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“Well, I think he's full of shit. Tell me why he's afraid of her, then.” I sound defensive, bothered, and maybe I am. All that's missing is a huff and crossing my arms across my chest in denial. But perhaps I'm so conditioned to the Ethan setup where he built me up just to tear me down that I'm afraid of believing any compliment.

“Because he's afraid he'll get too close to her. He realizes that regardless of how strong she is, she's still fragile emotionally and that they have some kind of connection despite their constant bickering. He worries about what it will do to her when the fix-it list is done and he has to go back to his real life.”

His explanation captivates me. Pulls on my heartstrings. Causes an unexpected mini-flutter of panic at the idea of him leaving. So I decide to voice some of my thoughts out loud. “So he's afraid for her?” I need clarification so my mind doesn't run wild with this and make anything I want out of it.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, he's afraid for
him
. What if she paints him with an incredible set of abs? A perfect eight-pack that he can't seem to get in the gym regardless of how hard he works at it? I mean that's a valid reason for him to be afraid. To have to leave her when she makes him feel better about himself than anyone else has in a long time.”

My inhalation is shaky. And while he's trying to add levity to the unexpectedly deep conversation, his comments still hit home with a sincerity I never expected from him. I can't help the small smile on my lips when
what I really should be doing is figuring out whether he's serious about being afraid of getting closer to me, or if he is just saying it to lighten the sudden insecurity I have after admitting I'm afraid of him.

Or rather
she's afraid of him
.

I struggle to find a balance, because all of a sudden I feel outmaneuvered and a bit vulnerable, and my mind latches onto something he said.

“I would think if she's going to be painting him nude, he's going to be more concerned about the size she paints another area than just his abs.”

He throws his head back and laughs while I sit with eyes narrowed wondering if I just in fact flirted with him. And while to other women, that may sound like the stupidest observation ever, for me, it's something I can't remember having done in the longest time. In fact I'm so used to downplaying every conversation with a male—sparse eye contact, proper distance between us, an air of disdain—for fear of possible repercussions that it takes a minute to compute that this really is me sitting on a counter with a very hot man standing between my legs.

Cue the nerves.

But it's hard to be too anxious when Zander is laughing the way he is and I'm the one who caused it.

“You've got a point there,” he chuckles, and runs one hand through his hair, leaving it adorably tousled before returning his hand to the top of my thigh in the most natural of actions. “She has a very good sense of humor.”

“Hmm.” I'm busy watching him. Studying him. The little crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. The slightest dent in his chin that's noticeable only from up close. The five-o'clock shadow shading his jawline. “She does?”

“Yes, she does.”

Silence falls around us as his thumb subtly rubs back and forth on my thigh. Tension fills the room as expectation builds over what's going to happen next.

My nerves reappear. The panic button suddenly pushed, so I try to escape the uncertainty of what to do or say next.

“I thought you said he had questions for her,” I finally stammer when the unknown becomes way too much.

“He does.”

“And . . . ?” I prompt when he takes a long pause, my mind struggling to stay alert when my hormones are all focused elsewhere.

He slides his hands up and down the tops of my thighs, his lips twisting as he thinks about what questions he wants to ask the most.

“He wants to know why she thinks she's a disaster. He wants to know what he can do besides be patient to help her.” His voice becomes softer with each word, more serious, more intent. “He can't figure out why even though he's sworn to himself he needs to stay away from her, he can't seem to follow through.”

“I don't think she can answer that last question for him.” I feel the need to shift, fidget, under the intensity of his blue eyes and yet I do neither.

“True.” He arches one eyebrow up, a shy smile ghosting his lips as he lifts his hands to my cheeks again. “Maybe she can answer this one for him.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think she wants him to kiss her?”

My breath stops. Heart pounds. Body stills. “Does
he want
to kiss her?”

“There you go answering a question with a question again, Socks.”

“You didn't answer.” Classic avoidance.

“Neither did you.” That shy smile again. The brush of his thumb over my bottom lip, which takes everything I have to not close my eyes and sink into.

“Yes.”
Oh shit.
Did I really just say that?

“Yes?”
he confirms, voice soft but certain.

I nod my head. Swallow over the nerves that just seized up my throat. But all thought is lost as he moves ever so slowly into me.

“Good, because I don't think he was going to take no for an answer.”

Processing his comment is impossible because his lips
are on mine and my faculties are temporarily and willingly drugged.

His lips meet mine with soft brushes asking for acceptance. I part my lips and grant him access to take more from me. Our tongues touch, intertwine, in a soft dance of greeting. His fingers frame my face, angling it, and my skin warms beneath his touch. The desirous groan from the back of his throat spurs me on, gives me a sense of confidence that whatever I'm doing is enough for him.

And God yes, it's doing it for me. His kiss is gentle yet demanding. So soft it feels like a dream, but I definitely know it's not with the heat of him standing between my legs and the taste of wine still on his tongue.

His hands move. Slide down my rib cage and cup my ass before pulling me closer toward the edge and into him.

My head is light. My heart is full. My nerves are slowly being taken over by the haze of everything about him: his cologne, the quiet murmur he makes, the pressure of his hands on my lower back, the softness of his lips, the finesse of his kiss.

My hands begin to move as our lips continue to taste and tantalize. Taunt and satisfy. I slide the palms of my hands over his back, where his muscles tense as his hands mirror mine. Both in unison. Me more hesitantly, him more sure in his touch.

I push away all thoughts of my life before: of Ethan and how after we were married, kissing was never allowed other than soft pecks outside the house for people to see how much he loved his doting wife. Of his crass comments about how mouths were good for only one thing and those apologies were not to be spoken but to be given.

I lose myself to the moment. To the here and now. To all of it. Lost in not thinking. To the feeling. To being wanted. To the simple sensuality of being kissed senseless.

My core burns with desire like I've never felt before. Molten liquid spreading from my center outward. The ache so intense it borders on painful. My lips tingle; my nipples tighten; my skin gets goose bumps.

Zander's hands inch their way beneath the hem of my
shirt. Roughened fingertips scrape ever so gently along that sensitive flesh just about the waistband of my pants. Shocks of sensation spiral up my spine and only add pressure to the need tingeing my reactions.

He gently slides them up my bare back at the same time he shifts his stance so that our bodies are perfectly pressed together with my body perched on the edge of the counter. And I'm not sure if it's the flash of a thought in my mind that he might want to take my shirt off or the sudden sensation of the hardened bulge of his denim-clad dick pressing between the apex of my thighs, but I must hesitate somehow.

Because he reacts.

Zander breaks from the kiss instantly, a startled gasp falling from my mouth as his hands come to my face so I can't look away. And before he can even say a thing, I'm instantly nervous: hands shaking, apology at the ready, rejection accepted, inadequacy verified.

His eyes search mine and I feel like such an idiot. What woman gets kissed senseless by a man and then hesitates when she can feel the evidence of her turning him on? It's not like he was grinding against me or rushing the moment. He's not guilty of anything other than being a virile man.

“Getty?” My name on his lips again. Concern etched in the lines of his face. My eyes desperately try to focus on anything other than his.

The fear takes over: of disappointing him, of my body turning him off, of not being enough, of scaring him away because of my lack of skill—take your pick.

“I'm sorry.” It's a reflex. On my tongue and out of my mouth without thought.

And I get the reaction from him I wonder if I was subconsciously hoping for. “Sweet hell, Getty,” he says in frustration as he pushes away from me, one hand shoving through his hair, the other raking down the back of his neck as he turns and takes a couple of steps away from me. “Will you
stop
apologizing? You did absolutely nothing wrong.”

He turns back around, eyes begging and asking and
searching, and I don't know how to respond, since apologizing, being the one to blame, is all I've ever known for so long.

“I'm sor . . .” My voice fades off, the word—
once again
—dying on my tongue as his jaw sets in frustration.

How was it that seconds ago my blood was on fire from his touch and now it's heating my cheeks in embarrassment? I can't even be kissed without messing it up.

“I told you.
She's
a disaster.” I can barely say it. I have to look away from him, focus on my clasped hands with my thumbs fiddling together. Can't bring myself to watch his reaction to my shame. But the condescending laugh I'm so conditioned to expect doesn't come.

Not in the least.

He comes into my field of vision, his hips, his chest, his chin, his eyes, as his hands tenderly guide my face up so that I can meet his eyes. “He doesn't think she's a disaster. In fact, she's quite the opposite. She's beautifully scarred, gorgeously flawed, irresistibly captivating.”

Tears well in my eyes—his words are probably the nicest ones anyone has said to me in so long. He's not telling me it never happened. He's not telling me I made it all up in my head. Rather he's telling me that despite it all, there is still something redeemable in me.

The first tear slips down my cheek and yet he keeps his eyes unwavering on mine.

“I don't know what he did to you, Getty. Don't have a fucking clue. But I know he didn't treat you right. He took every part of you that you gave him and mistreated it somehow and so badly that you fear the things that should make you feel good. Laughter. Yourself. Your art. Your confidence.
A kiss.
And who knows what else?”

His words hit too close to home. Make me struggle for air under the weight of their presence in this moment. Their implications making me feel so very stupid for letting Ethan steal all those things from me.

“Please, Zander. Don't ruin tonight. I'm sor—didn't mean to . . . Tonight was one of the best times I've had in as long as I can remember. Can we just leave it at that? Please?” My voice wavers. The tears I'm holding back
burn in my throat. His thumbs brush back and forth on my cheeks, reminding me of how much I've let him in.

“Oh, Getty,” he sighs with clear affection as he rests his forehead against mine. We are nose to nose, his hands still on my face, the warmth of his breath feathering over my lips. There's something so comforting in the action, in the fact that, rather than run away, he stepped into me. I close my eyes and feel his concern, accept his compassion.

“One of these days you're going to find a man who treats you right,” he murmurs softly. “Sweeps you off your feet. Treats you like you walk on water. Inspires you to paint sunny skies and calm oceans.”

“Not nudes?” I can't help it. It just felt right to say. And as I reel that he noticed the correlation between my emotions and my pictures, he steps back from me, eyes alight with humor and a quiet laugh on his lips.

“No. Not nudes.” He runs his hands down to my shoulders and squeezes them gently. “You deserve nothing less than the best, Getty.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, wondering how he figures into all of this, considering he was the one kissing me moments ago.

He breathes deeply, whatever it is I can see on the tip of his tongue weighing down the atmosphere around us. Is he thankful for my hesitancy because now that he's stepped back, he regrets getting involved with the head case that I obviously am?

I wouldn't blame him if he did. And I hate that I've already lost a little piece of my healing heart to this man standing in front of me with conflicted eyes. He's kind and patient and stubborn and my God, the man can kiss me so senseless I forgot my old
and
my new name. Is it stupid to say that? Yes. But when you've never known kindness like this, it's easy to give a part of yourself to the person who shows it, because when all you have are broken pieces to begin with, who's going to miss one more little piece?

Seriously?
Why am I having ridiculous thoughts like this when three weeks ago I was ready to poke his eye out with a mini-blind wand? I look at him—blue eyes, dark
hair, hard body—and wonder how he went from annoying to attractive. Am I that messed up—that emotionally wrought—that being nice to me is all it takes?

I hate that I don't know the answer to the question.

“I need you to hear this when I say it and really listen, okay?” he says, pulling me from my self-deprecating thoughts.