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Silence fills the space between us. Part of me wants to ask more and the other half that doesn't want to give more becomes a conundrum all in itself. The quid pro quo that I won't let happen. So instead I focus on him being in my space, in my house, in my life, when he shouldn't be. When I don't want him to be.

And yet he's still here, still waiting for my answer, still taunting me by his mere presence. A constant reminder of everything I don't want, can't have in my life, don't have the luxury to even consider.

“So can you tell me what my driving a race car for a living and Darcy have in common?” His voice pulls me from my thoughts, brings me back to him standing a few feet in front of me. “Are those what caused that huge chip on your shoulder to weigh you down so much you're being irrational and picking a fight with me for no apparent reason?”

“No reason? Are you crazy?” The smirk he gives me in return goads my temper and at the same time tells me I am giving him just what he wants: a fight. And yet I can't stop myself. I welcome it. “You called Darcy and told her that I agreed to be roommates with you.”

“And?” He says it like he doesn't have a care in the world.

“And?” I screech. “I didn't say that. I didn't even think
that. How dare you tell her that I was willing to live with you when that's the farthest thing from my mind?”

“You'll come around.”

“I'll what?” Each time I respond, the pitch of my voice rises. Each time he responds, I want to strangle him.

“You heard me,” he says with a shrug as he takes a step forward, prompting me to take one back because right now I despise him with every part of my being.

“You're an
asshole
.”

A lightning-quick grin flashes over his lips. “If you want to insult me, Socks, you better think of something better than that, because that's not an insult when it's a well-known fact.”

All I can do is shake my head and tell myself this isn't worth it. There's no use trying to reason with someone who's being unreasonable, and he's taking the cake in that category. Drawing in a fortifying breath, I close my eyes for a moment; it's probably best for the both of us if I leave right now before things are said that shouldn't be said.

“Forget I said anything.”

His hand is on my arm the moment I try to step around him. I should have expected it, should have prepped myself for it, but I didn't. I was too wrapped up in my emotions and my temper to steel my reaction. Biting back the startled yelp I want to emit, I yank my arm back as memories flicker and fade in my mind.

Breathe, Getty. This isn't home. He isn't Ethan. It's okay.

He looks at me, head to the side, eyes narrowed, as he releases my arm, but the question over my reaction is in his eyes. I do the only thing I can, lift my chin up in defiance and show him and myself that I'm not intimidated by him.

“Spill it, Getty. Let's finish this here and now. Get it over with. Why else are you mad? You want to throw the whole kitchen sink in? There's one right over there—I can try to yank it out for you, and add it in if you want.” Sarcasm is thick in his voice and yet there is an underlying strain there as well that I can't quite figure out.

Let's face it, I can't figure anything out about him other than one minute he's nice and the next minute he's annoying. And that damn cologne of his. It's just frustrating that it's everywhere.

“Talk. Get it out,” he taunts as he steps in to me.

I don't want to go here, don't want to sound like a whiny woman, like I'm the emotional wreck that I really am, so I reach deep down and make sure my voice is strong and steady when I speak. “The other morning, in my room . . . what was that all about?”

You hurt my feelings.
My eyes say it, but my mouth remains silent.

“Ahhh.
That,
” he says with a purse of his lips and a stoic expression.

“Yeah,
that
. See?
Asshole.
”

“That was on me, Getty. Not on you.” He blows out a sigh as he breaks eye contact and moves around the small space. And even though he's spoken the words, I'm not sure I truly believe them, because in the few seconds since he's answered me, his posture has changed, just like it did the other day. Defensive. Pensive.

“Look, I've lived with one man who had a temper and moods that flicked on and off.” His movement falters from my words and he turns to look at me again. I swear the atmosphere of the room shifts instantly—tension and curiosity thick in the air around us. I know I'm telling him more than I want to, but he has to understand. “I can't live in that unpredictability again and you just forced me to with that phone call to Darcy.”

“And the other morning I was unpredictable, and that, what . . . ?”

“It pissed me off. Made me feel like I did something wrong when I know I didn't. So do you mind explaining to me what the hell happened? Why you went from nice to asshole in a split second?”

“I warned you I was moody.” It's the only explanation he gives, but I don't buy it.

“And I told you I've seen nice. That was a huge glimpse of it. What made you turn into a jerk? Why'd you walk out of the room, Zander?”

“Jesus Christ,” he says as he moves across the room again, hands running through his hair, and teeth chewing his bottom lip. “I walked out because I promised myself I'd come here, straighten out the shit I've made a mess of lately until I could right all the wrongs. It's complicated and all I want is for life to be simple again. Black-and-white.”

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

He laughs softly, lines suddenly etched in the set of his mouth as he contemplates his response. “Because you complicate my plan.”

“I do?”

“Yes.” He shoves his hand through his hair again and steps up to where I stand. “Fuck yes, you do.”

“You're making absolutely no sense. You don't even know me. What am I to you?” I throw my hands up, exasperated at the language gap between male and female.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Screw you.” Hurt rifles through me. He's perfectly accurate and just made the point I was making myself, and yet hearing him say it with disassociation in his tone and indifference in his body language stings. My own insecurities rear their ugly head again as everything becomes crystal clear to me.

“Exactly.” He chuckles a low and self-deprecating laugh and I'm so lost in my own confusion that I don't really hear it, comprehend what he's saying, because I'm already trying to piece together my next words.

“You've lost me, Zander. You can't have it both ways. You can't tell Darcy I'm roommate material because obviously you have zero interest in me—shit, just by watching you tonight with all of the women hanging on your every word, I know I'm definitely not your type—and then at the same time be mad I'm here because I complicate things. So sorry my presence makes it harder for you to bring your just-for-the-nights back to the house when I'm there and the walls are paper-thin and you know you can't have sex on the kitchen counter because I might walk in on you. You poor, deprived baby.”

I'm out of breath, and anger and rejection are roaring
through my blood as he stares at me, eyes wide, lips lax, head shaking slowly back and forth as he digests what I've just said. As he realizes I'm an intelligent woman who has his entire game figured out.

“You're certifiable, you know that?” He takes a step toward me, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. And I hate that he's mocking me, despise that he's secretly laughing at me. “That's a great scenario you've conjured up in that female mind of yours, but I hate to tell you, you're way off base.”

“Really? I'm off base? Why'd you tell Darcy you want to live with me?” My hands are on my hips; my tone demands a no-bullshit answer.

“Because I want to.”

It's my turn to laugh and roll my eyes. I don't know what kind of game he's playing, but I'm over it. Over him and his back-and-forth and making no sense. “You
want
to and yet
I
complicate things.”

“Yep.” He nods slowly.

“That's all you're going to give me?”

That chuckle again. The one that tells me there is so much more behind it than humor and yet I wish I understood why.

“No. Yes.
Fuck.
” He scrubs a hand over his face and for once I notice he seems uncomfortable and unsure of himself.

“That's very decisive,” I mock.

“
You
complicate things, Getty,” he murmurs as he steps into my personal space so that I can clearly see the look in his eyes even in the dimly lit room. And this time when our eyes meet, the amusement has been replaced with an intensity that I didn't expect. “Because there is something about you that continually reminds me why I came here. I don't know why you're here and you don't know why I'm here . . . and yet for some reason every time I look at you, I know I need to stay when all I want to do is run again.”

His explanation blindsides me. The intensity in his eyes now makes perfect sense. I expected some smart-ass answer, some flippant response to skirt the issue and make
the situation go away, and yet he did the exact opposite. And now I don't know how to respond.

“The other morning,” he continues before I can speak, the tension back in his shoulders, “it wasn't you or your pictures or,
fuck
 . . . Never mind.” He lifts a hand to the back of his neck and pulls down on it as he tilts his head to the ceiling. His audible exhalation fills the room.

“No. Don't
never mind
me. Make me understand.”

He slowly brings his chin back down as he takes a step closer to me. “You really want to know why I walked out the other morning?”

His close proximity and the look in his eyes make it difficult for me to think clearly. “Yes.” I can barely hear my own voice.

“This,” he says as he reaches out and puts a hand on the back of my neck. Alarm bells sound in my head and all I can think about is how I want to be running into the fire it's warning of right now, instead of racing to safety. I can feel his breath on my lips, feel the intention in his touch. “I. Wanted. To. Do. This.”

Within a breath, Zander's lips are on mine. My head reels as the rush hits me. Heat and warmth and hunger and desire drown me in its libidinous haze as my startled gasp parts my lips, allowing him to slip his tongue between them to dance with mine. He tastes like beer and mint and lust all in one and my head is swimming and heart is pumping and
holy shit
, he's kissing me. Tempting me. Awakening me.

It takes me a second to clear the shock from my mind, because I'm stunned motionless, understandably, but when one of his hands moves to hold my jaw still and the other to cup the back of my head, reality hits. His groan fills my ears, low and throaty, and the sound spurs me on. Tells me this is real. My fingers are timid against his chest. My lips move with his, tongue teasing and skin burning for more of his touch. My body switching gears from angered frustration to unexpected desire.

And you'd think that after being with Ethan for so many years, I'd have to remind myself that Zander isn't him, but there's no need for that. No way. Because in the
few seconds since Zander's lips have slanted over mine, there's been more heat, more want, than Ethan ever made me feel.

It's possibly due to the fact that he's forbidden. That I know having a man in my life is out of the picture right now. A
complication
I don't need. But hell if forbidden doesn't taste so damn good.

And just as I start to sink into the kiss, a moan on my lips, he abruptly pushes away from me with a measured mixture of aggression and regret.

“Goddammit!” he swears as he scrunches his eyes tight while I'm left with my lips swollen and all the parts of my body still tingling from his kiss. “I was fucking right,” he mutters more to himself than to me as he starts to move again, pace the small confines of the room, an uncharacteristic nervous energy about him.

And I don't know what to do. Whether I should go, slip out while he does whatever he's doing, or stay here and silently attempt to recover from what just happened. I choose to stay put because my knees are too wobbly to walk just yet.

“This is all your fault, you know,” he growls, pointing a finger at me.

“Mine?” I laugh, nerves tingeing the edges.

“Yes.” Definitely no indecision in that answer. “I wanted to kiss you that morning. Stood there staring at your lips and wanted to know what you tasted like. Suspected that once I did, I'd only want more. But I'm an asshole, Getty. Moody. Selfish. Have screwed up a lot of things lately and the last thing I want to do is fuck you up, because
you
 . . . there's something about you that in the short time I've known you gets under my skin when I don't want it to. Makes me wonder why you're here and what you're running from, when usually the only person I give a flying fuck about is myself. So yeah . . . I wanted to kiss you but also wanted to stay true to my word and why I came here. I can't do both. And so . . .
fuck
.”

I jump when his foot connects with the trash can and it slams against the metal cabinet behind it. But the sound does nothing to my pulse, because it's already racing out
of control from his startling admission. Luckily there is a shelf behind me, because I sag against it for support, my senses completely overwhelmed.

His words run in a loop in my mind as I watch him pace in frustration, anger emanating off him and slamming into me. I should be upset, feel rejected like I did the other day when he waltzed out, but it's kind of hard to feel that way when someone has just told you what he told me with his taste still on my tongue.