“Yes, he’s … all over me.” I bit my lips together to hide my grin.

“I knew it. I had a feeling he’d be a big brother to you.”

That comparison nauseated me a bit.

“Anyhoo, I’ll let you go. Let’s talk again this weekend when we have more time. Maybe video chat so I can see your beautiful face.”

“Sounds good.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

“Bye.” I slid my phone onto the counter and stared at the staircase leading to him.

I wasn’t sure if my mom’s call was bad timing on her part or good timing on God’s part. And what happened next? Was I supposed to go upstairs to continue what we started? Ending where? In his bed, sans my virginity?

Why did he have to be twenty-eight and my mom’s friend/landlord? Why did he have to be twenty-eight with way more life and sexual experience than me?

I grabbed a pre-made salad from the fridge and ate it with a handful of wheat crackers. Then I changed into jogging shorts, tennis shoes, and a tank top. I assumed Fisher was eating dinner or taking a shower, but as I trekked around to the front of the house, I was proven wrong.

Shorts. No shirt (of course). Bare feet.

He used a hose and spray nozzle to water some plants and flowers by his front door. Shirtless Fisher was not a good idea for me. My body still hadn’t recovered from his hands on my legs, his thumbs dangerously close to the top of my inner thighs.

“Going for a jog?” he asked.

“Walk.” I didn’t stop. Stopping was a bad idea.

“Want company?”

Bad idea.

“Okay.” I turned with a little too much bounce to my step, too much enthusiasm in my voice, and way too big of a grin on my face.

Rory was coming home in one week. And I didn’t know what that would mean for Fisher and me. I wasn’t in his head. I could guess that Rory wouldn’t like the idea of me having a physical relationship with a man ten years older than me. And if I was being honest with myself, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it either.

Him … I knew how I felt about him, but I couldn’t turn off all common sense, ignore the logistics of our situation. What I wanted and what made sense were not the same things.

“Let me put on some shoes.” He shut off the hose and disappeared into the house via the front door.

When he returned with only shoes, still no shirt, I had a mild panic attack. When he grabbed my hand and grinned, it escalated to a moderate panic attack.

“So Rory’s coming home in a week,” he said as we strolled down the street, my fingers laced with his.