Down Shift (29 page)

This time when he goes to help another customer, he leaves the bottle for me. Smart man. I relax back in my chair as soon as I see Getty come back into the bar. She pulls a pint for two men in front of her. Chats them up. Laughs. Appears normal. But I can see the strain under the smile.

It wasn't that bad,
my ass
. Her words echo in my mind. Cause fury to beat through my veins. Make me think of my own mother again. Wonder how often she put that mask on to protect me, let me think everything was okay when she was bruised inside and out.

Turn it off, Zander. Another day.

But I can't push away the train of thought. I realize I haven't thought about the box or the bullshit it's caused in my life in days. All the noise that had been screaming in my head fell silent. Why is that?

Because of
her
. Beautiful. Brave.
Goddamn Getty.
For the first time in the three hours we've been here, her eyes meet mine and hold across the distance.

All she gives me is a soft smile and a subtle nod in acknowledgment. But it's the words she mouths that sucker punch me harder than anything: “Thank you.”

Two words. So damn simple and yet they could be for so many things: for helping her. For being patient. For letting her put her mask on. For being here. For showing her not all guys bruise women.

I nod back, completely tongue-tied with a woman and I'm not even close enough to speak to her.

Her attention is pulled elsewhere, but I can't get the one thought out of my head that keeps circling. I threatened to kill a man tonight.
For her.
The woman with the knee-high socks, the soft brown eyes, and the laugh that you can't help but smile at. Funny thing is, I feel absolutely zero remorse for how much I meant my threat.

Does that make me more my father than I ever thought I was?

Another shot. To kill the thought. To drown out the comparison.

But then I look at Getty and I can't help but think back. To my mom. My dad. To what happened. And all I can think is that maybe somehow I righted a wrong tonight. Made some kind of amends in my fucked-up universe. I sure as hell don't know what Ethan's intentions were, but if Getty was somehow forced to go back with him, isn't that the same?

Her smile. Her laughter. Her confidence. Her spirit. Her sexuality. He'd take them all without thought and wouldn't that be just the same as killing her slowly?

Parallels. They're fucking everywhere all of a sudden. There's no escaping them. Me to my dad. Getty to my mom.

And yet I don't want any of that. I just want whatever this is here on a clean slate. Getty needs her new life. I need to get over my old life.

That makes what I came here to do all the more important.

For Getty to see why this isn't her fault.

And for me.

For me to realize it wasn't my fault.

Goddamn parallels.

T
he summer of storms—that's what Liam has deemed it. The continual onslaught of wintry-type weather hitting the island has taken a toll on the tourism-dependent economy. And by the looks of the sky, another one is about to rattle the island. Good thing my shift is over and I'm free to watch the storm snuggled on the couch looking out the windows of the family room.

After walking home from work, I pass my car parked in the driveway on the way up the front path and have to smile that the sight of it brings such a different response now. Before, the blue heap of metal represented the liberty to make my own choices, an escape, a chance at freedom. Now, a week after Ethan's appearance, all it signifies to me is a means of transportation. A way to get around the island if I want to explore.

And I also see Zander. Because this car is a reminder of the moment I started to fall in love with him. Running my hand over the fender, I'm tempted to try to deny it, but know it's no use. I knew what I was getting into when we started this “friends with benefits” thing more than a month ago. I just thought I'd be able to keep the emotions in check.

But in retrospect, it was this car that started it all. When I stepped out into the alley behind the bar to find
this old car in front of me, and Zander, the handsome and unexpected stranger, beside me.
Who would have thought I'd remember that moment the most?
Yet every night when I lie in bed with the sound of the surf beyond the windows and his soft snores beside me, it's the one memory I keep coming back to. The one I can pinpoint as being the moment when I started to fall for him.

When he fixed my car, gave me the chance to run, and I chose to stay.

Because he gave me a choice without ever knowing it.

The thunder claps above. I jump at the sound, a part of me taking it as a warning that I'm only going to be hurt in the end. But at the same time, what I'm feeling is a first in my life. And you never forget your first, so I'm glad in a sense my first real love was Zander.

Carpe diem, Getty. Carpe diem.

I shake off the thought and enter the house, feeling tired and hungry. Once I shut the door, I listen to the silence for a minute, just to make sure. . . . It's been over a week and I know Ethan's not here, but I'm still a little freaked.

Blowing out a sigh, I toss my purse on the counter and purposely don't look at the to-do list slowly losing items on the counter next to it. My virtual hourglass telling me time is running out.

All I want is some food and a glass of wine while I watch the gray and black clouds cluttering the sky open up on the stormy seas. An uneventful evening after a long day.

Preoccupied with the thunder rumbling outside and wondering if Zander is back on the docks after his test run with the mechanic on the boat, I need a second to realize what I'm looking at in the refrigerator. All three shelves are piled high with crate after green plastic crate of dark red strawberries.

I can't help but laugh at Zander's display of strawberry love. And am instantly brought back to the afternoon
before
 . . . to our flirtatious lunch and carefree afternoon.
Leave it to Zander to think of something like this.
To bring back that feeling that had been subdued and replaced
with phone calls to lawyers and the formal filing of charges and restraining orders.

I reach out and touch a crate with a big smile. When I shut the fridge door, I have a strawberry in my hand, determined to try it one more time. For Zander.

The funny thing is, I seem to be trying all kinds of things because of him.

*   *   *

A hand brushing hair off my face startles me awake. I look up, eyes wide, heart racing, and meet Zander's amused blue gaze.

“You're safe.” I immediately feel stupid for blurting that out. But it was a lone thought nagging at me as I slowly drifted off to sleep with the howl of the wind and the pelt of the rain in my ears. “Of course you're okay. You're here.”

He laughs softly and shakes his head but never removes his hand from the curve of my neck. And normally I'd shove up to a seated position so I could face him where he's sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of me, but I like the feel of his hand on me—the warmth of it—and don't want him to move just yet.

“I got you something.” His eyes are mischievous, his smile sweet.

“I saw,” I laugh out. “Strawberries and strawberries and more strawberries.”

“Oh. You saw those, did you?” His smile widens, while his thumb rubs back and forth casually on my skin.

“Yes. And I even tried one just for you.” The face of disgust I make must be funny because he belts out a laugh.

“Well, I guess all that matters is you tried . . . but I'm still determined to make you like them. Maybe I'll smother them in chocolate or something.”

I shake my head. “I'd just lick the chocolate off.”

“Mmm.” And there's something about the way he responds, deep and guttural, that makes me think his mind has ventured way past licking chocolate off strawberries and on to licking it from somewhere else. When our eyes
hold, mine must be telling him I know where his line of thinking has gone, because his lips quirk into a smile.

The silence holds. Tension builds. And I welcome it. The snap of desire between us. The welcome ache in my lower belly. It's been a week since he's looked at me this way. Or touched me other than pulling me against him at night to sleep, a sweet kiss pressed against the crown of my head.

The bruises on my arms, my back, my legs, were too much for him to bear. So I've allowed him to hold me at arm's length, with kid gloves, when all I've wanted was to lose myself in him again. And to let him make me feel.

Maybe the space has been for the best. In order not to taint the bed we've made together with the marks Ethan made on my skin. Not to have Zander reminded of it when he touches me. Those bruises are almost gone, though—the ones that can be seen anyway—and thank God for that, because it's torture sleeping beside a man you're craving to have again.

And as if our thoughts are in perfect sync, Zander breaks me from mine by leaning ever so slowly and brushing his lips to mine in the sweetest way.

With one hand on my cheek and the thumb and forefinger of his other hand holding my chin still, he deepens the kiss. A soft seduction ensues, of tongues and sighs and tenderness that steals my breath and sends chills racing over my skin strong enough to rival the ache deep in my lower belly of irrefutable desire.

As the kiss continues, the intimacy of the action is rivaled only by the first time Zander and I had sex. But maybe this feels even more powerful, because so much more has happened since then. Or maybe just for me, since I've confessed to myself the feelings I have for him.

Because a man doesn't kiss a woman like this if there isn't something there.

And just as I start to believe my own propaganda, he breaks the kiss and leans back. “I bought you something.”

It takes me a minute to respond with my head feeling foggy from his intense kiss. “You didn't have to buy me
anything.” I shift on the couch and sit up, my mind flickering to the cigar box still in my room to give him.

“It's nothing major really,” he says with a shrug as if he's suddenly turning shy, “but I saw it and . . . I don't know.”

“What is it?” I ask with total curiosity as to what has him blushing.

He reaches down on the floor in front of the couch to a little white box with a blue ribbon around it. “Here.” He hands it to me without meeting my eyes, so I make sure my fingertips graze over his hands during the exchange. A touch. A little something I can offer in return.

“Thank you.” Noticing the small card taped to the top sans envelope, I set the box on my knees and lift open the flap of the card.

Socks—

Just in case you ever want to be found . . .

—Zander

My eyes flash up to his and all I see is complete kindness in his gaze—all I feel is the sincerity of his gesture—as my mind returns to that conversation we had weeks ago. Even before I untie the ribbon and open the box, I already know what's inside.

And when I do open it, the brand-new iPhone sits nestled in the packaging.

He's given me a way to ask directions if I should ever want to be found. The importance of this moment, his words, the gift he's offering—it's all so heavy it takes a minute for me to blink the tears from my eyes before I can look up to meet his.

“Zander.” Hopefully the sound of my voice can convey what I can't quite put into words—appreciation, surprise, humility. “You shouldn't have. You didn't have to—it's—wow.”

His face breaks into a dimple-territory smile. “There was this great promotion. Buy a phone and get two years prepaid for all services, so I couldn't resist.”

“Zander . . .” And I know he's lying. Know he's trying to save my pride and my budget by prepaying for the service and the phone. “Thank you, but I can't accept this. It's too expensive.”

He takes the box I hand to him and sets it down before grasping my hands in his. “This isn't about money or pride, Getty. This is about me being a man and”—he looks out to the storm outside—“and knowing that if you need help, if you're lost, or as the card says, if you want to be found, you can be.”

Only if you're the one finding me.

I swallow over the lump in my throat, wondering in this world of friends without long-term possibilities if he gets how much his words mean to me. Like maybe he wants there to be a future for us. And then I realize I'm getting this
all wrong
.

The damn to-do list . . . the one I refused to look at earlier today. Well, now I desperately want to know how many tasks are left to complete. Because this gift suddenly seems like his way of telling me the end is near, that he's going home soon and he wants to make sure that I'm okay when he leaves.

I fight the immediate panic, the urge to reject the gift because if I don't take it, then he can't leave, and instead just meet his eyes, while he's completely oblivious to the silent war of emotions going on inside me. So I do the only thing I can, nod my head, try to take the gift for what it is, and not read too much into it.

“I just want you to be safe. Okay? So please accept it?”

“On one condition.” I love the quirk of his lips and the lift of his eyebrows. “If you accept a gift I have for you.”

He starts trying to refuse immediately as I rise from the couch. “I don't need any gifts.”

“I got it last week,” I tell him over my shoulder as I enter the kitchen, my eyes immediately glancing toward the list as I walk by the counter. But I mask the sigh of relief and scold myself at my ridiculous melodramatic panic when I see the list has only two more items crossed off than it did last week.

He still has time.

The thought runs over and over in my head with each footstep down the hallway.

“Getty . . .” The way he says my name is equivalent to an exasperated toddler throwing a tantrum. Defiant. Resolute. Wanting what he's not supposed to want.

“Hush.” It's the last thing I say before I enter my bedroom and head for my closet, where I hid the humidor. Luckily its package went unnoticed on the bed in the melee with Ethan.

“Did you just tell me to hush?” His chuckle reaches my room, telling me he followed me.

“Hush,” I repeat with a laugh. And of course I'm bent over, ass up in the air, so I'm sure he's taking his time enjoying the view.

“Nice socks, Socks.”
Enjoying the view, indeed.

But I love that just like that, he brings us back to that fun, flirty banter when moments ago I was silently freaking out over him leaving. It's like he somehow knows what I need to hear when I need to hear it, and you can't put a price on something like that when it comes to a relationship.

A relationship? There you go again, Getty, with rainbows and pots of gold that don't really exist.

When I stand up with the humidor in my hand, I turn around to find Zander leaning with his shoulder against the doorjamb, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, and this adorable little crease in his forehead as he tries to figure out what in the hell I have in my hands.

“Let's open it here,” I suggest, lifting my chin toward the bed, as that crease grows deeper.

He steps forward, confusion still etched in his face contradicted by the little-boy smile on his lips. Within seconds we're seated on my bed: me cross-legged with my back to the headboard, and him a mirror image of me at the foot of the bed with the bag-covered box in between us.

He starts to open the bag and all of a sudden what seemed like an innocent purchase seems so very personal, which makes me hesitate in explaining my reasons behind selecting it. I thrust my hands out to his. “Wait. . . .” Everything I want to say dies on my lips.

He just looks at me and links his fingers with mine. “What's wrong? Are you finally sharing that huge box of sex toys you murmur about in your sleep?”

“What?” I sputter out, completely taken aback by his statement. From the heat flooding my cheeks, I'm sure they must be beet red. And all he does is sit in front of me, a stone-cold expression staring at me blankly. A nervous laugh falls from my lips as I shake my head in a rapid denial, immediately rejecting his comment. “Wh-what—I don't—are you—”

His face transforms instantly. Smile wide, head thrown back, hand to his stomach as he laughs so loudly it echoes around the room. He falls onto the bed, trying to stop laughing except he can't. “Your face. Oh, Getty. That look was priceless.”

I reach for the pillow closest to me and hit him with it before he can duck out of the way. “That's not funny at all.” Now
I
sound like the toddler having a tantrum. But my God, that was so not cool.