Down Shift (11 page)

I get out of the car, slam the door shut, and just stare at it for a minute while I work myself up to walk to the Lazy Dog.

“Sounds like something's wrong with your car?”

Zander's voice has me gritting my teeth and wishing him to go away. I don't answer, just wipe the tears from under my eyes with as much dignity as I can, and start toward the house to get my umbrella.

“Getty?” I ignore his call and walk right past him, hating that he keeps seeing me in moments when I'm frazzled and a wreck. Footsteps on the wood floor tell me he's following. “If there's something wrong with the engine, it's not a big deal. There's a shop on the other side—”

“I need my car.” Knowing his eyes are on me, I'm flustered and for the life of me, I can't remember where I left my umbrella. Like a madwoman, I start rifling through things, the clock ticking away and my urgency growing as the start of my shift looms closer.

“We live on an island. The bar is only a couple blocks away. Your car not starting isn't the end of the world.”

“Leave me alone, Zander.” He wouldn't understand.

My closet. The alcove in the hall. The family room. And I still can't find the damn thing. All with him right behind me. Breathing down my neck. His presence adding pressure to his silent scrutiny.

“Why here, Getty? An island's not exactly the best place to go if you're running from something. That car of yours is only going to get you so far until the ferry comes.”

His taunting words knock the wind from my sails. Try to coerce an answer out of me. And I falter for a moment, eyes searching and mind questioning myself for the millionth time on why I picked this location. The answer was simple back then when my only thought was to get as far away as possible. The combination of the island's seclusion mixed with a place to stay for free was more than enough for me.

But I don't owe an explanation to anyone, least of all him.

“I need to get my car fixed.” I say it again, mentally calculating how much tip money I've stowed away in my secret hiding place while also estimating how fast I can get the consignment shop to sell my clothes to earn more.

“I can fix—”

“I don't need your help.” I bite the words out. Mad and upset and overwhelmed.

“I'll call a tow truck for you, then.”

My eyes well with tears. My stubborn anger turns to embarrassment. “No.”

“No?”

“I can't afford it.” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Come again?” I hate the condescending tone in his voice. The disbelief.

“Leave me alone, please.” He's still behind me when I speak, but a rush of heat floods my cheeks in a mortification like I've never known before.

“You can't be that broke living on your trust fund.”

I swear my neck almost breaks from the whiplash his words cause. They're completely out of the blue and so far off base that I don't know how to respond or why he'd make such an assumption. I try to regain my footing, but my anger at his shitty comment overrides all reason.

My glare meets his and the smirk on his lips is so chock-full of arrogance I say the only thing I can. “Fuck. You.”

“Why not just call Mommy or Daddy up? I'm sure they'd overnight the money.”

Poke. Poke. Prod.

Angry tears burn in my eyes. Disbelief that he's saying this shocks me momentarily as I try to figure out how I was so wrong about him. How, after his offer this morning, I thought he was a good guy. Nice. Caring.

And now all I can see is the truth. To say it stings is an understatement. To admit I was wrong, even more so.

I look at him as I shake my head in astonishment that I'd actually thought I had a friend in this solitude. And yet I was so very mistaken.

“Just a phone call away.”

Poke and poke and prod.

“You don't know shit about me, asshole.”

“I know designer clothes when I see them. Seen enough to know that robe you wear costs a pretty penny. You can dress them down, shrug me off, but there's no hiding how expensive your threads are.”

Poke and poke and poke and prod.

Fury still burns through me, but my need to gain back some ground turns out to be even stronger. The conversation from the bar with his fan the other night flickers in my head, gives me the ammo I need.

Poke and poke and prod and poke back.

“You want to get in my business—how 'bout we start digging into yours, huh? Why'd you lose your ride, Zander? What are you running from? You've got to screw up pretty bad to lose your ride and all of the sponsorships I'm assuming go with it, right?”

“Fuck. You.” He mimics me, but I can see that my barb has made its point. That my I'm-gonna-hurt-you-because-you're-trying-to-hurt-me got the reaction I wanted. “Fuck this. Figure out how to fix your car on your own, then.”

He throws his empty water bottle into the sink, knocking some silverware with it. The clatter fills the empty space around us before he strides down the hall.

“No worries,” I shout after him. “Pretty ironic I have the revered race car driver Zander Donavan living with me, but he's such a goddamn pretty boy, I bet he couldn't find his way underneath the hood to fix an engine if he tried.”

The door to his room slams, windows shaking with the force as I'm left standing in an empty room, frazzled, hurt, and very late for work.

“I
f anyone cancels or calls in, I'll make sure to get you the extra shift.”

“Thanks, Liam,” I tell him on my way to the door of the Lazy Dog, fingers crossed in the hopes for extra tips.

“You okay getting home? It's blowing like a bitch out there.” Liam steps around the back of the counter he's wiping up, concern etched in his kind eyes.

“I'm good,” I lie, not wanting any company. “Zander's going to pick me up.”

“I knew he was a good guy like that.” I force a tight smile. “Next time have him come in before closing. He's the talk of the town, albeit it doesn't take much round here. He's good for business,” he says with a wink. “I still can't believe
the
Zander Donavan is here on our little island.”

“Night,” I say just as the door closes so he doesn't see me roll my eyes.

The wind hits me the moment I step outside, whipping the strands of my ponytail at my cheeks and stinging my skin with pinpricks. Instantly I regret not having my umbrella, but honestly, I didn't want to stay in the house another second with Zander, so thoughts of finding it went by the wayside.

And now of course as the sheets of rain pour down beyond the overhang where I'm standing, I regret it.

A perfect ending to a shitty day.

With a sigh, I slink along the overhangs of the waterfront stores, my body tired and my mind emotionally exhausted. Worry over how to fix my car still looms front and center, but now there's the added dread that I have to go back to the house with Zander there and figure out how to coexist with him with minimal interaction.

Because I definitely don't want to talk to him.

The overhead protection from the storefront ends and rather than venture out into the rain, I perch on the edge of a bench. The whitecaps froth on the water, their color a stark contrast to the churn and twist of the dark sea. I get lost in the night, in watching the waves, my thoughts veering to earlier. To the fight with Zander. To the sudden about-face in his actions. To the slow night in the bar that allowed me too much time to think. To the ghosts and doubts Zander stirred up with his accusations.

“Don't waste any more time on him,” I mutter to myself with a shake of my head. When I'm sure there's no lightning, I start the walk home. Within a matter of minutes, my hair is plastered to my face and my clothes are sopping wet. My fury at Zander intensifies with each squish of my sodden shoes. Plus these are my one good pair I use for work to minimize my achy back and now they're completely waterlogged.

And if they don't dry right, if they shrink, if they get mildewed from this damn walk home in the pouring rain, I don't have the budget to buy new ones. Especially not with the unexpected outflow of cash to get my car fixed.

With each whip of wind, each squish of a step, the closer I get to the house, my temper is more primed to finish addressing the bullshit that Zander started. To get answers as to why it's okay for him to ask and demand and yet when I push at him in turn, he storms out and slams the door.

My teeth are chattering and I'm so damn cold I'd rather risk the rickety deck than take the extra time going around to the front of the house. I climb the crooked stairs with caution, making the frame creak with each
step, but it's quicker and brings a hot shower that much closer.

Luckily when I enter the house, even though the kitchen light is on, Zander's nowhere to be found and his bedroom door is closed. Good. He can stay there for all I care.

The shower feels like heaven—the hot water stings my face and turns my skin bright pink from the extremes in temperature. My irritation, my anger—everything builds as I know Zander's in his room nice and cozy warm while I was walking home in the freezing cold rain. I know it's not his fault my car didn't start, but he was the asshole who got me so flustered I didn't get my umbrella.

Definitely his fault.

Dressed in warm jammies and hair wrapped up in a towel, I leave the bathroom to find the house absolutely freezing. Wind rushes down the hallway and I hate that tickle of dread in the pit of my stomach. Why is the front door open? The inherent fear creeps up my spine over the possibility that my influential father and his puppet Ethan have found me and come to take me back home.

No, not home.
This is my home now.

I glance back to Zander's door—still shut—and debate whether I should knock and ask him to go check it out, my own overactive imagination taking over.

No, Getty. You don't need any man, let alone an asshole like Zander, to help you.
And the notion that I immediately wanted to get his help makes me dislike him even more. If he didn't barge into this house, lie about us wanting to be roommates to Darcy, then I wouldn't have a choice in the matter. I wouldn't be able to hesitate. I'd have to act. And that's the whole point, right? I came here to prove I don't need anybody or anyone and yet the first time I get a little scared, I become a chicken.

Quit being such a wimp and go shut the door.
The wood's swollen from the rain. It probably didn't click shut all the way the last time Zander used it.

With a nervous laugh and a quick glance at the mini-blind wand, I head down the hall to find the front door slightly ajar.
See.
Just the wind and rain.

“Goddammit!” The sound of Zander's frustrated shout
scares the shit out of me when I'm already on edge. I jump at the sound coming from outside, my nerves rattled but my temper lit from the combination of his comments earlier and his carelessness at leaving the door open.

I'm not sure what I expect to see, but what I do stops me dead in my tracks.

The hood of my car is up, a mechanic work light hanging from a hook on its underside, and Zander is bent over the engine. It takes me a good second or two to believe what I'm seeing, but when I do, I can't seem to look away.

I'm a little shocked. Somewhat unsure. And have a bit of a bruised ego after my strong opinions about him being an asshole. But more than anything, I know that there's something about him that captivates me.

And it's not because he's doing whatever he's doing under the hood of my car to obviously help me out. No. It's so much more than that . . . and at the same time, nothing at all.

It's the way he looks.
Hands braced on the front of the car, head hung down in concentration, water dripping off the bill of his baseball cap. And of course his shirt is plastered to his body, so that even through the rain, I can see the cords of muscles flexing as he reaches forward with the wrench and adjusts something. He seems to be a bit of bad boy, wounded soul, and life of the party all mixed into one package—effectively the anti-Ethan—and maybe the realization right now when I'm still semimad at him kind of knocks me back some. Makes me look a little closer when I should be looking the other way.

Despite what he said today—the quick barbs and the unapologetic push for more information—he obviously has a good heart and is trying to help me even though I was a bitch to him. I pushed his buttons on purpose to keep him at far enough of a distance to stop pushing mine. And yet despite everything, he's out in the pouring rain working on my car.

And more than anything,
it's the way he makes me feel
watching him. That warm feeling down deep in my belly. The goose bumps racing over my skin that have nothing to do with the temperature outside. How I want to go out
and talk to him even though I still want to be mad at him. It seems so odd that I can't remember what it feels like to have someone take care of me—not since my mother died—and yet now that I feel it, I can't believe how much I've missed it.

Thoughts race through my mind. The kind that make you want and need, and I'm not in a position to want or need anything; I shove them away. Try to convince myself he's fiddling with my car because he feels guilty about the things he said to me earlier.

But what guy does that, Getty?

I can't like him. I just can't. It's not in the cards. Hell, it's not even in the damn deck. And yet there he is. Soaking wet. Doing something to help me because I told him I couldn't afford it.

Not only that, I insulted him, lashed out. I'd like to think maybe I did it to see what he'd do—whether he'd help me—so I could see the true nature of his character, but I was so angry there was no forethought in my off-the-cuff words.

Now I stand here at one o'clock in the morning having traded places with him—me warm and dry and him wet and cold—and the need to talk to him overwhelms me. And not just because he's helping me, but because as messed up as it is, in a sense, he's the only friend I have.

I venture into the kitchen to find a peace offering. Maybe I can round up some cookies or a beer or something, but the offerings are meek considering my appetite lately has been nil and money's been tight. So when I open the refrigerator and find it stocked to the gills with fresh produce and beer and everything else I could imagine, I'm a tad taken aback. I open the cupboards and find them just as full of cereal boxes and cookies and pasta.

My vision blurs in the face of the humility that washes over me. I bite back the urge to storm out there and confront him. I'm embarrassed that he actually heard me when I said I couldn't afford to repair my car; that he realized that was why the house was so light on groceries and took it upon himself to run to the store and buy food.

In the pouring rain.

My pride wars with the attraction I feel toward him. I don't want a handout of any kind. Don't want the pity of a man—let alone any other of the islanders here—in any way, shape, or form. Because it was my choice to flee and leave my old life behind. All the privilege. The control that ruled my every waking moment.

The punishments.

I knew it was going to be tough. I knew it was going to be lonely. And so I hold back the tears of frustration, my own self-pity, and wonder how to thank Zander for all of this and at the same time to tell him to never do it again without sounding ungrateful.

I close the cupboards, bottom lip between my teeth, and reach into the fridge for a cold bottle of beer. But it's when I open the drawer of silverware to get a bottle opener that I get an even bigger surprise than the food. I know it's silly and stupid, but when I look down to the tray, the silverware is sitting every which way. Gone is the perfect alignment from yesterday with everything in its proper place. The slot for forks has the big ones mixed with the little ones—some tines facing up, some tines facing down. The spoons too. The knives are a mishmash of butter and steak thrown in several slots.

In disbelief and filled with gratitude, I stare at the disarray. Such a mess wasn't allowed in Ethan's house. And there's a small part of me that sags in relief at knowing I wasn't wrong about Zander or his kind heart. That he has gone through all this trouble—even messing the silverware drawer up—to give me whatever he thought I needed based on my rant the other night, even though he didn't understand why.

I've been shown a lot of kindness in the last few months. By Darcy with this place to live and Liam with a job when I have zero experience, but this by far has been the sweetest thing because of the history behind it.

Grabbing the beer and a beach towel, I head to the front door, but just as I'm going out, Zander is coming in. Water drips off every inch of him and pools on the rug inside the front door.

Our eyes meet, blue to brown, and in that instant there
is so much I want to say to him but there are no words to express it. I hold the beer and the towel out to him despite feeling even more ridiculous considering I'm offering him a cold beer when he's probably freezing to death.

He looks down at the beer and the towel and then back up to me with a scornful expression, but under the hardness, I see a softness in his eyes. Part of him feels like a schmuck and is completely uncomfortable being a good guy when he's the self-proclaimed asshole.

Tension builds in the silence. Just as I'm about to speak, he reaches down to the hem of his T-shirt and pulls the sopping fabric over his head. His hat falls off with it as he goes. Yes, I've seen him naked before, but with the veil of shock removed and his kind heart revealed, I'm seeing him in an all-new light. I take in the defined muscles of his torso—not too big but not too slight—the V that disappears beneath his waistband of his worn jeans, and the strength of his hands when he reaches out to take the towel and the beer without a single word.

He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a long, lazy drink, face tipped up to the ceiling, while I unabashedly admire the obvious work he puts into his physique.

“Thank you.” I may say only two words, but they're filled with meaning.

He pauses and slowly lowers the bottle, taking his time to meet my gaze. With a nod of his head, he works his tongue in his cheek. “Your alternator is bad. I pulled it out but have to wait for the new one to come in. I had the garage in town order one for me.”

“Thank you. I'll pay you for the parts and your time and—”

“It's on me.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

“I won't take your charity or your pity. I'll pay you back.”

“That's not needed. Besides, I didn't do much.”

“You're fixing my car. You went grocery—”

“We were running low on food. It was my turn to buy.”

“It was more than that. It was—”

“Drop it, Getty.” His warning is loud and clear and while I hear it, I feel it needs to be said.

“You didn't have to—”

“Getty.” The look in his eyes and the tone in his voice stops the rest of the comment on my tongue. “Quit being so goddamn stubborn and we'll be fine.” His eyebrows lift up, a challenge thrown down.

“Quit being such an asshole.”

He fights the smirk on his lips and I can tell he's a tad surprised by my quid pro quo. But this banter between us is where we seem most comfortable, what we always come back to, so the fact that we fell into it so quickly means that our fight just might be over.