Vital Sign (10 page)

H
e’s standing just outside the door of my room wearing a plain white t-shirt, jeans, and flip flops with canvas straps that appear to be frayed on the edges. His blue eyes wash over me. “Smart girl,” he says quietly, noting the pepper spray in my right hand by motioning his eyes down toward it.

“Oh. Um, yeah. Jake, my husband, he makes me,
made
me,
carry it everywhere.” I stumble over my own words, still mixing present tense with past. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it right. It’s just another uncomfortable detail of my pathetic life.              

Zander nods then holds up a very familiar surfboard key chain with the number
four on it. “Thought you may need this.”

“Yes
, I do. Thanks for bringing it by.” I hold out my hand for the key just in time for my stomach to announce that I’m starving.

Zander arches his eyebrows, making the first
clear display of emotion I’ve seen on him yet. I can feel my cheeks redden; my second round of embarrassment in Zander’s company. First I partake in a wet dress contest and now my stomach is making noises that sound like they should only come from a man seven feet tall and five feet wide. So embarrassing.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah. I was just about to order some dinner when you knocked.”

“
Wanna go eat?” The way he speaks in choppy little sentences has me wondering if he ever talks much at all. He’s like a primitive or something.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m just going to take it easy since I
’m supposed to meet you for breakfast in the morning,” I make it a point to remind him.

“So we can meet now. For dinner.”
The way his eyes swallow me up makes it difficult to refuse.

Truthfully, I don’t want to refuse him. I want to be near him. I want to hear him speak. I want to watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes. I want to study him like he has studied me. I want to know him.

“Sure, I guess.” I shrug, knowing that I’d like to avoid having to get up early tomorrow. “I need a few minutes to get dressed.”

“
Okay, I’ll wait in my Jeep.” He motions his hand towards the small parking lot right behind him. I peer around him to see a fire engine red Jeep Wrangler with big tires. The top is missing and I imagine that thing is a lot of fun to drive around in.

I
crack a small smile and nod coolly. “Nice ride.”

Zander grins playfull
y. It’s damn near breathtaking. He’s like a wet dream in the flesh. His playful smile does something funny to my stomach and I hate myself for it. My treacherous, neglected female anatomy has these mental images of Zander rolling through my mind like a movie clip.

I glance over my shoulder into my motel room
, thinking that the courteous thing to do would be to invite him in while I get dressed in the bathroom, but I’m not sure. I don’t even know this man. He could be a psycho.

Even thinking it is so out of place for me. He’s no psycho. I know it. I’m unsure of how I could be so damn sure
, but I am. Standing here, looking at this perfectly imperfect man with a borrowed heart, a scar on his cheek, and an amazing smile, I feel a sense of comfort, a comfort that only comes when you know a person. Like
really
know someone. I’m insane. Medical professionals have a term and a treatment for this sort of thinking. Psychosis and lithium.

Screw it
.

“You can just wait in here if you want
,” I offer, feeling a little insecure but secretly hoping he’ll take me up on my offer.

Zander eyes me carefully
, like he’s reading my mind, studying my body language in search of sincerity. “You sure?” One eyebrow lifts in question.

“Yeah. It’s no problem. I’ll be ready in about five minutes. Plus, the movie playing is a good one.” I smile and it
nearly startles me. I never smile. Ever. I haven’t smiled a real, genuine, lighthearted smile in what feels like an eternity, but in the time span of ten minutes or so, Zander has managed to win two from me.

He
looks almost as shocked as I feel.

*
**

I lied. I said I’d be ready in five minutes and here it is, fifteen minutes later and I’
m finally pulling on the maxi dress that I couldn’t decide on.

What. The. Hell, Sadie?

In the last two years I’ve done next to no planning when it comes to choosing my clothes on any given day. I just haven’t given a shit. But knowing that Zander is out there waiting for me? With Jake’s heart in his chest? It’s kind of like he’s here with me. It’s his heart. It may be in Zander’s perfectly defined chest, but it’s still Jake’s. In my mind, it will always be Jake’s heart. The thought of the combination—Zander and Jake—has me nervous. I take a deep breath and examine myself in the bathroom mirror.

Shit.
Makeup.

It takes me a moment to recall if I even brought my small bag of cosmetics. I haven’t put on my “war paint
,” as Mom has always called it, in a very long time, but I still have it. Mom has always called it that because she says a pretty woman that is well put together usually leaves a path of wounded men, eager to know her, in her wake. It’s always been a little joke between me, mom, and Jenna. I peek into my bag looking for the long-lost makeup. I haven’t worn it consistently over the last two years and it may have spider webs on it by now but it will do. I snag the small light pink pouch and get to it. I coat my lashes with a generous amount of mascara. I line my eyelids with a pencil. My compact of blush is cracked, but I make it work anyway. The only makeup I have for my lips is a half empty tube of clear lip gloss. I smear it on and pat my finger across my lips to get rid of any excess gloss.

“Okay, then,” I whisper to myself as I click open the lock on the door and walk out of the bathroom.
“Okay,” I say simply, looking to Zander, who is sitting by the window at the small table.

His attention turns to me and something indiscernible
flashes in his blue eyes. He stands and makes his way to the door, opening it for me. “After you.”

I nod
, snagging my room key and cell phone before walking out the door. I rapid fire a text to Mom and Dad letting know that I’m fine and that I’ll call soon. I shove my phone into my purse and focus on sharing the space of Zander’s Jeep and Jake’s heart.

One round of oysters on the half shell later, we
’re watching the waitress place our entrees in front of us. Gumbo for me and a huge platter of just about everything the sea has to offer for Zander.

“You’re too skinny. You should eat more than so
up,” he suggests bluntly while unrolling his dinner utensils from his napkin.

“I am not. And gumbo is hardly soup. It’s more
in the “stew” category,” I blurt out entirely too defensively to be discussing food. I may be fifteen pounds skinnier since Jake died, but Zander doesn’t need to know that. I’ve survived on coffee, wine, and whatever happens to be around to eat when I happen to be hungry. A broken heart has a way of ruining a person’s appetite.

“You are indeed pretty skinny,
Slim.” Zander punctuates his observation by shoving a forkful of blackened fish into his delectable mouth.

“Slim?”
I question with one cocked brow.

“Fits
,” he notes, titling his head a little to the side.

“I disagree
, but anyway, let’s get this little visit over with, shall we?” I smooth my dinner napkin across my legs and flick my spoon in the air in a rolling “hurry up” gesture. I’m flustered and ready to retreat to my motel room. He disarms me. He unnerves me. He enraptures me with everything he says and does. I peek up at him in time to see something like worry fills his eyes, making me feel like hugging him. The tension between us is agonizingly evident.

“Okay. What exactly were you
wanting to come from us meeting—talking?”

“I
…well, it’s kind of a long story.” I struggle to articulate exactly why I’ve ended up on this island, eating dinner with this man. My mind clouds when I’m so close to him. My judgment seems skewed and it leaves me grappling at any organized thinking. He does something to my body and mind.

“I’m retired
,” he says casually. “I have plenty of time to waste.”

“Ok
ay. Um…” I don’t really know where to begin, in part because none of this crap was my idea, nor do I have any expectations. I just agreed for the sake of keeping my family, namely my mom, off my back. I never expected this. I never expected to feel so drawn to him. I never expected Zander. “I was coerced. Basically.” I shrug and dig into the steaming bowl of gumbo in front of me, doing my best to feign nonchalance.

“Explain?”

“My family doesn’t think I’m grieving quick enough, or well enough, or whatever
enough, so they thought if I met a few of the people who benefitted from Jake’s death, I’d magically feel better about all of it.” Even saying it aloud makes me roll my eyes and want to kick something. The prospect of walking away from this journey having found some measure of solace or peace just sounds impossible and quite frankly, preposterous. Especially now. Especially after meeting Zander.

“Has it?”

“No. Not really.” It’s not the entire truth, though. Being near Zander and the heart he now calls his own stops me in my tracks. It doesn’t heal me, per se, but it does stop me. I stop drowning in loss and just kind of float in it instead. It’s not much, but it is something.

“I see.” Zander helps himself to another forkful of fish but his eyes don’t leave m
ine for more than a second at a time. He’s focused on me. He’s studying me. Hell, he’s probably judging me too.

“What’s the scar from?” I point to his cheek
, hoping he’ll have some story worth listening to. Of course, at this point, anything is better than me having to explain or talk about anything related to life back in Atlanta.

“That’s from the only fight I ever lost. Sucker punch
,” he explains. His full, pink, lips seal around a cocktail shrimp and he plucks it from the shell with ease. His mouth in action is beguiling. My eyes seem to focus on his mouth and it’s so difficult to tear them away. 

Jesus
, I hate him right now.

Zander makes the act of eating look like a visual display of male perfection and
all but guaranteed sexual prowess. I imagine he’s sinfully exquisite in bed.

Stop, Sadie!

“My turn,” he declares after polishing off the last shrimp on his plate. “What do you do for a living?”

I can’t help but laugh condescendingly at my own expense. I don’t do anything. I use
d to want to see my sculptures in every significant building across the nation. I used to imagine my name on little bronze plaques below my work in places where only the best of the best display their masterpieces. None of that has come to fruition. I don’t expect that it ever will. “I’m the starving artist type.”

“I can see that,
Slim.”

“I’m not that skinny,
” I reiterate.

“Skinny is skinny and you,
Slim, are indeed skinny. Here, have a roll,” Zander jokes, playfully sliding a dinner roll across the table to me. He’s taunting me, but it doesn’t feel like something I should be pissed about. He’s just trying to lighten the mood, no doubt.

“Wait, how many calo
ries is this?” I jibe and it kind of feels good. I used to be lighthearted and fairly decent company. It seems like ages ago, but I do remember it. I chide myself inwardly for not being more fun to be around.

“Eat,” he commands and I have no qualms with that.

I split open the dinner roll and slather it with a generous amount of softened butter then take a massive bite, filling my mouth so that my cheeks are puffed out. Zander’s chest shakes as a low chuckle rumbles through him.

“My turn,” I
muffle around a mouth full of carbohydrates. I chew fast and swallow down the heap of bread. “You said that scar is from a fight. You scrap often,
Scrappy
?”

He smiles another playful grin that makes my steely
, cold heart melt a little. “Used to. Don’t anymore.” Mr. Short and Sweet is never far away. His short, choppy sentences are something I expect fall under “the norm” for him. “My turn. What type of artist are you?”

“Sculptor
. I don’t work anymore. I wasn’t successful to begin with, so it’s no loss. I live off savings and the insurance money that I got after Jake died. What do you do?”

“Retired.” His answer doesn’t go beyond that.

Retired? Retired from what?
I study him closely, watching how he has tensed up and keeps his eyes on his plate instead of me. This is obviously not a subject he wants to discuss over a playful game of twenty questions. I can understand that. I don’t want to talk about any of the heavy stuff either. I have no way of knowing what his hot button topics are, but I know what mine are and Jake’s death is one of them. I don’t want to talk about the details. I don’t want to recall the events of that night in our living room. I’m sure Zander has enough sense to avoid all of those questions just like I have enough sense to read his reaction to the question about his work. He doesn’t want to discuss it and that’s fine. I can’t help but wonder what he retired from that has him living so comfortably. He has a massive house on some private stretch of beach on Tybee Island.

Must have been a cushy job.

Our meal has been eaten and cleared from the table, seemingly unbeknownst to us. Zander and I are watching each other curiously and any further conversation seems unnecessary. I’m content with just breathing the air that we share at this table and I could venture as far as saying that I think he must feel the same. Jake’s heart is just right there. So close. The thick vein in Zander’s neck is visibly pulsing and I watch it, completely enamored with the fact that my husband’s heart is in there driving the blood that courses through this man’s veins. His blue eyes watch me watching him and a minute, an hour, an eternity passes with us like this. Watching. Studying.
Being
.

“Want to watch a movie or something?”
Zander breaks the silence with his offer and almost reflexively I find myself wanting to accept. He could offer to go walking across a bed of hot coals and I imagine I would still want to join him. I’m more enraptured with being near him than I ever could have anticipated.

Or something.

My inner self screams loudly in an estrogen-fueled episode of sexual desire. Zander’s invitation has me lifting my brows as I inwardly run wild through the recesses of my mind, imagining all things Alexander McBride. I still hate him for it, but I hate
me
more.

He’s so forward. He gets right to things and it’s a bit disarming. He never hesitated on the beach, he didn’t hesitate when he
practically dragged me to his house to dry off, he didn’t hesitate to show up at my room uninvited to drop off my key, and he isn’t hesitating now.
Maybe he was a lawyer before he retired.

Zander arches his brows
, waiting for my answer.

“I guess we could watch a movie,
” I concede with a shrug.

“Okay,
Slim. We’ll watch a movie then.”

He lifts his hand discretely
, motioning to the waitress for the check. I lean back in my seat and watch him. He seems so measured and calculated in every move that he makes, every word he speaks, and every glance he makes in my direction. I’ve never seen a man so
together
.

***

Zander’s Jeep is more fun to ride in than I had assumed. The sea breeze tangles around us, my hair whipping around my face. I lean back and rest my head, closing my eyes and relaxing into every turn and acceleration. Even with my eyes shut, I can feel sapphire orbs piercing right through me. I don’t have to open my eyes to confirm it. I just know.

The
brakes squeak lightly and the vehicle comes to a stop. My eyes open lazily and I’m looking at the front…or the back, I guess, of Zander’s beach house. It’s so damn difficult to tell which is the front or the back of these fancy houses. There is no “front door,” just an open concrete patio beneath the house, then the wide white staircase leading to the wraparound balcony.

My door swings open and I slip out of the
Jeep.

“C’mon,” Zander says softly, jerking his head towards his house.

I say nothing. I quietly submit and follow him to the stairs. He comes to a stop and waits for me to come to his side. I place the palm of my hand on the banister and lift one foot to begin climbing the stairs. Zander’s hand goes to the small of my back in true gentleman fashion, but the neglected part of me wishes that his motivation for touching me was due to desire and not duty. His hand is gentle and warm and…promising. I find myself wanting nothing more than to feel his hands against my cheek, my neck, all of me.

I can’t even begin to express just how intoxicating he is. Intoxicating and addictive. It’s difficult to wrap my brain around. The combination of having Jake’s heart here in Zander’s body is like a divine cocktail that has me licking my lips, ready to lap up every syrupy, sweet drop. I want Jake. I want Zander too. I want to feel like I’m more than what I am. I don’t want my broken heart and widow status to be such an integral part of my identity. I want to be better. I want to be mor
e than that.

Zander’s hand falls away from my back as he slides the glass door open to let us in.

“You don’t lock your doors?”

“No boogey men on this island, Sadie.”

“You’d be surprised,” I mutter halfheartedly. I used to think that the bad guys were some story on the evening news. I most certainly never thought that I’d get to meet one face to face in my living room, but I did, and I’ll never be the same because of it.

Zander’s eyes catch mine and he seems to see that I’ve met with disaster thanks to one of those “boogey men
.” He takes two steps towards me, closing the space between us. The hand that was on my back lifts to the cap of my shoulder and squeezes gently. His thumb makes short passes back and forth, amplifying my desire to feel his hands all over me.

“Nothing bad happening in this house, Sadie.
Swear it.” He’s just close enough for me to feel his breath and breathe in his scent.

“Bad things can happen anyw
here. Even in a cop’s living room.” My whisper comes out weak and sullen.

Zander’s jaw tightens
, displaying a twitching muscle in his cheek. His sapphire eyes turn fiery as his nostrils flare.

I should at least attempt to explain.

“
Be strong, Sadie.”
I hear Jake’s words in my head as I search for the resolve to speak my agonizing truth.              

“That’s what happened
,” I say quickly. “Jake was shot. Right in front of me.” I nod then drop my head to eye the glossy wood floors beneath my feet.

Before I can gather any sort of cognitive thinking about anything else, Zander steps even closer to me and I’m pulled into him. All air in my lungs seizes. My eyes squeeze shut and I find myself battling away tears.

“Sadie, I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.” Zander speaks close to my ear and the way he’s apologized doesn’t feel like the typical condolences that I’m so used to avoiding. The way he’s apologized makes me feel like he’s apologizing for so much more. Or maybe even for something else entirely.