We spent the afternoon in his workshop. I didn’t graduate past sanding with the finest sandpaper, but that was okay. Just watching Fisher do his thing was a gift. He wore his safety glasses as he cut the pieces of wood, his gaze so focused on the task. He had no idea that his most intent expression involved him wetting and rubbing his lips together. It was nearly too much.

“Time to call it a day.” He tore off his safety glasses and glanced at his watch.

“This was fun. Thanks for letting me see you in your element.” I brushed my hands together, removing a light dusting of residue from sanding.

“Anytime.”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it.” I smirked. “The last time you said ‘anytime,’ I took you seriously and ended up in your tub when you brought your date home.”

His lips twisted as he returned a slow nod. “Mmm … yes. You did.”

“Well …” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Fisher kept nodding slowly, his backside leaned against one of the workbenches, his hands slightly tucked into his front pockets.

Basically … irresistible.

“Rory comes home this week,” he said.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry if I did anything that made you feel—”

“No!” I didn’t mean to cut him off so quickly. It was a knee-jerk reaction. “You … you haven’t done anything wrong. You didn’t make me feel anything but … good.”

Make it feel good.

“And…” I couldn’t help my grin “…a little crazy.”

He stared at his feet. “So we’re … good? Friends. What happened, happened and we move on. No big deal?”

The biggest deal of my eighteen years—well, the good kind of big deal. It was hard to top Rory going to prison and my dad dying for life-changing, catastrophic events.

“Friends,” I said just above a whisper. “No big deal … we’re … good.” Someone needed to use some sandpaper on my heart because it felt rough and splintered.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up to a text from Fisher.

You’re with Hailey today, drive your mom’s car.

He’d sent the text an hour before my alarm went off.

Hailey had me enter bids into the computer and deliver lunches. Then she had me file—my least favorite job.

“Can I ask you something personal?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said slowly without a glance up from her computer screen.

“Did you like sex the first time you had it?”

Her fingers stilled, and her gaze lifted to meet mine. “Did you just have sex for the first time?”

“No.”

“Have you had sex?”

“Not really.”