Leaving Molly in my bed the next morning, I shut my bedroom door and head downstairs to make coffee.
Fisher’s in his sheriff uniform, bent over, head in the fridge. I spot the discarded picture from last night on the kitchen table and turn away. That’s a reality I’m not ready for just yet.
“Who’s your visitor?” he asks, taking three eggs over to the stove where a pan with butter sizzles.
“What?” I grab my coffee mug and pour myself a cup. The one good thing about living with Fisher is that the coffee is always prepared as long as he’s up and at home.
“The moans, the banging. I thought you two were going to end up in my bedroom.”
I sip my coffee, giving myself a minute to think. Molly and I did get a little crazy last night. I knew she’d be great in bed, but damn, she’s any guy’s dream
