Never mind. I didn’t make him think at all. I ignored my blush. He brought it out of me with a look, and when he talked dirty to me, it took over my whole body.

“You’re drunk.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“No.” He grinned holding up two fingers then three. Then back to two. “Scouts honor. In the morning, I will still find your tits to be the best thing I’ve seen or tasted in a very long time. If they were on Yelp, I’d leave a five-star review of them.”

“Stop.” I bit my lips to keep from grinning.

“I will not stop. I haven’t even started talking about your legs.” He took two steps toward me, and I retreated to keep the distance.

“Angie is beautiful. I’m not blind. I’m sure her … breasts are Yelp worthy, and her legs are incredibly toned, along with her arms. Her silky hair and skin. And she’s successful. Age appropriate. And she’s naked in your bed. So you might have to explain to me why you’re down here with me.”

Fisher deflated, a long breath releasing from his nose as his shoulders dropped an inch. “She wants a husband and a houseful of babies. A dog. Two cats. And a minivan.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not yet.”

“So …” I glanced up at the ceiling and laughed, but it didn’t really feel funny. “You are looking for someone to mess around with until you decide you’re ready for wife material. That’s awesome, Fisher. Rory comes home in a few days. What’s the point? I’m not having sex with you. And why are you so anti-family? You’re twenty-eight. Do you know how many men have a family by the time they’re your age?”

“No.” He prowled toward me again, this time without stopping. “And neither do you. So what’s your point? You’re eighteen. The whole point of your life should be to live in the fucking moment without caring if everything you do makes complete sense.”

“Stop.” I shook my head, running out of space to escape him as my butt rammed into the pool table.

“I don’t want to stop. Do you? Do you really want to stop?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. I didn’t love the taste of beer, but I thought I’d like it if I tasted it in his mouth. So I kissed him, and he kissed me back. I was right … beer tasted best on Fisher’s tongue. Every well-sorted moral thought in my head jumbled, like the wind catching a neatly stacked pile of papers and scattering them everywhere.

No page numbers.

No sense of meaning.

Just a big, unimaginable mess.

That was what Fisher Mann did to me. He messed with my thoughts.

And that was why I didn’t protest when he removed my shirt … and my bra.