I was seeing things.” A sob breaks free.
“He said the same thing years ago. He told me I’d made it all up, and I know this sounds insane—if I hadn’t experienced it, I’d believe I was nuts too—but I think I wanted to believe I made up all the inappropriate touches.
It was self-preservation. It hurt too much to think about the way he’d put my hand in his lap and grind against it until he groaned.
Now I know he was coming in his own damn pants with a child’s hand forced against his dick.
But then?” I shake my head. “His mother and my mother were best friends. His family was my family. My father was busy working, so his mom helped get me to rehearsals and auditions.”
Fisher’s jaw ticks and his eyes blazed, and not in a good way. “Libby, you are not to blame for any of this. He was an adult and you were a child. You don’t have to explain?—”