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And while I'd prefer to get some answers on why he said the things he said and pushed so hard, I can also let sleeping dogs lie so that there's a bit of peace too.

“Let's get one thing straight, Socks,” he says after running the towel through his hair, biceps flexing with the action, before hanging it over his shoulders. “I have eight brothers, so if you want to fight, I assure you, I'll win every time.
Hands down.
And for your information, I didn't run away. Not like you. I was out of control. Hurt some people and needed to deal with some of my own shit before I can return home to make it right.” He steps closer, face angled down so I can see the truth in his eyes. “I came here to get some clarity, some time to myself away from the chaos in my life, and fix up the house for Smitty because I owe him.
Big-time.
I'm not here to take your house away. I wasn't sent by anyone to find you and bring you back to wherever you're from. And while most days I'm a grade A asshole, that doesn't mean I don't have manners, and manners mean I wouldn't hesitate to protect you if need be. That's how I was raised and that's not going to change.”

I think of the groceries, the repairs to my car, the damn silverware drawer, and know without a doubt he wouldn't hesitate to defend me at all. “Thank you.”

“And another thing—this is how I am. I'm loud and brash and in-your-face if I need to be, but that doesn't mean you need to shrink inside yourself, because I'm not a threat. I'm not going to hurt you.” He takes a step closer as my mind whirls wondering if it's that obvious how skittish I am when his temper makes an appearance. “You want to know why I
pressed you earlier? Why I stepped into the role of pushy asshole? Because this is a small town, Getty. People talk. People gossip. And they're going to want to know more about the new girl in town who keeps to herself and is rattled after a glass bottle breaks on the floor while she's at work. So you better start knowing the answers to the questions before they're asked. You need to be prepared for assumptions, pressure for answers, whispers around town. You need to be able to give it to them with a straight face and off the cuff, or your cover story isn't going to hold.”

I swear to God I feel like this is a Ping-Pong match. One minute I like him and the next not so much. But the problem is right now I don't like him because he's telling me truths I don't want to hear. He's making me realize that as prepared as I was to do this, create a new life for myself—it's still hard as hell to pull off and I haven't been doing as good of a job as I thought.

Worrying my bottom lip with my teeth, I take in what he's saying, try to hear the advice for what it's worth, but still have a hard time not stiffening my spine at the reprimand.

“You don't know anything about me.” My voice is slight but strong, my need to assert myself front and center despite his calling me on the carpet.

“That's where you're wrong, Socks. I might not know where you're from or why I ruffled your feathers today, but I know you're stronger than you give yourself credit for. Whatever it is that you ran from back home, you did it. You got out and are making it on your own. That takes guts and you deserve mad props for that. I know you like things messy and are goddamn cute when you're tipsy. I know you're stubborn as hell and gorgeous as fuck. And that your kiss tastes like an aged whiskey: something I want to sip slowly, feel on my lips, savor on my tongue, and take my time with before I get drunk on it.” With a lift of his eyebrows and a nod of his head, he walks past me, leaving me with my mouth agape and eyes wide.

I can't move. Just stand staring at the door in front of me as I try to process what he just said, what he meant by it, and yet there's no use because we just had a whole one-sided conversation and that need to banter with him is
gone. Lost to the tingling in my lower belly and the wild spinning of my thoughts.

“Oh, and, Getty?” Zander calls out to me from the kitchen, refusing to continue until I turn to face him, standing there unabashedly shirtless. “If you ever call me
pretty
again, we're gonna have a real problem. I guarantee you there is nothing
pretty
about me.”

I almost smile at the fact that out of all of the crappy things I said to him, that is the one that bugged him the most.

“You
are
kind of pretty, though,” I murmur, unable to resist goading him further, needing to try to get us back on an even playing field. Because hell if right now I don't feel like I'm on the low end of the teeter-totter.

His immediate response? A snort to signify that his chiseled abs and the tall, dark, and handsome thing he's got going on are nothing more than average.

“Last warning, Socks.” His eyes flash with mirth. And what looks like desire.

An unexpected part of me—the one who usually hides and doesn't ever take a chance—wants to say it again. Just to see what he'd do if I did.

“So damn pretty.”
I don't know who's more shocked at my comment, him or me, but we stand there for a moment, gazes locked, unspoken words warring across the distance between us.

He walks toward me with a predatory gleam in his eyes and a salacious smirk on his lips that catches me off guard. “I know I said you were brave, Getty, but now you're just playing with matches.”

I draw in a long inhalation as he steps right in front of me. I can't look at him. My nerve is suddenly gone. Outside, rain pelts the roof. The constant drip into the bucket in the hallway serves as a metronome to this anticipatory silence we are dancing in. The goose bumps on his chest are the only thing I can focus on.

When his thumb and forefinger direct my chin up so I'm forced to meet his eyes, every part of me hums from his touch. From the want of something I don't quite understand myself and couldn't ever put into words. Our
eyes meet—his intense, mine searching for answers that aren't his to give—before his gaze flicks down to my mouth and then back up again.

“Not yet, Getty.” He closes his eyes for a beat, and I see what I think is restraint reflected in his grimace, before a ghost of a smile spreads on his lips. “I don't think you're ready to light this fire just yet.”

And once again, he nods his head, tongue licking out to wet his bottom lip, before turning his back and walking down the hallway without saying another word. I watch him move, turn into the bathroom, shut the door. Hear the shower turn on, the pipes creak. But I don't move a muscle. His words—all of them—repeat in my mind and stoke the sweet ache they created that my body can't deny.

With a loud sigh, I shake my head and walk to my bedroom.

I think we're going to need a damn hose in the house to keep this fire out he's already lit in me.

Shane said you're not answering his texts. So now you get me, the best brother. Hope you're figuring everything out. We're all worried. Just want the best for you. Dude, you keep standing me up for our weekly round of golf, so I'm taking lessons while I wait for you to get your ass back home. It's up to you how many I take . . . so please, take your time. I'll be at scratch before you know it. Besides, lessons are being charged to your membership anyway. Miss ya, bro. Oh, and be prepared, if you don't answer, we'll just keep moving through the ranks until you do.

The smile comes easily. Thoughts of my second to littlest shit of a brother, Scooter, who's getting too damn decent at golf for his own good and way too big for his damn britches, by the words in his text. Scratch golfer, my ass. There's no way he's even close to par.

He can't be. I haven't been gone
that
long.

And with the smile comes the anger. The guilt. The
how can he care about me when I was such an asshole to him?

I glance up from the sawhorse to the beach for a moment.
Rein in my temper. And let myself miss home for a split second. The constant ribbing between all of us brothers and the relentless bitching to mind your own business from at least one of them.

Shit, I got what I wanted. To be left alone. To not be nagged and coddled and asked for the hundredth time what my problem was. To not have to see the hurt and disappointment in their eyes when I fucked up
again
.

But all these goddamn texts—the ones I get every few days or so from one of my brothers like they're on a schedule—make it all that much worse. I don't deserve their concern after the way I treated them.

They should kick my ass is what they should do. For the birthday party I missed. The phone calls I didn't return. For showing up at Ricky's house plastered and picking a fight. I've done so damn much I hardly recognize the man I was to them.

And yet today, another text. Another reminder of the family I don't deserve. And of the weight I carry until I can make this right again.

I look back down to the message on my phone, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Fuck.
What do you write when you don't know the right words to say what you need to say? I set my cell down. Pick it back up. Exhale a breath. Shake my head. Type
Thanks.
Delete it because it's lame, and yet while I don't know what to say, I still need to say something. Anything. To let him know I'm trying to sort myself out. And not ignoring him. To thank him for sticking with me when I don't deserve it.

Thanks for giving me time.

W
ith my hands covered in streaks of pinks and peaches and oranges that match the sky at sunset on the canvas, I'm shocked at the time when I glance over at the clock. But my art always allows me to get lost in it, so I shouldn't be surprised that four hours have passed when it felt like only forty minutes.

A Sunday off from work and away from the bar meant the urge to paint has been overwhelming. But I'm not sure if it was the creative outlet or my desire to avoid Zander that really fueled my need to be locked away in my room.

Because
I am
avoiding Zander—and his matches and fire and swoony words and defined chest and bashful kindness. In fact I have been for the past week; the few extra shifts at the bar I picked up have made it that much easier for me to do so.

I'm not used to this kind of thing. What am I supposed to say to him? Ethan courted me with bouquets of roses, dates for dinner or the movies, pecks on the lips I mistakenly thought were romantic at the time, and abstinence before marriage.

Proper at all times. Every date was a well-synchronized dance to win over my affection, make me believe I was desirable, so that he and my father could secretly join family
empires. And then after marriage . . . the real Ethan showed his true colors. Hurt me enough until I ran away.

So this—Zander—I don't know how to handle his close proximity. His bruising kisses and intense eyes and unexpected admissions and kind heart beneath his brash exterior. The cocky smile and strong hands and brutal honesty. How do I deal with all these weird tingly sensations he keeps making me feel? I just don't know. So I've been avoiding him. Sneaking down the hallway after he goes for his run in the morning or heading straight for my room when I get off work. No time to chat or make an idiot out of myself when I'm not face-to-face with him.

But now that I realize how long I've been sitting here lost in my painting, I suddenly feel the ache of my back and the strain on my eyes from the constant concentration. And recognize that I'm starving. When I enter the kitchen, the television is on low, and Zander's on the couch with his back to me, feet up on the table. He doesn't turn or acknowledge me, although I'm pretty sure he heard the creak of the wood floor as I walked in. I'm okay with that, since at least I have a few more minutes to prepare myself to face him.

But as I walk into the family room with a bowl of cereal in hand, I realize there is no amount of preparation that could stifle the way he makes me feel: lust and irritation and want and frustration all rolled into one. So I do the only thing I can and sit on the opposite end of the couch from him and settle in to eat my cereal, hating that I feel awkward in my own home.

“Hey,” I finally say softly, not wanting to interrupt but letting manners get the best of me.

“Hey.” That's it. No glance my way.

Determined not to let him have the run of our house while I slink away in avoidance, I settle into my seat and turn my focus from him to the television.

He's watching a race. The drone of the cars going around and around the track is constant, while the screen switches between the lead car and then the action farther back on the track where cars pass one another and change positions. I've never really watched a race before—too
lowbrow for Ethan to care for—but there is a definite draw to it, something thrilling, that I think I can understand.

In my peripheral vision, though, Zander is much more interesting to observe. His body language seems tense, hands fisted as if he's behind the wheel. He grimaces every few seconds like there's been a mistake made that I'm sure the layman fan would never notice.

But he doesn't speak, doesn't move, just scrutinizes the racing world he's been removed from. And that in itself has to make it brutal to watch.

So we sit on the same couch, both viewing the race but for different reasons. The only sounds come from the clink of the spoon against the glass bowl. Or a mutter under his breath. The announcers droning on. The creak of the couch as I shift positions.

“Let's see if Colton Donavan can clinch this, Al, or if the absence of his teammate affects his ability to help block Grayson Dane from slingshotting past him on the final turn. He's been running smooth and fast all day. Both have new tires and are good on fuel. But Dane has two more teammates on the track. Let's see how much help they'll be able to give him.”

The race unfolds lap by lap, turn by turn, pass by pass, and as each second ticks by, Zander leans forward farther and farther: elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, and his features etched in intense concentration. The events on-screen own his attention so much that I don't even think he remembers I'm there sitting beside him.

“Goddammit!” he swears angrily as he shoves up off the couch and watches a blue car pass a red one. The announcers are going wild, but I'm too busy watching the emotion play over Zander's face to hear what they are saying.

When I can tear my eyes off him, the camera is following the winning car on its victory lap before panning back to the second-place car turning into the pits. Zander squints his eyes as if he's waiting to catch a glimpse of something. The shot moves back to the victor before he sees it, because he angrily mutters something under his breath before throwing the remote down.

The back door slams. The pounding of a hammer starts.
And I'm left looking at a closed door with my empty cereal bowl in my hands and a lot of unanswered questions.

That is, until the field reporter begins to interview the second-place racer. His name is splashed along the bottom of the screen in big, bold letters—
COLTON DONAVAN
—and seeing it in print causes puzzle pieces to fall into place.

The matching last name. The missing racer from the team. The lack of help on the track.

All of it.

Even though I've never followed racing, Colton Donavan is definitely a name I've heard before—synonymous with his prolific successes and his renowned family—and obviously somehow related to Zander.

Of course—how could I have been so stupid to not make the connection? That was Zander's team, his ride, and the reason he now hates Sundays. It's everything he left behind.

Did his team lose today because he wasn't on the track? Now the grumbling and the storming out make sense to me. When the hammer pounds harder and harder outside, it's a clear indication that my assumption is correct.

I try to ignore him, busy myself with picking up the house, cleaning the kitchen, folding the towels in the dryer, but the continued sound of the hammer keeps dragging my thoughts back to Zander. Curiosity nags at me. What did he do? How bad was it?

Bored and yet too preoccupied to go back to painting, I stand in the kitchen and fight my own bad idea. Wanting to go sit in the sun for a bit before the incoming storm moves in. Close my eyes and soak up the rays while I relax.

Except whom am I fooling? I'm not going out to sit in the sun so much as I'm going outside to sit with Zander—the man I've been avoiding.

So I grab a bag of chips and head out in the direction of the incessant pounding noise and the occasional muttered curse word. When I step into the frame of the open sliding glass doors that lead to the deck, I'm surprised to see that Zander has ripped almost the entire thing down in the past few days—he's starting to reinforce the remaining pieces.

He's in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, hammer in hand, bent over in concentration with a level and a box of nails at his side while he lines up the next piece of wood. And I hate that I catch myself admiring his body. Taking note of the patch between his shoulder blades where a trail of sweat has darkened the cotton fabric of his shirt. The flex of his biceps as he works. The light flecks of sawdust in his dark hair. The small trace of blood on his forearm where he must have scratched it on something.

“It's therapeutic. Grab a hammer if you want to give it a try.”

His voice jars me from what I thought was my private admiration of him. Heat fills my cheeks at the realization he knew I was there staring.

“I—I don't know how to . . . ,” I respond, suddenly flustered under the scrutiny of his stare behind the tinted lenses of his sunglasses.

“There's no skill needed, Socks.” He bends over the toolbox and, after grabbing a hammer, holds it out handle first. “It's not flowery or girly, but it does the job. Just don't hit your thumb.”

My eyes flicker from the tool to his face before I cross the few feet between us and take it from him. And now that I have it, I have absolutely no clue what to do. Luckily he senses I need direction, because he summons me over to where he was working.

Taking the pencil from behind his ear, he proceeds to measure and mark small circles in the middle of the two-by-four he lined up on a section of handrail, while I stand there feeling stupid with the unfamiliar weight of the hammer in my hand. Plus now that we're so close, my instinct to avoid him has returned with a vengeance.

“I want you to hammer nails into each of those marks, okay?”

While a big part of me is surprised and even excited to do something constructive with my hands, I'm also afraid I'll make a mistake and mess something up. I must look like a deer in the headlights, because he belts out a laugh before taking a step closer to me.

“C'mere. I promise it's as easy as it looks. You take
this nail here and then you tap the top of it until it bites into the wood.” He steps behind me, body ghosting mine, before taking hold of my hands and directing them into proper positioning. And hell if he didn't just make hammering a simple nail on its head a lot more complicated.

Because I'm sure I could have figured it out—it's not rocket science after all—and yet once our bodies are touching, the scent of his cologne in my nose, the feel of his warm breath hitting the side of my face as he leans his head forward to demonstrate with our paired hands, the attraction hijacks my concentration. His comments from the other night return to front and center in my mind, when they weren't buried very far to begin with.

He holds my hand over the handle, and his fingers help me grip the nail as we tap the head of it into the first marked location on the wood. “See? Simple.”

No, complicated is more like it.

But I bite my tongue, nod, and concentrate through the distraction of his presence when I take control of the hammer and tap the nail in farther. He steps back after a few more taps and I feel like I can finally breathe again, think again without him clouding my thoughts.

The work is slow going. For every one nail I tap in, I swear he taps in four or five, but there is some truth to his comment about it being therapeutic. There's a sense of stress release in the repeated activity of pounding the hell out of a little metal nail: the clink of the hammer, how it starts to disappear into the wood, then one final hard hit to make sure it's completely seated.

“Eight brothers, huh?” I ask, trying to stick to a safe topic.

“Yep.” The thump of his hammer interrupts his sentence. “Before I was adopted, I lived in a boys' home called the House. There were eight of us over the time I was there. We all kind of grew up together. Consider each other as brothers.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“I was adopted eventually. The lady who ran the House, she and her husband ended up adopting me after a bunch of shit happened that's complicated. But it didn't matter to us. I mean, yeah, we don't have the same last names and it's
not official by any law, but that doesn't matter to us. We're brothers.”

“That's seven, right?”

“Yeah. My adoptive parents had a son. So eight.” He shrugs and, without warning, turns on the table saw and effectively ends the conversation.

We work in silence after that. The ferry's horn sounds out occasionally. Zander mutters a harsh swear every once in a while, but other than that, it's just the steady (him) and unsteady (me) thump of hammers. When I run out of spots on my marked board, he sets up the next board for me with minimal words exchanged.

“Maybe someday, you'll trust me enough to talk about it.” His quiet comment spoken over his shoulder as if he's talking about the weather throws me momentarily. Causes that little flicker of panic to come to life.

“How do you know this is going to hold up? The deck?”

Smooth, Getty. That redirection was really subtle.
I mentally put the heel of my hand to my forehead as he belts out a long laugh that tells me it sounded as ridiculous to him as it did to me.

“Very casual,” he says with a nod. “But I appreciate the attempt.”

The smile is slow but on my lips nonetheless, and I love that he can do that to me—make me laugh at my idiosyncrasies. It's not something I'm used to by a long stretch.

“Okay.” I work my tongue in my cheek as I try to figure out how to answer him. “How about I'll talk to you as soon as you talk to me?”

His snort comes loud and clear. “The difference, though, is you can look me up. Know who I am. Where I came from. I'm not hiding any of the truths, just trying to figure out how much I want to listen to them.” He hits the nail with enough force that the sound echoes off the clapboard of the house before he looks over to me and lifts his sunglasses up so I can see the blue of his eyes.

I avert my gaze instantly, afraid he'll be able to tell from the flush on my cheeks that I did give in to temptation. Ventured to the library yesterday to use the Internet to see whom I'm living with. And of course, after taking all the
time to build up the courage to go in there and overcoming the worry that he'd somehow find out—small town and all that—the damn computer was broken. Shipped out to the mainland for repairs.

“You, on the other hand,” he continues, pulling me from my thoughts, “are a goddamn mystery in all aspects, so your offer isn't exactly fair.”