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Here it comes. I was right. He regrets this.

I nod my head.

“Right now every damn part of me wants to kiss you again. Kiss you till we can't breathe, then lay you down on my bed and show you what it's like to feel that kind of worship. But God, Getty, I can't do it knowing that I might hurt you in the end when you've obviously been so hurt already. I can't make the promises you deserve. I have my life back home. My racing. My family. I need to sort my shit out, make my amends, and then in a few months I'll head back to it. That's not fair to you. I want more than anything to be the selfish prick I've been over the past few months and think only of myself. Sleep with you, feed that crazy need you've created in me, and then walk away when the time comes without a care . . .” He blows out breath and shakes his head like he can't believe he's not going to, before meeting my eyes again. “But I can't do that to you. I can't knowingly walk you into my storm without showing you where the lighthouse is so you have a way out before you even begin.”

My eyes go wide and chest constricts as I attempt to process everything he's saying. The civil war happening inside him over being who he needs to be versus who he wants to be. Over what I know is best for me and what could break me again.

And of course all coherent thoughts vanish when he steps into me again, hands back on my cheeks, eyes locked onto mine. He leans forward and brushes his lips to mine in the most tender of kisses. The kind that makes you want to simultaneously sag inwardly and fist your hand in his shirt to demand more.

His unsteady draw of breath is audible—restraint held by a thread—before his blue eyes find mine. “I'm showing you where the lighthouse is, Getty. Giving you a way out.
It's up to you to decide if you want to step into my storm before it passes through or head for safety. I can't decide for you.”

I begin to speak, my heart in my throat and my pulse racing, but he shakes his head to stop me. “Not now. You need to think about it. Sleep on it. Get a clear head and figure out your answer. I'll wait.” When he reaches out to put one hand on the side of my face, I close my eyes and turn into the touch. My lips kiss the palm of his hand; his compassion has undone me in so many ways I can't think straight. “Good night.”

“Zander,” I call after him as he turns to walk down the hall.

He stops momentarily, head hanging down, broad shoulders set proudly. “Good night, Socks.”

There's so much I want to say.
Stop. Wait. Yes. No. I don't know. I'm sorry.
But none of them come out, because I'm not sure which one I want to say the most.

I want to tell him that I don't care. That we should just live in the moment. Not worry about tomorrow or a few weeks from now when the to-do list is complete. Ask him to help me get over the hurdle of Ethan's lies by showing me how sex should be. Be the spontaneous person I aspire to someday be.

Desperation fuels my thoughts, makes me already miss how he made me feel tonight. But I can't tell him, because he's right. I already like him too much as it is. What's going to happen if I fall for him and he leaves and doesn't look back? Is it presumptuous? Yes. But at the same time, he's given me something that no one else has in a long time:
hope
.

Oh my God, Getty. Get a grip.
Go back to painting angry thunderstorms instead of thinking of beautiful sunsets, because you're not going to ride away into one of them with him. You're naive if you think you will. While he may be a good guy, there's no place in his life for a wannabe painter/bartender in any capacity let alone as more than friends.

And he already said he definitely doesn't want friends with benefits.

To us.
His toast echoes in my head as I hear the door to his bedroom close quietly, and I grip the edge of the counter to keep from acting on that want for spontaneity.

Now I'm left in the darkened kitchen with his kiss on my lips and his words in my head, wondering what exactly I want us to be.

The problem is the difference between want and need is a thin line called self-control.

And I've already been controlled enough in my life.

S
omething jolts me awake with a start. The shadowed figure standing over my bed startles every part of me—breath, heart, imagination. And for that split second before he says my name, fear takes hold that Ethan has come for me.

“Getty.”

“Zander?” My voice is drugged with sleep, mind racing with what he's doing in here as he lowers down to sit on the edge of the bed. I'd started to relax at the sound of his voice, but now every intangible part of me stands at attention.

And before I can comprehend much more—why he's here, why my stomach is somersaulting into my chest, why chills are racing over my body—he leans forward without another word and kisses me.

Soft at first. A brush of lips. A tug on my bottom lip. A hand brushing my hair off my face as he leans back to look at me through the moonlit room. And I know before he speaks what he's going to say.

“I want you, Getty.”

“Yes.” It's the only answer I can give. The only consent needed, because his mouth is back on mine before I can inhale my next breath. And while this next kiss is still
tender, there's a tinge of hunger to it that's new and surprising to me.

I relax into the mattress, too many things happening at once to process them all. His hand running down the side of my rib cage. His other hand on the side of my neck, thumb hooked under my ear. The increasing demand in his kiss. The groan of desperation from his throat. His hand on my waist sliding under the hem of my T-shirt. A chilled hand on warm skin slowly sliding up. My soft gasp as he finds my breast. The arch of my neck. His fingers caressing. Tongue possessing. My sensations overwhelmed.

The match being lit.

I'm inundated. Lost to his touch and the skill of his mouth and the incredible way he makes me feel.

The stubble of the day's growth scrapes down the column of my neck, his lips lacing open-mouth kisses to soothe its sting. But I like the sting. Like knowing I'm alive and this is really happening. Then he cups my breasts with both hands, his mouth taking over their seduction in a kind of finesse I've never experienced. His warm lips and heated tongue suck and tease the tight bud of my nipple while his strong hands hold them in place.

The combination of sensations causes a blistering ache in the delta of my thighs. One that hurts so good.

“Fuck, Getty,” he murmurs against my breast as one hand runs down to my hip, fingers kneading the flesh there as I thread mine in his hair and moan in response to the bliss he's creating.

Fingers feathering over the tops of my thighs. They tug my waistband. Skim across the top of my sex. Fingertips tickling right at the top of my seam, a subtle request for access. And I'm so lost to experiencing this with him—the hushed murmurs of desire and the touches laced with intent—that all I can think about is how much more I want of the way he's making me feel.

His fingers dance over my most intimate of flesh as his mouth finds mine again. This time his kiss feels more demanding, hungrier, and it's my only focus until his fingertips slowly part me and brush gently over my clit. My gasp
of pleasure is swallowed by his kiss, the sudden tensing of my leg muscles his gauge of my definite responsiveness.

And my God . . . going from having no one touch me but my own hand to being treated with such reverence—soft and desirous and attentive—is like creating a spark in a room full of propane. Explosive. Fiery. Unrelenting.

His touch rocks me. It doesn't take much. Between the generosity in how he caresses me and the greed in his kiss, seconds tumble into one another as every part of my body burns bright and fast toward climax.

My hands on his shoulders. Fingernails into steeled flesh. Breath robbed. Head digging back in the pillow. Back arched. Hips bucking. Zander catapults me into the oblivious free fall of my orgasm.

“Zander.” I cry out his name in a plea for him to keep going. A plea for him to stop for a second. And I can't decide which I want more as his fingers softly milk the last of the vibrations for me.

“Getty.”

“Not yet.”

“Getty!” More insistent. Hands suddenly on my shoulders, shaking me. My mind shocked to the present.

To the dark room around me. Zander standing over me, my fingers slick between my thighs. I freeze, trying to grasp dream from reality.

“You were having a nightmare. Called out my name. Were thrashing around,” he says as he sits down beside me.

And if there were any way he could see my eyes and the mask of mortification that must be blanketing my face, he'd know the truth. That my dream was the furthest thing from a nightmare. But thank goodness for the moonless sky and darkened room. Or else he'd know that I'd just gotten off dreaming about him. That there was a damp patch in my panties from fantasy sex with him.

“I'm okay,” I stutter breathlessly as I slowly withdraw my hand out from beneath the drawstring of my pants so he doesn't notice the movement. I push myself up, my body coated in a light mist of sweat, my muscles still contracting from the remnants of my orgasm.

My self-indulged one, it seems.

Could this get any worse? Having the man you're fantasizing is giving you an orgasm be the one to catch you in the act, so to speak?

“You sure?” He reaches a hand out and runs the back of it down my cheek. “You were moaning and moving—then you called out my name for help. It scared the shit out of me. Must have been a bad nightmare.”

It takes a second to find my voice. The right words to say get lost in the embarrassment and the postclimax fog of endorphins. “Yeah. I'm sorry.” I run a hand through my hair, pull the covers a little tighter around me. “I—I—uh, don't even remember what it was about. But thank you. I appreciate you checking on me.”

“Was this because of me?” he asks, concern in his tone. The blood drains from my face momentarily as I wonder if he's caught on to what was really happening. “Was it because of the things I said to you tonight that stirred up bad memories—”

“No.” I'm quick to cut him off, feeling like an ass that he's sitting here worried his honesty caused me to have a nightmare when in fact it was quite the opposite. But it's not like I can tell him that. “I watched a scary movie the other night. I'm sure it had to do with that.”

Smooth, Getty. Real smooth.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes. I will be. Thanks. I'm sorry I woke you up.”

Please go back to bed and put me out of my misery.

“I'll let you get back to sleep, then,” he says as he stands from the bed, a handsome shadow in the night. “I'm glad you're all right.”

“Good night, Zander.”

“Good night, Getty.”

We can't see each other's eyes, but we are sure as hell holding each other's gaze through the darkness, because I can feel it. After a moment of suspended silence, he nods his head and walks to the doorway as emotions war within me over wanting him to go and asking him to stay.

“I'm going to leave your door open, just in case you
need me,” he says before his shadow leaves the doorway toward his room.

I hold back the immediate urge to go shut it should my nocturnal need arise again to have fake sex with him.

Sinking deeper into the mattress, I scrub my hands over my face and can feel the smile on my lips. I go back over the dream in my mind, because unlike what I told him, I remember every single part of it. Each kiss. Every touch. The sound of his voice thick with desire.

With a deep breath, I shake my head and feel like such a fool. How did I not know it was a dream? My lack of modesty and constant insecurity over my ability to orgasm should have been a dead giveaway. Even asleep, I should have caught that.

How am I going to face him in the morning? How am I going to look him in the eye and ask him if he wants a cup of coffee with his roommate who was getting off while fantasizing about him?

I close my eyes but can't sleep. There's no way in hell with the buzz of my orgasm still echoing through both my head and body.

Because if I thought a little piece of my heart was lost to Zander for his kindness, then a huge part of my awakening libido just pledged allegiance to him too.

T
here's a bite to the air. A chill that burns in my lungs and stings my cheeks. It may be the start of the summer season, but shit, mornings are cold here. Hopefully I'll be heading back home to Los Angeles before I get a chance to acclimate.

And I hate that my feet falter at the idea. Hate that the next fucking thought in my head is,
What is Getty going to do when I leave?

This isn't a
thing
.

She isn't supposed to become a
thing
.

But fuck me, she is.

Then of course there's the voice mail from Rylee today, my adoptive mom. The one who saved me from my silence and deafening fear after my mother died and my dad came back to finish me off. The one who had to have known the truth all along from day one. I don't even have to replay the message because I can still hear it plain as day.

Zander. It's me.
Her laugh. Nerves I'm not used to hearing in it vibrate through the connection.
Of course it's me—who else would it be, right? I just wanted to hear your voice, let you know I was thinking about you. A lot. I miss you. Of course I'm worried about you and want to call and text you to make sure you're okay, but I also know you'll call when
you're ready. Oh . . . and thank you for texting Scooter and then Ace back. He's taking this hard . . . all of it . . . so thank you for responding and letting him—us—know you're okay. I'm sorry I'm rambling, but there's so much I want to say to you . . . so much I want to ask, but I know you'll come home once you figure whatever it is you need to work through.
Silence for a few seconds. A shaky sigh. Her not wanting to let go just yet.
He won't admit it, but Colton misses you too. He's moody and a bear to be around and won't talk about what happened that day between the two of you. . . .
Another sigh. A few words started and then stopped. Her concern is palpable in the silence and I know she's struggling to not give me her two cents on the matter. To keep the disappointment out of her voice and not rail into me that I'm the one who needs to man up and apologize for all of this.
It doesn't matter. I hope you find whatever you're hoping to find while you're gone. And I can't help but feel like there's something you're not telling us. All we want . . . all we've ever wanted is the best for you Zander. I love you.

I've listened to the message several times this morning. It's become a type of fuel to feed my guilt over what I did, how I acted, and reinforcement that I need to really get my shit together. Open the box, face the facts. Deal. Cope. Yell. Rage.

Move on. Live life with a new norm I can't shove away but can start to put behind me.

Quit being such a pussy.
Accept that whatever else is in that box doesn't affect who I am or what I've made of my life. It is what it is.

Easier said than done.

God, how I wanted to pick up the phone and call her back. Ask her the questions I need to ask: Did she know? Why didn't she tell me? What was her reasoning for keeping the truth from me all this time? Then I could get angry with her answers. Shout and rage and get all this pent-up emotion out. Then apologize ten times over for the ways I've hurt them . . . but pride is a hard thing to swallow when you feel like it's all you have left.

Right now my own need to cope is more important
than the urge to call her. But fuck if I don't feel guilty at the sadness in her voice.

Push it away, Donavan.
You've got to face the facts first and then you can face Rylee and Colton. Fix you, then them. You'll know what to say then. How to say it. Accept who you really are.

When I reach the porch steps, I brace my hands on my knees and gulp in the bitter air. My chest hurts from pushing myself too hard. But after Getty last night and my less-than-satisfying jerk-off in the shower this morning while thinking of her, I needed to work off some of my frustration.

When I grab a Gatorade from the refrigerator, thoughts about our unexpected kitchen interlude litter my head. And isn't this why I went on a run? To clear my head? But the minute I'm back here, with the scent of her perfume and a pair of her discarded socks sitting on the family room floor, she crawls right back into my damn head.

Everything about her gets to me.

The look on her face when I was close to her. Her ball-tightening kiss. That little jolt of fear that I felt go through her muscles and sweep across her face. Her fear over something. How I had to step back and take stock. Remember she's not some road groupie wanting to get it on with points champion Zander Donavan.
The Golden Boy.
No, she's clearly a woman on the mend from something. One running from a past that was obviously shitty.

That in itself is enough reason for me to pause and step back, because when she gets that look in her eyes, like she has to look over her shoulder and make sure no one's there, she reminds me of my mom. The way I remember her to be: skittish, always apologizing, withdrawn. And that's a huge problem. It's a bright fucking beacon warning me away and yet I keep walking right into its light wanting to help, to be there for her, to get to know her better, when I shouldn't. Hell, I'm the furthest thing from qualified to help her.

What I should be thinking about is sex, sex, and more sex. With her preferably and not my own hand and a bottle of lube.

I can't get involved more than that. I have enough to do with my own issues that I need to figure out. And yet even though I warned her, I can't figure out why she keeps occupying my thoughts.

Living day in and day out with her is like tempting an alcoholic with a bottle of gin. You want to taste, want to sample, but know it's just going to bring you back to being selfish. Wanting only what you want without regard for anyone else or the damage it's going to do. While gin's not my thing, it sure as shit doesn't mean I wouldn't take a sip if I'm thirsty.

And last night,
damn was I thirsty
. What I wouldn't have given to take advantage of the situation—a gorgeous woman whose kiss tastes as good as her laugh sounds—but I couldn't willingly let her spread her legs without being up-front with her.

Well, I could have. I could've been a prick, enjoyed the coming weeks with her moaning beneath me without a scratch on my conscience about how my time here will come to an end. Have some fun, some great sex, and then part ways with nothing more than a
thanks for the good time
and an empty promise to call every once in a while.

But I can't treat her like that.
There's something about Getty that has gotten under my skin.

At first I thought it was the want-what-you-can't-have type of thing. The temptation after promising myself to cut out the complications of adding a woman to the mix. I'm supposed to be here for me. But it's not that. Then I thought it was the innocent-woman thing. Her big doe eyes and blushing cheeks and obvious unease with men tell me she's not used to attention from the opposite sex. Fuck yes, it's attractive, gives me visions of being the one to teach her a few things, but I'm not the kind of guy who racks up points for deflowering the virginal type. There's nothing sexy in that. It's not a game, not something you do knowing you're going to walk away.

Maybe it's just because I actually like her. Think she's smart and naturally beautiful without trying to be, and when I can pry her out from behind the protective wall I know all too well, her personality is killer. And it's the
mad respect I have for her for doing what my mom never did: getting out of an abusive relationship. Because while she may have never said it out loud, the signs are there. The ones someone who has lived in an abusive household can spot like a road sign even all these years later. And a woman that does that deserves the happily-ever-after she never got the first go-round.

So I'm fucked. I want her but can't give that to her, and hell if I'm going to be the one to add on to the hurt that already lingers in her eyes. I'm not that much of an asshole.

But I'm also not going to deny how much I wanted to slide between her thighs last night, clear the counter behind her with a swipe of my arm, and take and taste and satisfy until the sun came up. Instead I showed restraint like I've never had to before. I stepped back. Told her I wouldn't be staying long term. Gave her an out if she wanted one. And hopefully earned my conscience the A-OK to be free of guilt when we do sleep together, because it's her choice now.

A clear conscience, a conflicted heart, and a frustrated dick. Quite the trio. I have to hope that when she says yes, she still doesn't get hurt in the end.

Because she
will
say yes. I saw the answer in her eyes and heard it in the way she called my name. But I still walked away, albeit with an ache in my balls, before shutting the door so I wouldn't be tempted to go back.

Now I glance in her room before I enter mine. Recall how goddamn bad I wanted to slide into her bed last night, pull her against me, and comfort her after her nightmare. But that's being selfish, because I'm lying to myself. I wouldn't have been able to stop at just feeling her body against mine. Not hardly. Let's be real here.

Go fix her car, Donavan.
Do something useful other than waiting with your dick in your hand for her answer. No time like the present. Besides, I'm already sweaty and dirty.

Maybe even earn me some brownie points too.

When I walk into my room to grab a clean shirt, the box in the corner catches my eye. Especially the chicken-scratch writing on the envelope taped to the outside and
the Los Angeles postal origin. The letter in said envelope, from the person who is technically my aunt, explained that my uncle, my only living relative, died of an overdose.

Is it bad that I couldn't care less? Is it heartless that after a failed attempt to foster me when I was twelve for the monthly stipend to fund their habit, the both of them ceased to exist to me? That I'm grateful for their fuckups because it led to Rylee and Colton adopting me?

Why all this time later would she think I want to look at stuff she came across while cleaning out my uncle's things? Maybe she's just being decent, returning the contents because it's all I have left of my childhood. Then again, an autopsy report? Placing it as the first thing in the box so I'd be sure not to miss it. Maybe it was her final fuck-you.

So it's no wonder I'm hesitant to see the rest of the contents.

Besides, it won't be the first time I'll say good-bye to Mom. Or my dad. But that's just it. Will delving further into the box bring back more? Will it make me remember things my mind tried to protect me from?

“Fuck,”
I mutter while my mind keeps running.
Fuck you and your doubt that makes me fear the worst, and fuck you and your hope that makes me want something more.

Thoughts of burning the box rise up as I stare at it—I long to watch it go up in flames so I can hold tight to the memories I have. Of thinking my mother walked on water.

Bodies are buried for a reason—shouldn't their secrets be too?

Torching the box would make it easier all around. Rid myself of the source of anxiety that caused me to lash out and risk every single thing I've been given and worked for.

But since when has anything in regard to my childhood been that easy to get rid of?

Is it too much to want to connect to some good thing in the box? The kind of thing every kid deserves to have from his past? Would it be too much for there to be pictures? Something with smiling faces and my mom's arms
wrapped around me with love? Something I can utilize to will back a positive memory to help smother the bad ones?

But what if there aren't any good memories there?

My fingers toy with the flaps of the box. The internal war continues to rage.
Fuck it. Just open the damn box. Shit or get off the pot. Look at one thing per day until you can handle more. That's why you came here in the first place, right?

The sound of cardboard scraping against itself fills the room. Curiosity and dread rifle through me simultaneously. The stapled packet of paper is on top right where I left it.

My fingertips fidget with edges while I chew the inside of my lip, and I don't need to see the outlined diagram of a body with marks indicating stab wounds or read the words describing what I can still see in my mind.

I feel stupid for the nerves that have me hesitating—upset with myself for having them—but know men are creatures of avoidance by nature. We want to dominate, be in control, and yet the slightest crack in our foundations can rock our world.

And I've survived too many earthquakes already in my lifetime.

I set the report down and shuffle through the contents, purposely not looking at them closely. I need a good memory today, something to help ease the power this box holds over me. So I dig through the unorganized mess intent on finding the smooth, distinct texture of a photograph.

When I touch one, I know it instantly. My fingers make out what feels like a rubber band on the thin stack and I sigh in relief. I might retrieve another memory. A piece of normalcy from those first seven years of my life. My hands shake as I step back and sit down on the bed, nervous over the glimpse of my past I'm going to get.

She's beautiful.
It's my only conscious thought when I see my mom for the first time in almost twenty years. Dark hair, light eyes, and a genuine smile. Sure, her clothes are worn and the car she's sitting in front of is a patchwork of Bondo and mismatched colors, but she's
even prettier than I remembered. Time must have dulled the memories.

And sitting in her lap is a little brown-haired boy with skinned knees, a baseball cap crooked on his head, and a mitt on the grass to the right of them.
It's me.
The picture of a carefree little boy I don't ever remember being but who seems perfectly content in his mom's lap. I stare down at it until my eyes blur, try to commit it to memory as if the picture is going to vanish.