“Knitting classes?” He’d known he was too old to bet on getting laid. Okay, not too old, since Fisher had, after a few shots and some brotherly arm-twisting, reluctantly agreed to the bet. Unfortunately, he’d picked a fine time to grow a conscience, or whatever it was that had kept him from taking home the first gorgeous, willing woman he’d encountered… or the second, or the third. Hell, he’d lost count. He hadn’t known what, but something was missing—something important. He just hadn’t been sure if it was something missing in him, or them. Shit, maybe he was going through a midlife crisis, although thirty-two was way too young to be having one. Fisher sat at the bar at Humpin’ Hannah’s and ignored his twin brother’s smile—one exactly like his own. He concentrated instead on the wagon wheel mounted from the ceiling and the florescent orange bra, a recent addition to the collection of shoes and undergarments decorating the wheel like Christmas tree ornaments.
