Down Shift (22 page)

A loud sigh. A toss of his napkin on the table beside his plate. “We're venturing into uncharted territory for me, Socks.”

I angle my head and blink a few times, trying to understand what he means. His toast flashes through my mind: 
. . .
because friends between the opposite sexes leads to friends with benefits and that always ends in disaster, and you know what, Getty? I don't want that with you, so let's just say “to
us
,” whatever
us
may be. . . .

“Like as in ‘always ends in disaster' territory?”

“Something like that,” he says with a nod, but his eyes tell a different story I can't quite read yet. He twists his lips, lowers his eyes for a fraction of a second before raising them back up to mine. This time there's a bit more resolve in them. “When I left home after everything with Colton, I promised myself from here on out I'd live my life without regrets. That every step I take, every decision I make, everything I do, will be with that as a constant in my mind. So, Getty . . .” He shifts forward in his seat, places his elbows on the table so that we are as close as we can be with a table between us. “Let me make myself clear when I say I have
zero
regrets about last night and you even thinking it pisses me off.” And the way he speaks, voice deep but still quiet and intent, makes any response I have insignificant.

“Oh” is all I can muster, considering he deliberately holds my gaze hostage with that amused glint in his eyes as he sits back in his chair.

“Yeah.
Oh.
” He says both words in a way that has my body standing at attention and taking notice of everything about him like it's my first time really looking at him.

He's sitting across from me, angled in the chair so that one elbow lies on the armrest, arm bent with his finger
running back and forth over his bottom lip. I take in his unshaven jawline, dark hair hidden beneath the lid of a Giants baseball hat, the broad set of his shoulders, and the flex of his bicep.

Ungodly handsome. And so damn pretty.
The last thought makes me smile and earns me a raised eyebrow asking me what's so funny. But I don't answer, because I'm so captivated by his fingers running over his lip. My mind immediately recalling what those lips felt like when they moved against mine.

And over my skin.

“Getty?”

I lift my eyes to meet his again and instantly the air begins to shift. Electrify. It fills with an underlying tension that vibrates all around us. My pulse picks up, body becomes restless.

His eyes still hold that hint of irritation they've had since he stalked in the house, but there is no mistaking the desire now clouding them too. And even though I'm still confused as to why he's pissed at me for venturing into this uncharted territory, there is no way in hell I can deny my body's immediate response to him.

I never thought sexual desire could be tangible, but my God, in this small space of time it feels like I've just been sucker punched.

He continues to rub his finger back and forth, visual foreplay that I'm pretty sure is a deliberate taunt to my awakening libido. I'm irritated that he can affect me so quickly and at the same time I'm turned on so much that I have to press my thighs together to ease the ache burning there.

Determined to let him know that I can play whatever game he wants to play, I shift my gaze from his mouth back up to his eyes. And those eyes?
Whew.
The look they give me, like he wants to clear the table, lay me down, and devour me, right here, right now, causes my breath to stutter in my chest.

“This is all your fault, you know.” The censure in his tone is laden with suggestion.

“Mine?”
I lean back and mirror his posture, try to
appear as nonchalant as he is, when my insides feel like an exposed live wire. “How so? If you're gonna open the door, Zander, you might as well walk on through it.” A lift of my eyebrows in challenge. A hint of a smile to reinforce it.

His laugh is long and low, yet has an edge to it that I don't quite understand. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes focused on his fingers steepled together until they shift to meet mine.

“I meant what I said last night.” His voice is heavy with a sincerity that makes my heart beat faster.

“Which thing?” I have to ask because there were so many things he said. So many promises he made.

“All of them.”

Oh. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth as I try to make sense of this conversation and the events of the past twenty-four hours. “So then you're mad at me because—”

“Look. I think we need to lay some ground rules is all.” He lifts his hat and runs a hand through his hair before slumping back in his seat, completely disregarding the previous train of conversation and shifting gears.

“Oh. Okay. Sure.” I nod, willing to agree so maybe we can bypass the awkwardness the next time we have sex. And even that thought feels so foreign for me. “Ground rules? As in
boundaries
, right?” I ask, full well expecting the flash up of his eyes, since he's the one who overstepped the previous boundaries we'd set.

“Yes, as in those types of boundaries.” He takes a sip of coffee. Takes his time swallowing. Surveys the open deck around us and then looks up to the ceiling when there's another loud clank, before looking back to me with curiousity reflected in his eyes. “Have you ever done the friends-with-benefits thing before?”

My laughter is tinged with disbelief. “Considering I've only been with you and Ethan, I don't think you need to ask that.” The hitch in his movement is subtle but noticeable. Almost as if realization has hit him over my lack of experience. I speak quickly, not wanting him to think too much about it. “The question is, have you?”

“It doesn't matter if I have before.”

“Seriously? You're going to say that and think I don't know the answer is a resounding yes?”

“Look, Getty.” He blows out a breath in resignation. “We live together, so this could get tricky. I figured maybe if we set some type of rules, it would help some.”

“Like no-spending-the-night type of boundaries?” I snicker at how ridiculous it sounds, since our living in the same house makes that impossible, and catch the irritation that plays over his features.

“Very funny, Getty.” My name is a verbal reprimand that he's serious and while I get what he's saying, heed the warning, I can't help it. It's almost as if I feel relieved knowing that there is no regret, no doubt, on his part, just rather a need for him to prevent the
disaster
from happening.

And I've had enough disasters so far, so I'm all for it.

“So that's why you've been an asshole? Couldn't you have just said, ‘Hey, we need to talk' when you walked into the kitchen this morning instead of giving me the silent treatment while you drove me all the way out here?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I'm out here because I couldn't sit at the house.” His eyes are focused on his hands and I wish he'd look at me so I could see what he's not saying.

“Why?”

“Because I can't get you out of my goddamn head.” He grits it out like it's a curse and every part of me sags in relief at the roundabout compliment. At knowing the feeling is mutual because all I was doing standing in the kitchen was thinking about him.

“But what does that have to do with bringing me here?”

He lifts his face up and the intensity in his eyes when they meet mine is unwavering. “Because I don't want to want you as much as I do, but
I do
 . . . and if we'd stayed at the house, then I'm pretty sure I would have done exactly what I wanted to do when I saw you standing there in the kitchen.”

His tongue twister of a response doesn't answer anything and yet it causes my pulse to begin to race at its implication.

“What did you want to do?”

The hunger in his eyes practically answers the question for him.
“To
fuck you, Getty.”
Each word sounds like a thread of his self-control is snapping. His body is tense, hands fisted. “To bend you over the edge of the kitchen counter and fulfill one of those many promises I'd made to you last night.”

“Oh.” That ache is back, liquid heat spreading through my core at his explicit words, which turn me on in ways I never imagined they could.

“Yeah.
Oh,
” he repeats as again I'm left wordless. “And we're here because we needed to talk and I couldn't talk there at the house where there were so many convenient places to lay you down.”

My breath comes faster and my mouth is suddenly dry as he does just what I'd asked, lays it all out on the table.
I wish he'd lay me out on the table.
I fight the smile, the giddy feeling fluttering through me at being wanted and desired running right beside the lust that's slowly consuming my thoughts.

“And road trips cure that?” I ask coyly, my confidence resurfacing suddenly now that I feel like the power has shifted and it's a more even playing field.

“I thought it would,” he says as he abruptly moves the table between us to the left and then reaches out to my chair, scooting it so that my knees fit between his. I let out a yelp of surprise at the unexpected action, but before I can catch my breath, his face is inches from mine, both hands on my thighs, and his eyes darkening with lust.

“And?” I whisper.

“I was wrong.” His kiss is soft and gentle, but I can sense the violent edge of desire just beneath his quiet control. I close my eyes and allow myself to fall into the kiss—the taste of coffee on his lips, the scrape of stubble against my skin, the sounds of the forest all around us—and realize that he ran off this morning because he's fighting the pull that's already reeled me in and taken hold of me.

I may not have a lot of experience with men, but after watching Ethan constantly for so many years, I'm
observant enough to see a man wading into waters he deems treacherous.

The damn white squall.

He breaks our kiss with a laugh, rests his forehead against mine, and just breathes me in.

“So, boundaries, huh?” I feel his mouth curve into a smile against mine. “How's that working for you?”

He throws his head back, his laugh deeper and richer this time, and I feel a tad more settled after this awkward dance of trying to downplay and yet own the attraction between us.

“You're a little—”

“We're ready for you,” a voice booms from the doorway, shocking us apart and drawing my attention over to a burly-ish guy. I take in his plaid shirt, worn jeans, and full beard before it registers that he's speaking to Zander and me.

“Hey, Russ.” Zander stands up with my hand in his, prompting me to rise too. “Perfect timing.”

“Not from what I can tell,” he says with a resonating chuckle before turning his back and disappearing into the stairwell.

“C'mon,” Zander says with a secretive smirk and a spark in his eyes that leaves me more than curious about what he and this mysterious mountain man are talking about.

“What's going—”

Zander turns around and places a finger to my lips to quiet me. “No questions, Socks. You can thank me later.” He continues up the flight of stairs with a visible bounce to his step.

When we clear the landing, “No way in hell” falls from my mouth, my legs already retreating the way we came as I take in what's before me. But Zander's prepared and grabs my hand to keep me on the platform of sorts.

And even though I'm physically struggling against him, my mind rejecting what the contraption and the gear around me are used for, it's his laugh that echoes the loudest in my mind. Carefree. Excited. Daring.

“You've taken scarier leaps before. This is a piece of cake.” The words knock the fight out of me. His even, encouraging tone telling me he's referring to how I came to be in PineRidge.

With his hands firm on my arms, pinning them to my sides so I can't back away, I take in everything around me. The thick metal cables and pulley system disappearing into the distance. The two harnesses laid out on the wood planking of the patio. The helmets next to them. The gap in the railing with the plank that extends beyond it.

How in the hell did I not notice the zip line overhead when I was down below? I was obviously so mesmerized with the incredible view and the unsettled feeling between Zander and me that I overlooked it.

“Getty.” Zander's voice pulls me back. “You've jumped before. This time, though, you'll have a rope and a harness.” He nods his head, eyes steadfast on mine.

“But . . . I . . .” Thoughts. Fears.
Heights.
The last of which causes a bone-deep terror at the idea of jumping headfirst into midair attached only by a cable to prevent me from plummeting to my death. “I can't . . . I just.” My eyes blink rapidly as I'm trying to process this, when his hands move from my arms to my cheeks.

“You can.”
He bends his knees so we are at eye level,
equals
, and continues. “I came here needing one of the constants in my life: adrenaline. Something to ground me and clear my head, because it's getting all muddled up.
And you?
You've left your old life behind, leapt without looking, and I think before you face your father tonight, you need something to ground you too. Something to remind you that you did this on your own, started a new life,
your way
, and that you're not the woman your father or Ethan thought you were. You're strong. And beautiful. And brave. Maybe doing this will help you see it.”

Tears blur my vision. My lower lip quivers. His words take root in my soul and wrap around my healing heart. And as much as I want to reject what he says,
all of it
, I also hear every single word.

“No regrets,” he whispers.