Down Shift (13 page)

Our eyes hold each other in the waning sunlight; the challenge to give him a better answer is communicated without words.

“Let's just say I have Daddy issues. Is that a good enough answer?”

His sharp, self-deprecating laugh is the last thing I expect. “You and me both, Socks. So no good. That cancels each other out. Next confession . . .”

I direct daggers his way. My emotions are warring over what to tell him, even though I know I can't just yet. There's too much at risk for me—emotional and otherwise. “I don't really want to like you, but you make it damn hard not to. There. That's a confession.”

That's all I'm giving him with his quick grin and baby blues and coaxing questions.

“It's a start. I'll take it.”

“I
can't believe I let you talk me into this,” I groan, but inwardly I revel in it. The red and white checkered tablecloth, the half-eaten pizza sitting on a metal stand, and what he called the wimpy starter wine shared in glasses between us. How after we came in from working on the deck, he told me to get dressed because he was taking me to dinner to thank me for helping.

Of course I refused.

But I'm so glad he persisted, because getting out, seeing the town through his eyes, showed me that I needed to have a little fun. Everyone he greets knows who he is because of his job, and really being a local instead of fading into the background has been liberating. In fact I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself like this.

“We forgot to make a toast,” he says as he lifts his glass up. I roll my eyes but can't help smiling.

“To friends,” I offer up, unsure what we should be toasting, but I figure this is as good an option as any given our situation.

“No. Not to friends.” My eyes flash to Zander's at the sound of his forceful reply; I'm a little surprised and a lot curious. “Because friends between the opposite sexes leads to friends with benefits and that
always
ends in
disaster. And you know what, Getty? I don't want that with you . . . so let's just say ‘to
us
'”—he pauses, tapping his glass to mine—“whatever
us
may be.”

“To us,” I murmur as his eyes search mine. All the while I'm trying to figure out what part he doesn't want with me: the friends with benefits or the ending in disaster.

The rest of the meal passes how the whole evening has, with us fabricating sordid backstories about the people sitting across the restaurant from us: townspeople we don't know but will remember from here on out from our silly game. How the quiet mom with three rowdy boys in the corner really is a dominatrix for hire at night, or the gregarious busboy hoards Barbra Streisand memorabilia in his basement.

The speculation and laughs are endless, but they don't stop Zander's toast from repeating in my mind as we walk back home to the cottage together.

“Your toast? I don't want that with you either.” Maybe it's the few glasses of Moscato that have gone to my head or just that I've thought about his comment enough, but there's no denying the tinge of hurt to my tone.

Maybe he didn't hear the hurt part.

But I have to give it to Zander—while he falters midstride, he doesn't ask what I mean. Rather he nods his head and keeps walking the rest of the way home without saying much more. He opens the door, turns on the light, and heads into the kitchen to put the leftover pizza in the refrigerator all without a word as I stare at his silhouette and wonder what he's thinking. What I did to piss him off other than agree with him.

Because I'm used to things—whatever they are—always being my fault. Every mood swing. Every bad day at work. The change in the weather for God's sake, if I were to believe Ethan.

So I stare at the broad lines of Zander's shoulders, his hair disheveled from the wind on the walk home, his eyes focusing on where he's pushing the house key around on the counter, and I wonder what I've done wrong this time.

“Tell me something, Getty.” He lifts his head finally
and meets my eyes. “If you were in the restaurant tonight and saw the two of us, what story would you have made up to explain us being there?”

His question throws me momentarily. His eyes hold fast to mine as he rounds the front of the counter and leans his hips against it. There's something so distinctly masculine about the stance that I stop and stare for a moment before answering him.

“Why?”

“Just humor me.” He flashes me a heart-stopping grin, and between that and the intensity in his eyes, it's impossible to refuse when he pats the counter beside him for me to sit.

Suddenly leery of being close to him when I've been just that all day, I move slowly and take my time hopping my butt up on the countertop, scooting back so that my legs are dangling over the edge.

“If I was making up a story about us, I'd say that we were friends who met for dinner after working all day.”

“Friends.”
He makes a noncommittal sound and then shifts so that he can meet my gaze. I squirm under his quiet scrutiny: eyes narrowing, tongue tucked in his cheek, hand placed way too close to the side of my thigh. “That's all you've got, Socks?” He shifts so that his pelvis is against the counter, hip hitting my knee. “That's not very creative coming from an artist.”

I start to scoff, immediately reject his label, but the warning look in his eye stops it on my tongue. “Sorry.”

Annoyance flickers over his face, but it's gone just as quickly as it comes. “Don't apologize.”

I begin to say
I'm sorry
again and stop myself, heeding the cautionary tone in his voice. “What's your story, then?” He doesn't like mine—then he needs to give me his. But the minute I make the comment, I feel like I've just played right into his hands even if I can't figure out what the endgame is.

“I'm glad you asked.” A shift of his feet. His hips slide farther into mine. That flutter of something deep in my belly. “I would have seen a famously successful painter—world renowned in fact,” he says with a lift of his
eyebrows, “going to dinner with the inspiration for her next painting. He's a championship-winning race car driver. Ruggedly handsome. Not
pretty
at all.”

I scrunch up my nose. “A little pretty.”

He places his hand on my knee and squeezes gently, a playful warning. But his hand remains there and even as he continues speaking, all I can think about is the sudden warmth and weight of his touch. “They are there discussing their next project.”

“What if she doesn't paint people?”

“Oh, she does.”

“She does?”

“Yes. She's branching out. Challenging herself. A nude of him is next on her list.”

I throw my head back, the laughter bubbling up and over, and the sound of his laughter mixed with mine is comforting. “No. Not a nude. He's not
pretty
enough for a nude.”

“Touché,” he says with a shake of his head, and his grin widens.

“Tell me more about them.”

“She's trying to ply him with cheap wine, get him drunk, maybe take advantage of him a little later.” I raise my eyebrows. “She thinks she can teach him a few things in
all
aspects.”

“Oh.” The sound falls from my lips.
Is he implying what I think he's implying?

“Oh?”

“So they're more than just friends, then?” My mind runs wild. About as wild as my heartbeat when Zander moves between my parted knees so that he's face-to-face with me. And the dim light in the room that he just blocked with his change in position only adds to what suddenly feels like the intimacy of the moment. The shadow that falls over his face and the quick dart of his tongue to wet his lips draws out all kinds of feelings within me, that slow, sweet ache in the delta of my thighs included.

“Do you want them to be more than friends, Getty?” The way he says my name, the intention laced in that single word, calls to every single part of me.

And I know we're definitely not talking about a made-up scenario right now. We're talking about the frustrated kiss he gave me at work the other day and the fire he says I'm not ready to light that has kept me up thinking late at night.

“I don't know.” I try to steady my breathing as he places his hands on the counter beside my thighs and leans his body into me.

“You don't?”

“No. I need to know more about them.” I try to buy some time. Attempt to gain some clarity in the face of his powerful physical presence so I can decide which side I want to win: my need for things to remain simple with him or my want to feel more than just his kiss.

By the look on his face, I can tell my request throws him, but he recovers quickly. “More about them? Hmm. Let's see. She's had a troubled past. He wishes she'd talk more about it—trust him—because he's a much better listener than her canvas and paints are, but he understands that these things take time.” Even with the sudden serious turn of the conversation, his last comment pulls the corners of my mouth up in a smile.

“And him? What about him?”

“You tell me.” It's not a request, not a demand, but it's clear that he wants to know what I think of him.

“I think—”

“She,”
he corrects.

“
She
thinks
that he has this big persona he feels he must live by—the grandiose asshole.” I get a lift of his eyebrows with the term. “He's stubborn and infuriating . . . but underneath all of that, he has a kind heart. He's confident and sure of himself in a way she only wishes she could be. And despite that, she knows he's been hurt somehow or has seen hurt, because most men aren't patient enough to stand back and let her go through what she's going through without pushing. And he isn't pushing, so she knows that he gets it, even though he doesn't know what ‘it' really is.”

He nods his head and runs his hands up and down my thighs. And I swear to God he does it out of a comforting
reflex, because I can tell the minute he realizes he is doing it—his hands falter in motion, eyes widen momentarily—and yet he keeps them where they are and doesn't remove them.

“What about him? Why does she think he's here on the island?”

I twist my lips, so many theories coming to mind, and yet I'm not sure how to go about saying them. “Because he hates Sundays.” Better start with some humor and see how he plays it.

That earns a soft chuckle from him. “Really?”

“Yeah. And probably any day that ends in
y
, since he's away from his passion, but she gets a feeling there's more there. She'd listen if he wanted to talk about it, but won't ask.”

“Questions always get you in trouble,” he murmurs.

“Not always,” I muse.

“Does she want to be more than friends with him, Getty?”

Hello, trouble.
Guess he's trying to prove his point.

An even intake of breath. The pounding of my heart. The scent of his cologne. The hope of possibility. “She's afraid.” My voice is barely audible.

“Of him?”

All I can do is nod my head. His lips are right there. The memory of how they felt on mine front and center. “Of everything about him.”

My chest hurts to draw in air. My body aches in a way I've never felt before. Anticipation. Fear. Uncertainty. All three surge through me. Deplete me. Revive me.

“Why would she be afraid of him, Getty?”

My name again. It's his way of bringing me back to the moment and out of my head, where the ghosts swim. His way of reminding me of my new name, of my fresh start, of new beginnings.

“Because she's the
disaster
. The one who can't do anything right. The one who can't teach him anything and so he's going to be disappointed when he finds out she's nothing like who he thinks she is.”

He angles his head and stares at me, eyes searching and
so intense that I break our connection and look down to where his hands are on my thighs. “Not hardly a disaster. A little timid maybe. A lot gun-shy. But time will help that.”

With a rebuttal held on my tongue, I visually trace the lines of his hands on my legs to distract myself. The broad fingers with a few cuts and scrapes from working on the deck. This whole conversation has pushed my thoughts out of my comfort zone. And I wonder what they'd feel like running over my body.

The thought makes me want to hyperventilate. The idea of him seeing me naked. Ethan's criticisms trying to force their way in my head.

You're the worst lay I've ever had, Gertrude. So bad I may need to take up with the housekeeper just to be satisfied. Your body's too soft; your tits aren't big enough. And for fuck's sake, it's not my job to make you come. It's not my problem you can't get off. And if I ever see you try to do it on your own, we're going to have a big problem.

“Uh-uh. Look at me. What's going on in that mind of yours?”

I can't. I don't want to lift my head so he can see every single thing about me—my inadequacies, my fear of experiencing more, my hope for more—in my eyes. Because I can't hide it. I can fight it, but I definitely can't hide it.

Since I'm focused on his hands, I follow the movement as they lift off my thighs and come up to cup the sides of my cheeks, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“I thought we were talking about
her
,” I assert, needing to get this back in the make-believe realm, because his eyes are too honest, his touch too tangible, and I am starting to imagine the possibility of there being something more between us when I know he can't really mean it.

He nods in response, angling his head to the side as he studies me. “We are,” he murmurs as if it's real, his eyes narrowing as he leans closer into me. “He wants to ask her so many questions but now knows she's afraid and he doesn't want to spook her.”

“Maybe he should just ask. Maybe she'll answer him. Maybe she won't. They've had quite a few glasses of wine after all.”

“Ah, yes. Liquid courage. It does wonders for the nerves, or so I've heard.” I've never been this close to another man for this amount of time besides Ethan. It's unnerving and exhilarating all at once to know that this is my choosing. “Maybe he's afraid of her too.”

I snort in jest. “You're kidding, right? Look at him and look at her. There's no need for him to be afraid of her. She's average and he looks like he just walked off the pages of a magazine ad.”

“I think she's not seeing herself clearly.”