by Lynn Hagen
Relieved, Blake said his goodbyes and left, taking his mate home. The last home Fisher would ever need. A safe haven where Fisher could recover and start rebuilding his life.
Chapter Three
As soon as Fisher opened his eyes and saw the bright sun, adrenaline shot through him and his heart quickened. He should’ve been up by now to cook John’s breakfast…lunch? He didn’t know what time it was. Why had John let him sleep in?
The last thing Fisher remembered was lying in bed and John saying he would take him to the doctor if he didn’t feel better by morning.
Had John actually allowed him to sleep in, thinking he was still sick? Fisher scrambled from the bed. Even if John hadn’t wakened him, he would still expect his breakfast made.
Fisher headed for the dresser and stopped. That wasn’t his dresser. He looked around the room as last night came flooding back.
He actually did it. He’d actually left John. Oh god! Fisher ran around the room, wondering where in the hell the bathroom was. He jetted into the hallway and was thankful when he found it.
Fisher dropped to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach. The stress of what he’d done, the consequences if John found him, had him dry heaving.
When he had nothing else to give, Fisher pressed his back into the wall under the window and closed his eyes. He just needed a moment to center himself, to tell his shaking body to settle down.
This was what he’d wanted. To get away from John. Fisher had finally accomplished that, but now he was in a stranger’s house, and that was some scary shit.
Fisher got up, his legs wobbly, and rinsed his mouth out. The terror was there, trying to overtake him. Fisher sucked in a few deep breaths. He had to look at the bright side to this.
At least now he didn’t have to worry about what he said or screwing up. He didn’t have to be afraid of saying the wrong thing and getting backhanded.
He was free to speak his mind, and that was a glorious feeling. Fisher hugged himself and smiled. Freedom had never tasted so sweet. He’d want to roll around naked in it, if that were possible.
The scent of something cooking caught his attention. It felt odd that food was being cooked and he wasn’t the one in the kitchen doing it.
Blake.
How could Fisher have forgotten about him? The man who had rescued him, who had driven five hours to get him out of that mess. Who had selflessly opened his home, even though Fisher was a complete stranger.
He exited the bathroom and moved slowly down the stairs, taking in everything he saw. Clean white walls, hardwood flooring, rustic furniture that just invited someone to take a seat and sink right in.
There was a large flat screen television mounted over the fireplace and built-in bookshelves on either side of it. The area rug under his bare toes was plush and woven with vibrant masculine colors.
Fisher was in love with this house.
He moved quietly to the kitchen with its state-of-the-art appliances. The oven was built into the wall, and the stovetop was in the center of the spacious island that had two barstools tucked under it.
What really drew Fisher’s attention was Blake. He wore a black T-shirt that hugged his upper frame. Fisher couldn’t see the man’s legs because Blake was on the other side of the counter cooking. The guy hadn’t even noticed him yet.
“I thought you were going to sleep the evening away.”
Well, maybe Blake had noticed him. “Evening? How long did I sleep?”
Blake rounded the island and pulled one of the stools out and patted it. “Roughly ten hours.”
Fisher’s eyes rounded, and his jaw dropped. He hadn’t gotten that kind of restful sleep in over a year. “Are you serious?”
He sat on the stool and clasped his hands between his knees to stop them from shaking. Although Blake seemed nice, Fisher was in an unfamiliar place with a guy he’d just met.
Blake grinned, and Fisher’s heart stopped beating. “Checked on you twice to make sure you were still breathing.”
Fisher stiffened. He didn’t like the idea that Blake had come into the guest bedroom while he’d been asleep. He didn’t think Blake would’ve done anything to him. He didn’t seem the type, but Fisher couldn’t say that with certainty.
Blake’s smile fell when he looked across the island at him. “That was a joke. I was just kidding, Fisher. I would never invade your privacy unless I absolutely had to.”
Fisher went lax. He tried to chuckle, to play off the tension he’d felt. “That was funny.”
Blake set the spatula down. “No, it wasn’t. I saw the look of fear in your eyes, and it’s not cool that I put it there. You’re safe here. I promise you. I won’t even take offense if you decide to lock your bedroom door.”
“What’re cooking?”
Blake gave him a look that said he knew Fisher was changing the subject and accepted that. “Fried corn. I have a meatloaf in the oven. I’m making mashed potatoes, but that will be done last. I hope you’re hungry.”
Fisher felt strange sitting there doing nothing while someone else cooked. “Can I help?”
“Only if you want to.”
This was definitely a twist to his norm. John had never lifted a finger to help.
With anything.
Fisher slid off his stool. “I want to help.”
Blake picked the spatula back up and stirred the corn around the pan. It smelled amazing. “You can cut things up for a salad if you want. My kitchen is your kitchen, so don’t be afraid to poke around.”
That was exactly what he needed. A task to keep his hands and mind busy. He found spinach leaves in the fridge, along with a bowl of eggs. “Are these hard-boiled or fresh?”
Blake looked over his shoulder. “In the bowl?”
Fisher nodded.
“Hard-boiled.”
He took a few from the bowl, grabbed a tomato, a pack of shredded cheese, a cucumber from the crisper, and took it all to the island. Blake showed him where the cutting board was and which drawer the knives were in.
They worked side by side, the whole time Fisher acutely aware of Blake’s quiet presence. It was relaxing, and soon Fisher found that the earlier tension was completely drained from his body.
He was even enjoying himself.
Until he turned to go back to the fridge and accidentally knocked the salad bowl to the floor. The bowl shattered, and everything he’d sliced lay in ruins at his feet.
Fisher’s entire body jerked from fear, and he backed away.
“Guess we won’t be having salad with our dinner,” Blake said in a teasing voice. He cut the burner off and went to a closet Fisher hadn’t noticed. Blake grabbed a broom and dustpan and cleaned up the mess.
Fisher hadn’t moved a muscle. He was still shaking like crazy as Blake returned to the island. “Come over here and taste this. The corn is missing something, but I can’t figure out what.”
Fisher couldn’t move. He was paralyzed with fear. Blake brought the spoon to him.
“Be honest.” He held the spoon up, and Fisher forced his lips to part, waiting for Blake’s angry outburst. But all he saw on the guy’s face was concentration. “Well?”
Fisher chewed so fast that he bit his tongue. He winced then shrugged. “It t-tastes g-good.”
“Are you sure?” Blake pursed his lips. “I think it needs a tad more cinnamon.” He walked back to the stove. “I need to get the water on for the mashed taters.” He said the last two words with a southern accent.
That made Fisher smile.
“Can you grab a pot from the other side?”
When Blake went into the pantry, Fisher forced his legs to move. He dug under the cupboards until he found a pot and set it down next to the burners.
Blake returned, and Fisher scooted away, his heart still racing. He watched Blake finish up dinner then grab some plates from the cupboard. The entire time he hummed an upbeat tune.
“Dinner is served, my good fella.” Blake set the plates on the four-seater
table and then went to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of water.
Fisher moved slowly toward the table and eased into a chair while Blake set the pitcher on the table, along with two glasses.
He looked over at Fisher. “You’re safe. Accidents happen. I promise you I’m not mad.”
“But I broke that beautiful salad bowl.”
“Got it at a thrift store. Paid two dollars for it. We can just go there tomorrow and find another one if you want.”
Fisher picked up his fork and took a bite of the meatloaf. He moaned as the flavors exploded in his mouth.
Blake grinned, and the tension once again drained away.
* * * *
Once Fisher had noticeably relaxed, the conversation flowed and Blake found himself laughing more than once at Fisher’s childhood stories. He shared his own, careful not to let on to the time period. He was glad Fisher finally had genuine amusement in his green eyes.
The guy had a gorgeous smile, and he needed to show it off more often.
“I have to say, this is the best meal I’ve had in a long time.” Fisher got up and took his dishes to the sink before he returned to the table to grab Blake’s.
“Whoa.” Blake set his plate back down. “You’re a guest. You don’t do chores around here. That’s my job. I don’t want word to get around that I’m a terrible host.”
Fisher hesitated. He looked as if he didn’t know what to do. “You cooked, so it’s only fair I do the dishes.”
Blake stood but made sure he kept a good distance between them. His size was already intimidating enough to some folks. He didn’t want it to scare his mate. “How about we do them together if you’re that insistent about doing them?”
Fisher chewed on his bottom lip, and Blake had to force thoughts of kissing his mate out of his head. It wasn’t easy. Fisher had the prettiest lips he’d ever seen. And Blake wasn’t thinking that in an obnoxious way. They were perfectly shaped and had just the right plumpness to them.
“Okay. Deal.” Fisher picked up Blake’s dishes anyway and took them to the sink. Blake washed and rinsed, and Fisher dried them and placed them in the rack. He could’ve just stuck everything in the dishwasher, but he liked doing the whole domestic thing with Fisher.
By the time they were done, the kitchen was sparkling.
“How about we take our ice water on the back porch? It’s a nice night out.” Blake went for the pitcher of water as Fisher grabbed the two glasses they’d just washed.
The sky was ablaze with beautiful cotton candy colors as they took a seat outside. Blake kicked his booted feet up on the footrest and sighed. It was the perfect end after an almost-perfect dinner.
He hadn’t been honest with Fisher. That salad bowl had been his mother’s. He just didn’t see the need to yell when the damage had already been done. And it had been an accident. Since Blake wasn’t the type to flip out over spilled milk, he’d let it go. Fisher was already a nervous wreck, and Blake wasn’t about to make matters worse.
They sat in companionable silence until the sun had sank and the bugs started biting. Blake loved the time they’d just shared, although they hadn’t spoken a word, but he wasn’t about to be chewed up by mosquitos.
“I think I have really sweet blood.” Fisher slapped his arm. “They’re attacking me in droves.”
“Then I think we should escape inside.” Blake got up, grabbed the pitcher while Fisher grabbed the glasses, and they made a dash for it.
They set the glassware in the sink and retired to the living room, where Blake turned the television on. He hardly ever watched the boob tube. He had more important things to do and nothing on the television interested him.
But Fisher curled into his end of the couch, and he looked comfortable, so Blake found something for them to watch. He kicked back and sank into the cushions. He must’ve dozed off, because when he looked to where Fisher should’ve been, the spot was empty.
Blake sat up, telling himself not to panic. It didn’t mean anything that the house was deathly quiet. He got up and went upstairs to the guest bedroom and found Fisher under his covers, fast asleep.
Blake backed out of the room. He’d seen how freaked out Fisher had looked earlier when he’d said he’d checked on him. He actually had, but since his mate looked close to a meltdown, Blake had passed it off as just joshing him.
To be honest, tiptoeing around Fisher was exhausting, but Blake would do whatever he had to for Fisher to become whole again.
He turned the bathroom light on so there was some light in the hallway and then went to bed, hoping tomorrow would be a better day for his mate.
* * * *
For three days Fisher flip-flopped around with his emotions. Not any kind of emotions that he wanted to go back to John or he missed his ex-boyfriend. Those feelings had died a fiery death a long time ago.
Fisher was trying to adjust to his newfound freedom, but every time he made a mistake, he crawled back inside himself. Every time Blake suggested something, Fisher always deferred to him instead of having his own opinion.
It was getting on his last nerve. Blake wasn’t John. They were worlds apart. Whereas John was an uptight asshat, Blake was laidback and took things in stride. He never got mad and always had something to smile about.
Not that Fisher was looking at Blake as a potential boyfriend. He’d just gotten out of a bad relationship and wasn’t looking to get into another one, but damn it if he wasn’t attracted to the guy.
So he’d tried to avoid Blake as much as possible. Fisher even decided to go out and look for a job. He would never get back on his own two feet if he just sat around all day and talked to Blake.
But Blake was so easy to talk to. Fisher shook his head in annoyance at himself. He knew what was going on. He was just grateful that Blake had rescued him, and he was turning that gratitude into something more.
Fisher walked down the street, going from business to business, inquiring about work. No one seemed to be hiring, and by the afternoon, he was deflated.
He sat on the bench by Bistro as the clouds began to slowly roll in and wondered if he would ever find any work. He couldn’t live off Blake forever. He’d already been there for four days, and as nice as Blake was, sooner or later he would get sick of Fisher being there.
He pulled out his phone to call Blake, and then realized he didn’t have the guy’s number. Fisher was too dang tired to walk back to Blake’s house. His feet were killing him, and he wished there was some sort of bus system in this small town.
When Fisher looked at his phone, he saw that it was off. He’d turned it off the night he’d fled and wasn’t sure he wanted to cut it on. He knew there would be messages from John, and Fisher didn’t want to read them or listen to any voice mails.
If he never heard John’s voice again, it would be too soon. He got up and stuck his phone into his pocket just as a white car came down the street. Fisher’s heart plummeted to his stomach as he backed up, waiting to see if it was a BMW. His head started to pound as he hurried behind a tree.
Just in case it was John.
He wasn’t sure how his ex would be able to find him, and this fast, but Fisher wasn’t taking any chances. Just the thought of what John would do to him if he ever got his hands on him made Fisher shiver.
Or was the drop in temperature the reason for his shiver? Fisher looked up at the sky, and sure enough, it was blanketed in dark clouds. He felt a fat raindrop hit his forehead.
Damn. With no ride home and lacking Blake’s phone number, Fisher would have to walk in this.
And then a thought struck him. He looked around and spotted the police station. Surely Grayson would be at work. Fisher could only hope. He could get Blake’s phone number from his friend and then see if Blake would pick him up.
As Fisher ran across the street, the sky opened up and the rain came down in earnest. He was soaked by the time he reached the door. His shoes squished as he entered the foyer and was once again shivering from the cool air. He hadn
’t thought to bring a jacket with him since the day had started out nice.
The guy at the reception desk smiled at him. “How can I help you?”
The nameplate said the guy’s name was Renny Fenton. “I was looking for Grayson. I mean, Sheriff Copache.”
“And you are?”
“Fisher.”
The guy smiled. “Okay, just Fisher, have a seat and I’ll see if he’s in.”
Fisher sat and stared at the interior. He didn’t wait long before Grayson strode his way, a big smile on his face. The smile fell. “You’re soaking wet.”
“I got caught in the storm,” Fisher explained.
“Well, I’m glad you came by. We need to talk.”
Fisher never liked those four words. John had used them right before he went into a fit. He got up and followed Grayson to his office, telling himself his friend wasn’t about to yell at him.
When he entered, Grayson closed the door. Fisher looked up at him. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Not you.” Grayson sat behind his desk and opened a file. “It seems Johnathon Carter has filed a complaint against you.”
Fisher’s heart started beating faster. “What’re talking about?”
“I know it’s bogus, but I have to tell you about it so you’re aware,” Grayson said. “He claims you assaulted him and stole a family heirloom. A golden pocket watch.”
“That watch was my grandfather’s!” Fisher fisted his hands at his sides. “John’s the one who took it from me and hid it. I just took it back.”
“Calm down,” Grayson said. “Have a seat.”
Fisher was too pissed to sit but did as Grayson asked.
“We both know what he’s trying to do,” Grayson said. “He’s trying to locate you, but I’ve already alerted my deputies. They know not to arrest you, and they know to look out for John. I’m telling you this to keep you informed, just in case you leave town. Other cops won’t know your backstory, and they’ll arrest you.”
