We hastily head back, and I automatically reach into his truck and begin grabbing bags to help. “You don’t have to do that,” Fisher says, awkwardly flustered as I use my elbow to open his front door. “You’ve done enough.” I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or only thrown off-kilter by me. Likely both. “You can help me carry the ladder back if that’ll ease your masculine guilt,” I joke back.
