Down Shift (7 page)

“You're talented, Getty. There's no doubt about that.”

I look away from him, the room suddenly in shadow as the clouds shift outside, and his next step toward me blocks the glow of light from the lamp. The room feels way too small, way too intimate without the harshness of the desk light.

“It's too personal,” I whisper, giving him the only explanation I will give. Not expecting him to understand . . . but almost needing him to.

“That's obvious,” he says, eyebrows drawing together, head angling to the side to study me. “But no one is going to see the same thing you see. Everyone's churning ocean is fueled by a different type of storm.”

He shifts his feet, his body now closer; our eyes don't waver from each other's. “What's your storm?” The question is out before I can stop it, my own curiosity piqued.

Our proximity allows me to see the pang of hurt flash through his eyes, the sudden halt in his movements. The recovery comes quickly but not fast enough to hide that whatever he's running from affects him deeply.

“My storm?” he chuckles, self-deprecation in his tone and a look in his eyes he doesn't give me a chance to read. “I don't think it's ever really stopped churning, but there's definitely been a few surprise white squalls thrown in.”

“Is that why you've come here? To escape it?” I push for answers, no longer wanting to feel like I'm the only one exposed, and curious to know more about this man before me.

“A white squall,” he murmurs. And it's all there sitting in the depth of his eyes—the hurt, the indecision, the regret over whatever has happened to cause him to be here
right now—and yet it's also so very well protected that I'm not sure what else to say. “You've been crying.”

I blanch, hating that he has noticed, and at the same time, I pick up on the sudden change of topic. I'm immediately wiping my fingers under my eyes and trying to hide the evidence, although I'm not sure how much good it will do.

“I'm fine,” I say, my voice infused with much more certainty than I feel. “It was just the song I was listening to. It was sad.”

Jesus, Getty, couldn't you think of a better lie?

“Uh-huh.” He takes another step forward. The simple sound almost an unspoken warning not to lie to him again. “Just the song,” he murmurs with a nod as he reaches out, hand to the side of my jaw, thumb brushing over the line of my cheek.

That jolt I felt last night? That was nothing compared with the start and stop of my heart at the feel of his hand on my face. Skin to skin.

My lips fall lax. The sharp intake of my breath is audible in the silence. And I hate that I suddenly feel like I don't have a single clear thought in my mind, let alone an intelligent one.

“You've got paint,” he says, mint on his breath, as he leans in to get a better view through the dimly lit room, “right here.” And yet after his thumb rubs at the smudge, he doesn't remove his hand. He just keeps it there, our faces close, our eyes questioning so many things. Time slows.

“Thanks,” I finally whisper, tongue darting out to wet my lips as I try to draw in a steady breath.

“And I'm smart enough to know it was more than just
the song
.” His words hit my ears, the deep timbre of his tone a soothing rebuke in a sense, because he is actually listening to me, really hearing me when I'm so unaccustomed to any man in my life caring above and beyond the surface.

Words. Thoughts. Confessions. The look in his eyes and the comfort of his touch cause my head to whirl, make me want to let him in, and use his shoulder for comfort when this isn't even really an option I'll afford myself.
Compassion from a man isn't something I'm used to, especially when it's directed at me.

Thunder rumbles. We both jump at the sound, the moment instantly broken. The gasp from my lips gets drowned out. Zander steps back with a startled shake of his head before turning his back to me as he walks toward the window, shoving his hand through his hair, a sigh filling the space.

“Fucking squalls,” he murmurs as he hangs his head for a moment, the words weighing heavy in the room as I stand there trying to figure out what just happened. He turns and looks at me for a moment, eyes sincere, but the words don't make any sense. “I'm sorry . . . I just can't.” And with that, he strides from the room, leaving me with nothing more to look at than an empty doorway.

What the hell just happened?

I move to the edge of my bed, sit down, and try to sift through the myriad of emotions I didn't expect to feel around him: hurt, rejection, confusion, dejection. And I hate that I feel any of these from a moment that never should have happened with a man that shouldn't even be here in the first place.

He
just can't
what? Talk to me? Be in the same room as me? Be in the same house?

Kiss me?

Oh my God, Getty, can you be any more ridiculous?
The thought flickers and fades away instantly, my stupidity at an all-time high. I really have lost my mind, the emotions of the morning running rampant and killing my brain cells. Whom am I kidding thinking stuff like this? A guy who looks like he does would most definitely not be into a woman who looks like me. Never.

Ethan's words come back to me now.
Disgusting. Overweight. Pathetic. Useless. Ugly.
They flicker through my mind and poke holes in the confidence I've slowly built from nothing.

And to think I had a moment when I wanted to let Zander in. A break in my resolve when I thought perhaps it might be a little easier to share a part of me with someone,
because if we're both running from something, then that means maybe he just might be a little more understanding.

Jesus. Did I really think that was going to happen? Making myself vulnerable to someone else before I've even figured myself out was a stupid move. Shows I haven't come very far yet in this mile I'm traveling one inch at a time.

Don't trust anyone. Trust is a false pretense. Something that's never really real.

Well, luckily he came to his senses before I made that colossal mistake. Bolted before I unfolded my complex past like an origami bird and asked him to help me try to fold the same piece of paper back into a different shape.

I cover my face with my forearm and just listen to the storm rage on outside and take stock, try to disregard the hurt over the fact that obviously I did something wrong, that he saw my most intimate of emotions splashed over the canvas, and even though he praised me, he still rejected me.

Stop it, Getty. Stop blaming yourself.
Maybe it was
him
.
You did nothing wrong but be you—well, the new you—so maybe it was his own issues that caused him to abruptly leave.

I suck in a deep breath and fight through my doubt. Shed the pathetic part of me that wants to blame myself for whatever reason is behind why he walked out. Acknowledge that this is why I need to steer clear of anything and anyone until I've had enough time to deal with my past, forget the old me, heal from her scars, and fully embrace the now.

Realize that I need no one and nobody. That I can exist, live, thrive, all on my own.

They say loneliness adds beauty to life.

I guess I'm getting a whole new makeover.

“O
ne of these days, Getty, you're going to realize that you're a local now and you're going to have to step on the other side of the counter, grab a drink of your own, and watch the game with the rest of us.”

I lift the rag in my hand to acknowledge Liam's comment, which comes at least once a shift. I know he's just being sweet and that I'm not really a local yet. Besides, any free time I have, I like to explore the island or lock myself away with my paints so I can learn more.

But the idea of having a beer and relaxing with the game and a crowd of people sounds more than welcome right now. I definitely need it after my conversation today, the bad news it brought, and the pang of loneliness I feel from it.

A cheer goes up across the tables, causing me to look up. The bar hums with the buzz of an excited crowd—there's a tense game plus the sun is shining for the first time all week. Add to that an influx of tourists fresh off the ferry and the Lazy Dog is crowded, loud, and keeping me on my toes this afternoon with orders.

“An Arrogant Bastard, please.”

I know who it is the minute I hear the request; somehow my body is attuned to him even when I don't want it to be. I don't look up, don't acknowledge him. Rage and
irritation and everything within that range fire anew as I think about the phone call I had earlier with Darcy where I found out the bullshit he's pulled.

No wonder he's been MIA since the other morning when he left my bedroom.

“Well, that's a self-diagnosing order if I've ever heard one,” I say under my breath, but even with my eyes focused on keeping the foam minimal on the pour, I can see his body jolt.
Good.
He heard me.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks pensively, his body leaning over the bar some, so that I get that quick whiff of soap and cologne that now haunts the halls of the house after he takes a shower.

My laugh is long and low, the sound of sarcasm poured over ice. “Take your pick.” I slide his glass across the varnished bar top and finally meet his gaze. My eyebrows are arched and my lips are twisted as I'm sure my defiant derision is reflected in my eyes.

The noise of the bar fades into the background—a groan over a bad call, a good-natured shout for a waitress—and yet his eyes hold mine in a war of wills: his asking what I'm pissed at and mine telling him he should already know. I find myself leaning in closer at the same time he does, waiting for him to fess up to his lies, but I'm greeted with a slow, lazy smirk that spreads across his mouth until it turns into a full-blown arrogant grin.

“You're speaking female, Socks. Can you please—”

“
Darcy.
There's a word for you.” I lean my hips against the counter behind me.

“Technically, that's a name, but . . .” He chuckles over the rim of his glass.

“Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.”

“I'm assuming you've spoken to her, then.”

“What the fuck, Zander?” His eyes widen at my use of the word. I can hear my father's reprimand in my head. “I never agreed to staying in the house with you. To being roommates.”

Especially after the other morning in my room when you did whatever you did.

“If you're worried about me seeing you naked, we've
already done that part, so it's not a big deal.” He tips his glass to me, his smile unwavering.

Every word he speaks makes me angrier. “That's not the point!” I raise my voice in exasperation.

“Then what is?”

“I don't like you.”
There. I said it.
But it's a huge fat lie and I'm afraid he can see right through it.

“Yes, you do, Getty. You don't drink beer on the beach with someone you don't like.”

I glare at him, hating his reasoning. “Well, I don't like beer either, so . . .”

“You lost me. You don't like beer; therefore you don't like me?” The amusement in his voice for calling my rationality on the carpet makes me frustrated. Irritable. Bitter.

“Why would you tell Darcy that I agreed to—”

“Excuse me?” The voice to his left catches me off guard and prevents the verbal barb of rebuke from firing off my tongue. “Are you Zander Donavan? You are, aren't you?” The questions are followed by a nervous chuckle and a flush of cheeks and both have definitely caught my attention.

The orders waiting to be filled are forgotten as this gentleman piques my curiosity.
Who the hell is Zander Donavan?

Zander's eyes stay locked on mine momentarily; a flicker of irritation at being interrupted fleets through them, telling me this conversation is far from over, before he turns toward the middle-aged man beside him.

The smile that was an arrogant taunt to me slowly transforms into a self-assured one, slow and steady, as he nods his head and reaches his hand out to the man. “Yes, I am,” he says quietly. “Nice to meet you. And you are?”

“Oh man, this is so cool,” the guy says, eyes wide and movements jerky as he shifts his stance and sticks his hand out. “Glen. Glen's my name.”

“Nice to meet you, Glen,” Zander says with a nod, eyes remaining on the man and smile still on his face, but there is a different feel here. Almost like he has a front up, on display, and I can't take my eyes off him or stop trying to figure out what I'm in the dark on.

“I didn't mean to interrupt, but I told my wife it was you, and she bet me I wouldn't come over here and find out. . . . Man, this is so exciting!” He rubs his hands together. When I look back to Zander, I can tell he's completely comfortable with strangers approaching him.

“Getty.” Liam's deep baritone calls through the loud chaos of the bar and as much as I don't want to care about this mystery man who has waltzed into my life and seems to be here to stay for a while, I do want to know.

Struggling between curiosity and duty, I take a fortifying breath and nod my head to my boss, let him know I'm on the orders stacking up. Reluctantly I step away from my position that was perfect for eavesdropping, but not before I hear Glen say, “I'm sorry about losing your ride.”

Those words repeat in my head during the rest of my shift. The bar only gets busier, so any spare moment I have is spent stretching my back or running to the bathroom, although I'd like to be asking Zander for an explanation.

I watch him, though. Sitting on the other side of the bar, surrounded by fellow patrons and to my dismay a few females. And it's not like it's because I care or anything, because I don't. Definitely not. It's just because I want answers I can't get while he's busy flirting aimlessly with women he'll probably never even see again.

His laugh floats across the bar and it's like the breeze fanning the fire of my irritation with him. I have no right to be annoyed except for what he told Darcy, and yet with each passing minute he's over there laughing and having fun, it increases.

I finish the next set of orders, realize that the end of that hour Liam mentioned to me is coming up. My eyes flicker back to Zander. To his dark hair curling up at the neck of his shirt and to how his fingers trail up and down the lines of condensation on his glass. Or that easygoing smile that says he doesn't have a care in the world although obviously he does or he wouldn't be here running from turbulent storms and white squalls.

“Why don't you pull yourself a pint and get off your
feet for a bit? Sit with the locals and watch the last few innings.”

I look over to Liam, who's wiping his hands on a rag with that look in his eye that says there is no arguing with him. “Tell me something. You ever heard of the name Zander Donavan before?”

He gives me a slow and steady nod as his eyes narrow in thought. “A race car driver. Indy, I think. Pretty damn good from what I recall. Popular too. I seem to remember overhearing something on
SportsCenter
,” he says, motioning to the televisions that blanket the bar, “that he left midseason with some controversy—”

“Liam!” His name is shouted from the other end of the counter and he holds up a finger to tell one of the regulars it will be just a minute.

“Is that . . . ?” Liam says, all of a sudden the dots connecting for him as he looks across the bar to where Zander is seated. He stares, lips parted, as recognition makes it hard for him to find the words to speak. “Holy shit, it is him. Well, what do you know? In my bar of all places too.”

“Lucky us,” I mutter under my breath with a hint of sarcasm that apparently only I can hear, because by the look on Liam's face he is more than thrilled to have Zander here.

Great.
Now the man is invading this space of mine too.

“That definitely can't be bad for business. Him coming in here when you're on shift.”

“What?”
How is he even aware we know each other?

“Small-town life,” he answers for me. “Everyone knows the two of you are living together up in the place on Canary. I knew he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. Just figured he looked like someone I knew.” He shakes his head and looks over to where Zander is speaking to four guys who have stopped at his table to talk. I thought they were just patrons being friendly, but now the constant revolving door at his table makes so much more sense; they are fans who recognize Zander.

Beside me, Liam clucks his tongue and draws my attention back to him. The concentration on his face tells
me he's trying to figure a way to market Zander's presence, and I hate the idea instantly. There's no need for him to be more in my space than he already is. “Lucky for me you're the one working here, since he seems only to have eyes for you. Hot damn!”

I roll my eyes, the rebuff on my tongue when his words really hit my ears.
Only has eyes for me?
Is he joking? When I glance over to my boss, he's dead serious. And now I'm the one having trouble forming words.

“Oh no. We're not together. I mean it was a mistake—”

“Your shift's over, Getty,” he says with a knowing smile, saving me from my flustered response. “Go grab a glass of the poison of your choice. Enjoy the full house while I sort your tips out.”

“Thanks.” He retreats to the other end of the bar while I'm left trying to figure out what just happened.

*   *   *

It's the hum of the bar that I love, just not the people who make the sound. But I'm not caring whatsoever, because the Tom Collins in my hand is empty and my head is slightly fuzzy. Definitely one good thing about never being allowed to drink: You get buzzed off your first one.

And luckily tucked in the corner on the side of the bar like a hermit, I get to keep mostly to myself and enjoy the atmosphere but not really be a part of it.

“We never got to finish our conversation.” I don't know why Zander's voice is akin to nails over chalkboard to me—possibly because I've been sitting here stewing about him and how much I don't want to be—but the minute he slides into the booth beside me, I jump. Without a single word, I rise from my seat, walk behind the bar and through the door to the back room that serves as a quasi break room and a storage area.

“What's your problem?” His voice is too close behind me—obviously he's following me when he's not allowed back here.

For some reason I don't take him as one who follows rules.

“I just want to get away from you.” I turn around to face
him, realizing all of a sudden how small this room feels with him occupying it. “I told you, I don't like you.”

And why is that, Getty? Because he makes that fluttery feeling happen in your stomach?
He only has eyes for you.
Because you don't want to think about him or care about his white squalls and yet you do?

I shake the thoughts from my head, my own little devil and angel warring within me. It's the last thing I need when I have a fight right in front of me that needs my attention.

“You're obviously angry at me for something. An argument goes a little smoother when both people know what the fight's about. . . .” He lifts his eyebrows and all I see is a taunt instead of a question.

“Shall we start with the word again?
Darcy.
”

“You mean
name
.”

“This is exactly why I don't like you. You're frustrating and arrogant and you think you can waltz back here, tell me what is going to happen, how to fight, what to do, after you don't even have the courtesy of telling me who you are.” My words fall out in a tirade that makes no sense even to me. Why am I hurt, though? Is it because he didn't trust me enough to tell me?

And neither did Darcy, her nonresponse flickering through my mind: “That's for him to tell you. Just as your story is for you to tell him, if you want.”

It's not like you've told him anything either.

“Does it matter who I am?” His shoulders square as he takes a step closer, hands at his side, eyes searching mine for the truths behind my words.

“No. Yes. Damn.”
Brilliant.

“That's a great answer. Very decisive.” The smirk is back. So is the seductive scent of his cologne.

“Quit mocking me.” I fight against the urge to walk out and leave this argument behind, uncomplicate things that are already so damn complicated.

“Does it matter who I am? What my job is?” I can sense he cares about my answer for some reason.

“No. Of course not. But you could have at least told me.”

“It doesn't change anything, Getty, other than now
you can go search on the Internet about me, about my past, and read shit that may or may not be true. Is that what you want? Because I have a feeling there is a helluva lot more you want to say, so have at me.”

“Oh.” It's my only response, and our eyes lock. The prospect of looking him up never really even crossed my mind. But now of course that he's mentioned it . . . the idea will nag at me. And in that instant I think of myself, how upset I'd be if someone told him who I really was and how vulnerable and betrayed I'd feel. And then I wonder if that's his whole game plan here: make me feel bad so that I walk away from this argument feeling sorry for him. I don't think he has any clue that I've spent so many years being the wallflower in the corner, taking the blame, not fighting back, and I just can't do that right now.