Chapter 21
EBBA
Pushing the cart, I trail behind Fisher on our way to the paint section of Home Depot. Turns out there was a Home Depot right around the corner from my condo. Who knew? Certainly not me.
I hate to admit that my view is pretty nice. His ass looks impeccable in the pair of jeans he put on this morning, along with a plain black t-shirt, and his glasses.
He already loaded the cart up with sconces for my bathroom, a new faucet for the bathroom and kitchen, another light for above my kitchen bar, and wood for the project he mentioned last night.
He hasn’t bothered asking my opinion on anything. I think he knows he won’t get it. But the annoying thing is he stills knows me well enough to pick out the exact things I would choose if I were being vocal about it.
He clicks his tongue as he browses the paint chips, muttering under his breath every now and then. Pursing his lips, he taps his fingers against the cards and puts a few back before grabbing more.
Eyes glued to the paint cards, he says, “Let me guess, you’re still not going to give me any input.”
“Nope.”
He sighs but cracks a smile so I know he’s more amused than annoyed. Besides, I think Fisher likes it when I’m a bit of a brat.
It takes him ten minutes to decide on colors and while they’re being mixed, he drags me back to the tool section and adds several different items into the cart. I recognize a drill and that’s about it.
Returning to the paint section he grabs some rollers and pans before loading the gallons in the cart. There’s barely any room left but he’s stacked everything like some weird game of Tetris.
The total at checkout has my eyes going wide. “Jesus, Fisher. You could’ve bought me a designer handbag for that price.”
He shrugs and taps his card. “I can still buy you a purse if that’s what you want.” He looks over his shoulder, awaiting my response.
I hate to admit it that I find it kind of hot the way he wants to take care of me.
“No, I’m good.”
“If you’re sure.” He pockets the receipt and loads up the items he bagged. “The offer still stands.” His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. He pushes the cart and heads for the parking lot with a pep in his step that should annoy me and I’m a tad concerned that it doesn’t.
“Are you sure all of this is going to fit in my car?”
“I’ll make it fit.”
The choked sound that comes out of me has him cracking a full-on grin.
Jackass.
I guess I underestimated my car, because he gets everything inside and there’s still room for more. I was mostly worried about the wood, but with the backseats down they don’t even reach the center console in the front.
“Where to next?” I ask, hopping in the passenger seat. I enjoy being a passenger princess, so I didn’t utter one complaint when he asked to drive.
“HomeGoods,” he replies, flipping his cap around backwards. “You need some rugs and more furniture.”
I snort a laugh. “You’re really going all out.”
His left-hand cups the steering wheel, his ring glinting from the reflection of the sun through the windshield. I gulp. I shouldn’t like the way that looks. I also shouldn’t be thinking about that hand around my throat, how that cool press of metal might feel.
Am I lusting after my husband?
I might be in hell.
“Anything for my wife.”
I squeak—like a little tiny mouse and my cheeks heat. I can’t believe that sound came out of me.
He grins and pushes his glasses up his nose. I’m sure he loves knowing he can still affect me so easily.
I’d be annoyed if I wasn’t so flustered.
At the HomeGoods I stroll behind him and let him do most of the picking since he picks all the things I would anyway, but I do slip a little ceramic duck into the cart that I think would be cute by the kitchen sink.
Fisher gives me a pleased smile in return, and I pretend that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes don’t have me squeezing my thighs.
At checkout he arranges for delivery of the bigger items—like the side chair and desk he picked out as well as the various rugs. Everything else we load into my car.
I don’t bother asking where we’re going next. I figure I’ll learn when we get there.
A short time later he pulls into the parking lot of a thrift store.
It turns out to be a dud—either they usually have a sucky selection, or it’s already been picked clean. We stop at two more and he finds some knickknacks that he says are for my bookshelves—when I tell him I don’t have bookshelves he just gives me a grin in return.
“I was really hoping to find a couch,” he says. “Yours sucks.”
Laughing, I reach for my seatbelt and slide it across my body. “It really does.”
“New it is, I guess.”
“New?” I ask dumbly because my eyes are zeroed in on the way his bicep is flexed as he backs out of the parking space.
“A brand-new couch.” A smirk dances at the edge of his lips. “I was going to thrift one, but…”
“I still have the one you love,” I admit.
His eyes widen in excitement. “Where?”
“Storage unit.” The couch now lives there along with every other memory of Fisher that I could box away.
“Can we get it out of there?” he asks. “I can rent a truck and pick it up tomorrow.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no just to be contrary, but I really do love that couch.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
I expect him to head back to my home, but of course he doesn’t do that. Instead, he pulls up to the curb outside of the ice cream shop we frequented often when we were together.
Shirley’s Ice Cream is spelled out on the pink and green awning in a sweet script font. The front windows are painted for the holiday season in blues and pinks and green.
Fisher seems to be waiting for me to say something, so I decide to stay silent just to make him sweat.
He breaks the silence with an awkward, “Uh … do you want one?”
Turning to face him, I say, “You know I can’t say no to a chocolate malt.”
They’re my number one weakness and too few places have malt anymore.
He waits for traffic to clear and hops out. He’s around to my door before I’ve fully opened it with his hand held out in offering. I let him help me, but only because my leg is hurting and I’m scared it might give out when I stand.
Fisher, who never misses a thing, notices my slight wobble. “Do you want your cane?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him no, simply because I’m annoyed that he sees right through me, but I set my feelings on him aside and nod instead.
He reaches in and secures my cane, placing it in my hand. I spent hours upon hours bedazzling it. I didn’t want my cane to just be a thing. It’s an extension of my personality.
Using the cane to steady my gait, I follow him to the door he holds open for me to pass through first.
I close my eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by the sugary sweet smell of the ice cream they prepare daily in the shop. A shiver works its way down my spine and I startle, my eyes popping open when Fisher gives my elbow a soft squeeze.
“You good?” he asks, concern knitting his brows.
“I’m fine.”
He steps up to the counter to order and I join him, pulling out my wallet.
“What are you doing with that?” he asks under his breath, shooting a smile in the direction of the older gentleman heading toward us. He flicks my wallet just in case I didn’t understand his interpretation of with that.
“Paying.”
“No, you’re not.”
A retort is hot on my tongue, but Peter—Shirley’s husband—has reached us and I quickly shut my mouth.
“Hey, folks. What can I get you today?”
“Two chocolate malts.” Fisher wiggles two fingers.
“You two look familiar,” Peter says, tapping at the register. “Have you been here before?”
“Long time ago.” Fisher slides out his own wallet and grabs his card.
“I’m paying.”
He smirks. “No, you’re not.”
I take a deep, calming breath. Fisher manages to get under my skin in a way no one else does. “You bought all that stuff for the condo. I can buy this.”
He holds my gaze and just when I think he’s going to let me pay for the malts he taps his card to the machine. “Let your husband take care of you.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“Careful.” Fisher taps my chin. “You’ll catch flies with your mouth open like that.”
“Newlyweds?” Peter asks, dipping out the ice cream into the stainless-steel container.
“We are,” Fisher confirms when I can’t seem to find my voice because I’m still processing let your husband take care of you and analyzing why my brain immediately went to us naked between the sheets.
“I remember those days,” Peter muses. “Cherish them. The next thing you know you’re old.” He gives a deep chuckle. “I’ll have these ready for you kids in a few.”
“Do you want to grab a table outside? I’ll wait here for them to be ready.”
Nodding, I slip out the doors and sit down at one of the tables in front of the shop’s windows. The chair scrapes across the sidewalk, the sound grating to my ears and the guy passing by with a skateboard tucked beneath his arm must agree based on the scowl he sends my way.
I rest my cane against the edge of the table and try my hardest not to look inside.
But resisting is futile, and I dare a peek.
Fisher has his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and he’s wearing a loose blue plaid shirt open over a white t-shirt.
There’s nothing inherently put together about his look, but it’s so him in a way I haven’t seen much for years.
I’m used to seeing him in athletic wear around the tennis courts at various matches.
This casually dressed Fisher feels like my Fisher and it makes my chest squeeze painfully.
The thing I’ve never wanted to admit to myself is that I never stopped missing him.
He was always like the perfect puzzle piece I was missing from my life and when we broke up, I was never the same.
No matter how many times I rearranged the pieces they never went back together right, and no new pieces ever fit the pattern.
Peter says something to him and Fisher glances back, catching my eye before I can turn away. His eyes glimmer with amusement.
I decide to own it and stick my tongue out at him.
He laughs, his hair flopping when he shakes his head at me. Peter hands him the cups—one with a hot pink straw, the other teal.
Fisher heads for the exit and I make myself suddenly engrossed in the butterfly that’s landed on a nearby flowering plant.
“Were you checking me out, Ebba?”
“I was not,” I say, taking the cup with the pink straw when he holds both out for me to choose from. “I was making sure that the malts were being made correctly.”
He settles in the chair, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “Yeah.” He looks through the window. “Because you can really see the back counter from here.”
Using the straw to stir the malt, I say, “You’ve gotten awfully full of yourself. I didn’t think you’d ever be so arrogant.”
“Is it arrogant if I looked and your eyes were glued to me?” he counters, bringing his straw to his lips. When I say nothing, he says, “That’s what I thought.”
I lean closer, a challenging expression pinching my lips. “Why were you turning around? To look at me?”
He leans in as well, until we’re nearly nose to nose. “I turned to look because Peter said my wife was checking me out. I wanted to see if he was right.”
“And he was wrong,” I say plainly.
Fisher smiles and his chest shakes like he’s holding back a laugh. “Keep telling yourself that. But I think you very much like the way your husband looks.”
Frowning, I ignore him and focus on the malt. It might be December but in Miami you wouldn’t know that and it’s already melting from its original thick consistency.
We might not be talking, but I can feel his gloat. As much as I’d like to open my mouth and drag this out, I know there’s no changing his mind. He knows he’s right and no amount of lying on my end is going to change that.