Down Shift (19 page)

The fairy-tale first time was anything but for me. There were selfish demands and disregard of my pain instead of soft words of encouragement and proclamations of love. A few grunts, some criticism from Ethan, and then I was left alone in a gigantic bed with tears drying on my cheeks and blood on the sheets as he left the hotel room for a while. Only to return later with the scent of perfume on his collar and alcohol on his breath.

“Getty?” Zander's searching tone pulls me from the black memory.

“Sorry. I was just . . . Never mind.” I force a smile to my lips to tell him I'm okay. “If I'd felt controlled under my father's thumb, living with Ethan was more like a noose around my neck. Perfection was expected and anything less was punishable: organization, white-glove cleanliness, appearance, manners, meals,
everything
. His paranoia grew over fears he was going to lose his position in the company and lose everything. That fear was taken out on me. Ridiculous accusations, constant criticisms, complete control over my life.” My voice breaks on the last sentence, too many memories haunting me to remain unaffected.

“So you left?” Zander prompts in a way that tells me I don't have to explain about the reasons any more. That he understands how personal they are and he doesn't need to know the specifics because he can infer.

“Yes.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I filed for divorce in secret and then left in the middle of the night, but somehow he was prepared for it, because he'd
already frozen all my accounts. My father did the same to my trust accounts, when it shouldn't be possible.”

I can all but see the cogs of his mind clicking into place. How upset I became at his accusation of being a trust fund baby. Why I have expensive things but need my job desperately.

“And now they're here,” he says in affirmation.

“Just my father—that I know of.” And I hate that momentary panic of wondering whether Ethan is lurking nearby in town. I push it away. Focus on getting it all out. “I knew he'd find me eventually. The long-reaching arms of Damon Caster are inescapable. But I needed enough time to make sure I was strong enough to face him. That their hold over me had lessened. And those words,
hold over me
 . . . I'm so embarrassed to even admit that I let someone have that.”

Shame has me averting my eyes from his. I look out to the water, watch the ocean breeze create patterns in the water, and bite back the self-reprimands over the life I used to live.

“Getty, don't. Please don't.” He tugs on my hand for me to look at him, and I can't just yet. “No one knows anything about being in your shoes unless they've walked in them. But I'm not thinking that.
Not at all.
I'm thinking how much courage you must have had to leave that life. One others thought was full of privilege and perfection, but instead it was like a prison.”

“Not so courageous now, though, when I saw my father standing in the bar today and my first thought was to run again.” I choke on the words. Another tear falls. The heat of the confessions feels like they've stained my cheeks red. “And then you brought the car and it was running and . . .” My words trail off and my train of thought gets momentarily lost in the emotion.

“What did he want, Getty?” There's concern in his voice. And maybe some anger.

“He wanted me to stop my charade, as he called it, and come back home. That as Ethan's wife, I need to uphold our family's social status,” I mimic in my father's stiff
baritone, and laugh listlessly. “I told him a word he's never heard from me before:
no
. That I was staying put.”

Zander squeezes my hand and when I turn to look at him, his smile is wide and proud.

“Then he told me he's picking me up tomorrow night for dinner so he can talk some sense into me. Make a plan to mitigate the gossip when I return.”

Zander must sense the resignation in my voice. “If you go, I'm going with you.”

His words shock the hell out of me and are nothing close to what I'd expected to hear. Yet I've never heard anything sound better. “I couldn't ask you to do that.”

Please go with me.

“You're not asking me. I'm offering.” He nods his head resolutely as if the discussion is over.

“He's not going to respond well to your presence.” And why am I apologizing for a man who obviously has no regard for me?

“Even better.” Zander smacks his hands together and rubs them. “There's nothing I like more than to thumb my nose at authority.”

We stare at each other with matching smiles, hips resting on this heap of a car amid the beauty of nature, and there is a sense that something has shifted between us. Trust has been exchanged. Boundaries have been crossed.

So many doors have been opened.

Even though all our questions haven't been answered or our fears completely confessed, we both seem okay with the secrets that still remain. This is a huge step forward for the both of us. A leap of faith.

We stand with my head resting on his shoulder and our fingers entwined—in the middle of an unexpected bright spot in my new life—and I feel utterly naked even though I'm completely clothed. It's unnerving. It's exhilarating.

It's empowering.

And it's about time.

O
ut of habit, my eyes scan the streets on the drive home through town as if we're going to accidentally run into my father. I hate that I'm back to this feeling after being on my own for over four months. It reminds me how I felt in those first days—like a fugitive on the lam about to get caught and dragged back to jail at any moment.

Zander pulls into the driveway and the minute we enter the house, I'm immediately restless. Maybe it's the
Now where do we go from here?
realization or just a sudden thrust back into my reality when the lookout point was more of a reprieve.

Keeping busy, I put dishes away, fold a load of laundry, change the sheets on my bed. Zander's on the couch when I enter the kitchen, legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankles, his laptop on his thighs. He doesn't look up or bug me and I'm thankful for the space he's given me, because even though I'm relieved at having told someone, my mind is now working a million miles an hour. I grab a drink and then put it back down, my stomach suddenly in knots. Unsure what to do next, I walk into my bedroom, where a blank canvas looks tempting to me, but for the first time, I'm not sure what to paint.

Resigned to this unsettled feeling, I opt for a long, hot shower that does nothing to ease the discord. After I dry
off, I slide on my robe and the smile is automatic when I see Zander's products on the counter tipped over, crooked, backward. The irony is it's so perfectly messed up that I know he did it on purpose.

His intent makes the act so much sweeter. And my next decision that much easier to make.

The house is quiet when I exit the bathroom and I catch myself moving toward the sliding glass doors leading to the outdoor deck. By the light of the moon I can make out the tools still strewn around the platform, the errant two-by-fours waiting to reinforce the existing structure, the patchwork quilt of wood still waiting to be sanded and painted.

But it's the lights on the water that hold my attention. The boats coming home to their families or ones leaving on a new journey. I watch them for what feels like forever, my legs chilled beneath the robe and my breath fogging the window in front of me. I stand motionless in the darkened hallway, because like at the restaurant, I lose myself in the story I create for each one of the glimmering lights.

Because sometimes thinking about others makes it so much easier to forget about yourself.

“Getty?” Zander's voice is soft as he steps up behind me. And I don't jump, because for some reason, I knew he'd find me. Bring me back when I'm trying to forget myself.

“Hmm?” I keep my eyes on the lights, their stories still loud in my head, but my body is most definitely shifting its attention toward his undeniable presence.

“You're quiet. Have been since we came home. You okay?”

Like that's not a loaded question when it comes to the two of us. I meet his eyes briefly in the reflection of the glass before looking back toward the lights. It takes me a moment to answer him. “Yes. No. I don't know.”

He chuckles softly and I know he's thinking of the last time our conversation involved this phrasing. When he rests his hands upon my shoulders, it takes everything I have not to sag into him. His touch ignites something within me and it's like I can't think straight when he does it.

But I'm not sure if I want him to move his hands,
because I'm so sick of thinking and worrying that I welcome the lack of thought. And if his hands on my shoulders can mess up my head, I wonder what the weight of his body on mine could do.

It's a fleeting thought as his chuckle fades and the silence descends around us once again. The draw of his breath and a car driving by outside are the only sounds.

“It's okay to feel a little all over the place after baring your secrets to someone.” I want to believe him that this is normal, but I'm so far from recognizing normal anymore I don't know what to think. When I don't respond, he continues. “I know I do.”

“I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel—”

“I told you no more apologies, Getty.” His voice is stern, implacable. “You didn't do anything wrong.” He squeezes my shoulders gently and my eyes flash up to meet his in the reflection again. Our gazes hold through the darkness, a mixture of concern and understanding in his. “Talk to me. Turn around and tell me what's going on in that beautiful mind of yours.”

Hesitation is my friend tonight. And so is the glass in front of me that allows me to look at Zander without really looking at him. Call it feeling exposed or vulnerable, but for some reason right now I can't look him directly in the eyes.

“I don't know.” I pause, take a deep breath, and try to find the words to express how I'm feeling. “It's like I'm so sure that I did the right thing in leaving, so positive that I didn't make up how I was being treated in my head or overreact, like Ethan used to tell me I was doing. Regardless, I can't help the doubt from creeping in. And I hate it. Am so ashamed of it because I'm stronger than that now. A different person than that weak woman I used to be. But after all of those years being controlled and criticized and told I was wrong . . . I loathe that I feel so strong one minute and the next fall apart. It makes me question my sanity.” My chest constricts as I lay the contradictions that rule my life out on the proverbial table and hope he understands what I'm trying to say. That he doesn't judge me as weak for the admission.

“That's okay. So very normal.” The heat of his breath hits my neck as he leans his forehead against the crown of my head. Such an intimate action when all I want to do is pull away, because I don't deserve this from him. What I deserve is for him to give my shoulders a good hard shake to knock some sense in me and tell me I need to buck up. But he doesn't. He gives me patience, understanding, and compassion, when I least expect them. “You can't undo something in a few months when it's been hammered into your head year after year after year.”

“I don't want to be that person anymore, Zander. I don't want to be Gertrude Caster-Adams.” My voice is soft but conveys my inner turmoil.

His hands on my shoulders pressure me to turn around so that I come face-to-face with him, my back now to the sliding glass door. His blue eyes are full of determination when they meet mine. “You're not her anymore. You're Getty Caster, from PineRidge, who likes messy silverware drawers, thinks a mini-blind wand is a formidable weapon, and is the only woman I know who can rock a pair of mismatched knee-high socks and make them look sexy as hell.”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and try to step to the side. His words hit my ears but fail to sink in.

“No. Let me finish.” He steps closer, and I can't deny the powerful feel of the heat of his body against mine. Next his hands are framing my jaw and directing my face up to his. “You're Getty Caster. A fighter in every sense of the word. A person who is ten times better than any man who puts her down. A woman who knows it's okay to be afraid sometimes so long as she also realizes it takes a helluva lot more bravery to be scared and succeed than to fear and give in.”

Tears well in my eyes. Even with his hands on my cheeks, I subtly disagree with a shake of my head, because words aren't possible right now. What he's telling me is so much harder to accept than the lies and the doubt.

“You're Getty Caster,” he continues, “first-time beer drinker and apprentice deck carpenter, who has a wicked imagination when it comes to making up other people's
life stories like in the restaurant. Now you just need to finish figuring out what you want your story to be.”

“No.” It comes out without any conviction and with a sob lodged in my throat. Because his words are causing all my hopes and wants and desires to surface when they've been pushed down for so very long.

“Yes.” His voice is soft yet definitive. When I lower my eyes, he just lifts my head higher so I have no choice other than to look at him. “You're Getty Caster. Artist extraordinaire, painter of sunsets instead of stormy seas.”

“Or of white squalls.” My words are barely audible. The moment feels at once too real, too raw, and yet poignantly perfect.

“Or of white squalls,” he repeats just as quietly.

His smile is genuine. His gaze is steadfast on mine. And there's something in the way he says the words that tells me he really means them. He doesn't see that other woman I used to be when he looks at me. He sees the new me.

Getty Caster.

We stand in that suspended state of anticipation for what feels like forever. His hands are still on my face and his breath feathers over my lips as my heart pounds in a new rhythm. One filled with expectation, hope, and a fear so very different from what I'm used to. It's the kind that makes your palms sweat and stomach drop because the man standing before you is so incredible inside and out that you're afraid he isn't real.

“Zander.” It's not a question—rather it's an admission of wanting and telling him
yes
and
I don't know
at the same time.

“Getty.”

He closes the distance at such an achingly slow pace that by the time his lips brush ever so slightly against mine in a kiss that hints at things to come, I feel like I've waited years for it to happen.

Our lips meet, once, twice, a third time before he leans back, eyes searching, demanding, wanting, and yet we are completely motionless and utterly silent. Desire flows like a raging river through me while nerves, doubts, and insecurities fight their way upstream.

“I'm nervous.”

“Of what?” And the curiosity laced with hope in his voice tells me he's asking me to verbalize my decision about wanting to be with him. My understanding there's only so much he can give me.

“I'm . . .” I clear my throat as my hands fidget where they rest on the bare skin of his waist. I avert my eyes before I speak so he can't see my embarrassment. “I'm not any good at this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This.” My cheeks burn with mortification and I wish I'd just kept my mouth shut. I shrug, embarrassment stealing the words from my lips as I open and then close them again. “Sex.” When I finally say the word, it's barely audible, my insecurities overruling the heat of his touch on my skin and the ache it makes me feel.

His answering chuckle is low and rich and all I hear is Ethan's mocking tone in the sound. Needing space, I try to shrug out of Zander's hold on my cheeks, to be alone, to lick my shameful wounds in private, but his hold remains steadfast. “Getty, look at me.”

He waits until I comply. I can tell my jaw is set with the hurt I don't want to convey, but when my eyes find his, the mocking look I expect isn't there. In fact what I see is exactly the opposite: disbelief, understanding, compassion. A million questions and answers pass between us in a single moment of connection.

And then something shifts. Maybe it's the rub of his thumb over my parted lips. Or the way that soft smile lifts up one corner of his mouth and carries through to his eyes. I can't place it, but it's as if someone has vacuumed all the air from the room and replaced it with electricity. My skin burns with desire where he touches me, and a strange mix of anxious arousal surges through me.

“I don't believe you for a second. If the sex wasn't good, I assure you it
wasn't you
. There's no way you can kiss the way you kiss and not be any good at it. That's not possible,” he murmurs as he leans forward and brushes his lips against mine again. “I have a feeling it was your partner who wasn't any good.”

“Mmm,” I murmur against his mouth, willing myself to believe him.

When he leans back, the lift of his eyebrows is a subtle warning not to doubt him. His eyes are begging me to trust him. I do, but I'm scared. I want him but don't even know where to start.

“Let me show you differently,” he says before he takes my hand in his and leads me down the hallway toward his bedroom.

There is no turning back now. My heart beats faster with each step and my body becomes more attuned to every single thing about him. The bunch of the muscles in his back as he walks. The intricate splash of ink on his shoulder. His hair mussed. His unmistakable but subtle scent of cologne. The confidence in his stride.

When we enter his bedroom, I'm glad he's holding my hands so they can't tremble out of control. He stops in front of the bed and pulls me to him so we're face-to-face, eyes locked on each other's, our matching shaky breaths the only sound in the room around us, and the glow of the moon the only light in it.

With his eyes trained on mine and the rush of blood pounding in my ears, I feel his fingers fumble with the tie on my robe. The smooth silk rubs against my bare skin. Then the cool air of the room hits me as the sash falls to the ground and the fabric parts. We stare at each other for a beat before the heat of his hands slides over my waist.

I hold my breath in reaction to the unknown that's exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He doesn't break our visual connection as he slowly runs the palms of his hands up my rib cage and then back down to the curve of my hips. His touch crosses to the middle of my back and then moves up the length of my spine before his fingers knead into my shoulders. Then they retrace their path all over again.

He continues this slow, tantalizing seduction, but it's the look in his eyes that holds me rapt. He watches my reactions to every single brush of his hands over my skin. Every inhalation. Every flutter of my eyelashes. Every time my eyes widen from the temptation he offers.

My body aches in delicious ways that are brand-new to me. Each nerve at the delta of my thighs and along my nipples is left frenzied and standing at attention in the wake of his touch.

Foreplay was a waste of energy before. Seduction nonexistent in my marriage. My pleasure, my needs, my wants, all of that forgotten in the face of Ethan's greed and disregard for me.