Chapter 23 #2
He nods. “Sometimes I get that way, too, but I think it's because my ADHD makes me restless and bored.” Fisher shrugs. “Were you drawing just now?” His eyes land on the paper in front of me then he steps forward like he’s going to come over and take a look.
I glance down at the sketchbook on the counter…and when I see the image on the page I’ve just put there, I gasp out loud and slam the thing shut as fast as I can.
Fisher’s brow creases and he holds his hands up. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were working on something private.”
“I…no, I…uh, it just wasn’t very good,” I lie.
My heart is pulsing in my throat. One glimpse was enough to tell me it was one of the best damn sketches I’ve ever drawn.
I started out sketching the sculpture of Young Hercules, but the affection and raw emotion in every pencil stroke turned the sketch into something else entirely…
someone else, as the sketch became a perfect image of Archibald Fisher.
“I doubt that,” Fisher replies, thankfully unaware of what—who—I’ve just drawn. “I’ve never seen your art, but somehow, I just know it’s amazing.”
I spread my hand over the cover of the sketchbook, just in case he decides to grab it and peek. “You should go back to bed. You need sleep after your game.”
“I was having a really good dream…but I’m awake now, and kind of hungry.” Fisher gives me a crooked smile that’s a lot more attractive than I want it to be. “How about you?”
I should go back to bed and get some sleep.
I should go put a sweatshirt on so we’re not both standing out here half naked.
I should stop picturing the way he said my name earlier when he was dreaming of me.
“I could eat,” I say instead.
Fisher bends and pulls a skillet out of a cabinet, setting it on the gas cooktop. “Then you’re in luck, because I can usually make a mostly edible grilled cheese without setting off the fire alarm.”
“I had no idea I was married to a man of such special talents.” I mock-gasp.
His green eyes darken as they bore into mine. “I’ll show you more of my talents anytime you ask, Wife.”
My stomach swoops, and I quickly turn away and open the fridge. “Grilled cheese sounds like a good place to start.”
Grabbing the supplies we need, the two of us stand side by side at the stove, working together assembling the sandwiches.
I butter the bread, Fisher loads them up with way too many slices of cheese, and I try—and fail—to ignore his proximity.
I also fail not to notice again how perfect his abs are, or how there’s as much heat radiating off his body as there is the hot stove.
Fisher flips a sandwich in the pan, revealing a perfect, golden-brown crust.
“Very impressive,” I tease.
He flips the next one with an almost-wistful smile.
“My older brother, Louis, taught me how to make these when we were kids. I’d get home after hockey practice, and I was always too hungry to wait for dinner.
Our parents rarely ate meals with us. They always ate in the formal dining room with food made by a private chef.
” He scoffs. “So, whatever nannies were on duty would feed us. They’d order food or ask one of the chefs to make us something if they had a spare moment.
When we got a little older, Louis taught me how to make grilled cheese, so I didn’t have to wait for someone else to make me a meal. ”
“Are you and Louis close?” I’m surprised by the mention of his brother; I’ve never heard Fisher talk about any of his family members with anything but disdain. But when he speaks of Louis, his tone is fonder.
“We used to be.” Fisher nods. “I idolized him when I was younger. But he was always better than me. Better student. Better son. Better at staying out of trouble and doing what was expected of him. Since he joined Fisher Group after college, we barely talk.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As long as he’s happy with his choices, I’m happy for him.
Wasn’t the life for me, though.” Fisher shrugs as he slides the grilled cheeses onto a plate.
We carry them to the couch and sit facing each other, me with my legs crossed, him with his kicked out in front of him.
“What was it like growing up as an only child?”
“Well, to begin with, there was nobody to take the blame for all the coloring I liked to do all over our walls.” I grab a sandwich. Its hot, melted cheese bubbling from the corners.
Fisher laughs.“I can picture you as a little girl, doodling on everything.”
“In third grade I was sent to the principal’s office for giving all my classmates doodle tattoos in permanent marker.”
“Let me guess, unicorns and rainbows?”
“Nah, the boys in my class all wanted skulls and swear words, and I was happy to oblige.”
“Of course you were.”
I grin. “I may have looked sweet, but I was a little troublemaker.”
“A little troublemaker who grew up to be a little baddie,” Fisher says, and even though he’s clearly making a stupid joke, I don’t miss the appreciation in his tone.
Our eyes catch, and something flares in his gaze that makes me wonder if he’s remembering what he was dreaming about?
I’m not sure. But what I do know is whatever this moment is, we're in it together, and I’m not ready for it to end.