After Rory’s feet tapped tapped tapped their way to the top of the stairs and the door clicked shut behind her, I rammed the toe of my work boot into Fisher’s shin.

“Ouch! The fuck?” He reached down and rubbed his shin.

“Another date with Tiffany? Are you kidding me?”

He seemed too aggravated over his shin and me interrupting his work to spare the slightest glint of regret. “What did you expect me to say?”

“I expected you to say you had plans.”

“But I don’t. And you’re going to be here too. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is she likes you. A lot!”

“Like Brendon likes you a lot?” He shot me a scowl.

“I’m not inviting him to dinner.” I parked my fists on my hips.

“Well, maybe you should. Sounds like Rory has lots of food, and the more the merrier. Right?”

“Now you’re being a jerk. Such a jerk.”

Standing erect, he pulled off his glasses and tossed them onto the workbench. “Oh really. I’m being the jerk? What about you?”

“You should have lied.” That was my answer. Church schooled, Bible study, virgin me advocating lying. It was a new low.

“I won’t kiss her cheek or hold her hand. Are we good now?”

My ego was in overdrive. We weren’t good. Well, he was probably good. Twenty-eight-year-olds had a little more maturity and self-control. Achieving good status was probably easier for him.

Teenaged adults, such as myself, struggled with letting the little stuff go and just being … good.

“I’m not good.”

“No?” He cocked his head to the side.

I think I knew I was in trouble, but I wasn’t sure how trouble would play out.

“Then let’s make you good.” He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me backward.

I stumbled, but he kept me standing. Squatting in front of me, he untied my work books.

“W-what are you d-doing?” I couldn’t hide my nerves.

Fisher didn’t answer. His quick hands discarded my boots to the side.

“Fisher … what are …” My words caught in my throat. I’d poked the bear a little too hard. Actually, I had kicked him in the shin.

He didn’t look at me. He was too busy focusing on my jeans.

Unbuttoning them.

Unzipping them.

Peeling them down my legs.

“Fisher …we can’t … not here …” I gave him a weak protest.

What if Rory came back? The door wasn’t locked.

My jeans landed next to my boots as he tossed them aside. Still, he hadn’t made a single glance upward to see my sheer panic.

As his fingers curled inside the waist of my panties, I grabbed one of his hands. “Fisher, we can’t …”