Down Shift (21 page)

“Getty.”

It's the broken groan of my name that drags me from the onslaught of sensations he's created. I focus on him just in time to see him in all his glory: head thrown back, muscles taut, hips thrusting relentlessly as his orgasm shudders through him. I stare at him with a mixture of awe and embarrassment: awe over how incredibly hot he looks and embarrassment that I don't want to be caught staring.

But I can't help it. The expression on his face as he lowers his head and looks down at me—satisfaction, desire, exhaustion—is so overwhelming to me because I put those there.
Me.
Getty Caster.

And I don't have much more time to think about it before a smug smile slowly curls his magnificent mouth as he leans forward to press a thorough and lingering kiss to my lips, which causes everything to stir once again in my lower belly.

Zander carefully pulls out of me and rises from the bed to clean up. The panicked feeling I expected of
What next?
doesn't come. Maybe it's because I'm almost twenty-six years old and for the first time ever I've been properly sexed.

And
properly
doesn't even begin to describe what Zander just did to me. I'm exhausted, and exhilarated, and can see why sexual intimacy is so important to a relationship. To cementing the connection between two people. Especially when that person has the skills of Zander Donavan.

Lost in my scattered thoughts, I emit a content sigh when Zander slides back into the bed and pulls my body against him, my back to his front. He presses a kiss to my shoulder and tears unexpectedly sting in my eyes, the emotion of the evening overwhelming me.

“You okay?” he asks, his mouth moving against my skin.

“Yeah.” I nod and slide my hands over his arms, wrapped around my waist. “Yes. Thank you.” Those words aren't even close to adequate to thank him for the tenderness and sense of security he just gave me. Or the little slice of confidence that Ethan just might be wrong about me.

“You don't have to thank me,” he laughs. “It's not like you're the only one who benefited.” The sleep-drugged sound of his voice tugs on my ego and I let the smile he can't see spread unabashedly over my lips. “And next time, it's okay for you to speak up and tell me what you want. What you need. I can handle being told what to do.” He chuckles softly again, the reverberation rumbling against my back.

Don't talk, Gertrude. Your voice distracts me. Reminds me that it's you I'm fucking. Next time you talk, you know what happens. . . .

I shove the horrible memory from my thoughts. My ex-husband's decrees had previously ruled my sexual experience. But I don't want them to invade this moment with Zander. Ruin this taste of normalcy that I now know I'm entitled to. I will myself to hear the words Zander said instead—
next time
—and hold on to the knowledge that he wants there to be a next time. That he actually wants there to be more.
With me.

“Okay?” he prompts when I don't respond.

“Okay.”

“Uh-uh,” he says as he pulls me tighter. “You don't get to fade away into your doubts again. I'm not going to let you. Today was . . .” He blows a breath. “A lot happened today, but I need you to hear me when I say
this
wasn't a mistake. Every time I touched you, everything we did, was because I wanted to. Not because I felt sorry for you or because of your past. But because
I
.
Wanted. To.
”

“You don't have to do . . .”
Inhale confidence, Getty. Exhale doubt.
I squeeze my eyes shut and repeat the mantra silently. Allow myself to really accept his words. Let them sink in. Tell myself that the feeling of his body warm and firm against mine isn't a fluke. Somehow its
fate's fickle way of proving me wrong. That I'm capable of everything I was told I wasn't. I work a swallow over the lump in my throat and correct myself. “What were you saying?”

And of course it's made that much easier when I feel his mouth still pressed against my shoulder spread into a smile, because he understands me enough by now to know I'm trying to be the Getty Caster he's encouraging me to be.

“Confidence is sexy, Socks, so you better be careful with it or we might not ever leave this bedroom.”

“G
oddamnmotherfuckingshit!” I drop the hammer and suck on my thumb. It hurts like a bitch, but that's what I get for trying to replace roof shingles when my mind's elsewhere.

Like back in the damn bed, cozied up against Getty and her warm, tempting, sexy-as-fuck body.

I groan. And not because of the pain in my thumb. But rather because images of last night flicker through my mind. The same damn ones that distracted me and are most likely going to give me the purple badge of honor under my thumbnail.

But hell if that badge wasn't worth the pain.

I'm standing on the roof in the cool morning air, with the view of the harbor spread out in front of me, but all I see is her: lips swollen, thighs spread, pussy wet, nipples pink.
Down, boy.
And yet it's the look in her eyes that keeps coming back to me. A combination of wounded trust and hopeful desire. Plus shy vixen. The last one she doesn't quite see yet, but I sure as fuck can.

But it's her eyes that I woke up remembering. As I lay there with our bodies tangled together, I kept thinking about everything she'd told me about her past—the half of which I'm sure wasn't confessed. And what kept
repeating over and over in my head was how much trust she gave me last night.

I grab the hammer and a nail. Pound it with vigor over the frustration I can't shake.

The frustration that made me shove out of bed. Away from her warm body and hot curves and pillow creases in her cheeks. Because I needed distance. Space. I got what I wanted—Getty naked and beneath me—but I think I also got a few things I didn't want. That I can't have. That I don't deserve.

Another nail. Another noncathartic pound of the hammer.

She shouldn't trust me.
Shouldn't look at me with those chocolate eyes, a warring combination of damaged and innocent, as she puts her mistreated self in my hands, because I'm in no position to make her life better. In fact, I'm just as fucked-up as she is. Maybe even more so.

Slide a shingle over. Hold a nail. Grab the hammer.

It was just sex. Friends-with-benefits sex. Mind-blowing friends-with-benefits sex. Wake-up-and-want-to-do-it-all-over-again sex. And then possibly again. And not because we did some of the kinky shit that makes it interesting, but more so because
we didn't
. It was simply her and me; trust and give-and-take and everything I said to her during it when I should have kept my mouth shut.

Pound the hammer until there is a dent in the shingle because there's nothing left to nail in.

No one believes what anyone says during sex anyway. Just empty words to fill the quiet. To turn her on. To make her feel special. To set the mood. Words you don't remember later because you lose yourself in the endgame.

So why do I remember every single thing I said last night? Each and every promise? Every last word?

Because I meant them.

I miss the nail. The hammer thuds into the composite material.

“Fuck.” I grit out the word. Scrunch my nose and squeeze my eyes shut while I blow out a breath.

I can't mean them. I have a life to live. A career to pick back up. Wrongs to make right.

I warned her. Told her I couldn't give her more than a few months of fun. Figured that would be enough, to lay it on the table before anything happened. You'd have thought I would've been smart enough to warn myself too.

Seems I forgot that part.

But it's not like I could have predicted yesterday. The ride to the lookout. The unexpected confessions. How she stood in the hallway stepping into me with the ocean at her back and desire palpable between us.

I'm not a
have sex, then get up and leave while the sheets are still warm
kind of guy. But I'm also not a
let's fall asleep, wake up, have sex again, and figure out how to spend the day together
type of guy either.

So why was I wanting to do just that?

Positioning the claw of the hammer under the shingle, I push down and shove it up. Remove it. Toss it off the roof with a thud.

Damn complications.
I have an agenda. Face the cardboard box. Thank Smitty by finishing the repairs to the house. Figure out how to make things right with my family: Rylee, Colton, my brothers, the crew, my fans. Then actually do it.

I'm here to simplify shit. Not make it harder. And yet the minute I got exactly what I wanted—Getty spreading her thighs for me—I dove headfirst into complication.

And hell if I don't want to do just that again.

Hammer. Nail. Pound the shit out of it. The release I was looking for when I came up here is nonexistent. Frustrated, I sigh and roll my shoulders.

I need to clear my head. Gain some perspective. Get away from the house for a bit so I stop thinking about Getty's soft lips and enticing body. Take some time for myself.

It's not like I haven't done the friends-with-benefits thing before. But I've never done it when I'm living with the person. That causes some problems. Like when you want more benefits, all you have to do is walk ten feet to the next bedroom rather than step back, tell yourself to cool your jets, and either use your hand or wait until you can meet up again.

That's gotta be why I'm feeling like this. Because the
meet-up is right in front of my face, so keeping my distance is going to be harder.

Shit. I'm out of nails.
I glance down to the box of them on the sawhorse bench I've set up on the ground.

Adrenaline. It's what I need. To remind me I have a career to return to. To reinforce that my time here is limited. That I need to finish these repairs sooner rather than later. That Getty's just a fling: some hot sex. A friend with benefits. To stop making promises I won't be around long enough to keep.

Adrenaline's the cure-all. I'm decided. It clears my head. Reminds me of the start of a race when I'm forced to focus on me and only me, which is exactly what I need.

Not on Getty.

I give up on fixing the roof. I'm gonna grab my keys and a jacket and head out exploring.
Alone.
Might as well see the island, since I won't be here for much longer. Find an empty stretch of road and break the speed limit just for a bit while I'm at it. Get the adrenaline. The clarity I need to put my head back where it needs to be.

I take the first step down the ladder.

Keep lying to yourself, you pussy.

Next step down.

If you're not on the roof, you're not repairing it.

Move down another rung.

If you're not repairing it, you can't leave yet.

Almost there.

If you can't leave yet, you get more Getty.

Last rung.

Pretty convenient, if you ask me.

My shoes hit solid ground.

Shut the fuck up,
I tell the voice in my mind. The one mucking it up with lies. I'm still shaking my head, convincing myself I just need a little
me time
, when I open the door and walk in the kitchen. I'm irritated, frustrated, and annoyed.

And when I lift my head up, the one person who's making me feel that way is standing right in front of me. Her hair is piled on top of her head, cheeks are flushed, eyes wide, and mouth shocks open into an O shape.

Damn gorgeous.

I snarl and clench my jaw, because the last thing I need is her presence here to cloud my thoughts. Give me reasons to want to stay. Make me want to walk up to her, back her against the counter, and kiss her senseless.

Which is exactly why I'm leaving. Right now.

Distance. Space. Clarity.

And yet I don't move. Just stare. Both of my heads at war over what they want right now.

Keys. Jacket. Wallet.
That's what you want. Get your shit and go.

“Let's go.”

What the fuck are you doing?

“Go?” she asks, forehead furrowed in confusion.

I stride into the kitchen, grab her jacket off the back of the barstool next to mine, grasp her hand, and pull her forward. “Yeah. You're coming with me.”

So much for distance.

W
e've been driving for thirty minutes or so, mostly in silence except for the low hum of the radio. The terrain around us rises up, becoming more mountainous, the patches of pine trees getting thicker.

Everything about this morning so far has been unexpected. Waking up alone in Zander's bed. The flash of hurt he wasn't there. The confusion as to why he was up on the roof.

And then the hit of reality. The realization that even though last night was incredible in so many ways for me—a selfless lover, achievement of an actual orgasm by someone else's hand, praise and not criticism—it was probably just run-of-the-mill for him. I'm just another friend among a list of friends with whom he most likely has enjoyed benefits.

It was a hard thing to accept as I was lying in his bed, the subtle scent of his cologne on his sheets, and the memory of his hands on my skin and words in my ears. He was everywhere around me and yet still not really there.

Hence his warning, his offer to find the damn lighthouse, made perfect sense then. He somehow knew ahead of time that it wouldn't be so simple. That I'd probably develop feelings despite knowing there wasn't a chance of more.

But could you blame me? My mind can't help but skim back over the events of yesterday. First the confessions and afterward feeling like I finally let someone in. Then last night— reverent touches and murmured promises and his all-consuming hands on my body. I'd enjoyed being with a man who pulled me close instead of spewing insults while pushing me away. Who made me feel beautiful and competent and sexy. The last thing I'd ever thought myself to be.

I'd woken up giddy and satisfied with those butterflies in your stomach you read about in romance novels and expected he was going to be on the pillow beside me when I rolled over. So what if I've misplaced my gratitude and possibly turned it into feelings for him? Isn't that natural?

Asking myself the question yet again, I stare at Zander, his eyes focused on the road ahead, who hasn't spoken since he told me to put a seat belt on when he started the car. And the difference is this time when I ask myself the question, my concern about how this is all going to play out isn't just in my head like it was when I was in his bed. Rather I'm looking right at him and seeing it for myself.

The man beside me is very different from the one I was with last night. He's pensive, quiet, irritated. I sense something is wrong and all I can figure is that he's had time to think about it all and now realizes we made a mistake.

So why am I here, then?

I'm startled from my thoughts when Zander makes an abrupt turn off the main road and pulls in front of a log cabin of sorts. It's rather large with green awnings over the windows and smoke trickling from two chimneys. The awnings have some kind of logo on them, but from where we're parked, I can't quite make them out.

“C'mon.” It's all he says as he gets out of the car and walks toward the front door. I stare after him, hating that for the second time he's telling me what to do. I immediately want to follow after him, while at the same time I want to know where the hell we are and what his problem is.

Eventually I scramble out of the car and around a few of the others parked in the lot to catch up with him. He
waits for me on the steps with the door held open. At least there's that.

When I enter, I'm surprised to find a hostess stand and a full-fledged restaurant inside. Ornately carved wood seems to be the theme and the intricate pieces that adorn the interior are quite incredible. A few patrons dot the place and yet they seem to be talking across the tables as if they know one another. I turn toward Zander just as his smile spreads wide on his face at the lady approaching us.

She's as wide as she is tall, with silver hair cut short, and a warm smile lights up her face when she recognizes Zander.

“Good morning, Zander. Good to see you brought her with you this time,” she says with a slight accent I can't place, but I'm more flustered by the knowledge he's been here before and has obviously spoken of me.

“Hi, Lynn. You twisted my arm . . . and the patio, please.” The warmth in his voice after the chill I got in the car surprises me. And I hate that I kind of resent it a little.

She furrows her brow for a moment and then nods. “Sure. Of course. Right this way.”

I'm a tad dumbfounded as we follow her through the maze of tables, the customers nodding in greeting to us, before entering and ascending a short stairwell. All the while I catch partial snippets of conversation between Lynn and Zander that make no sense to me, but then again this random cabin in the woods being a restaurant isn't really normal either so . . .

“Any openings today?” Zander asks.

“Ah, so that's why you're up here, then.” Lynn laughs with a shake of her head. “Just can't let go of that need, huh?”

“It's in my blood.” His laugh is sincere and the expression on her face when she looks back is one of adoration. He's been here, what, a whole month and he already has women smitten with him.

Not like that's hard, though.

“Russell'll be here at eleven if you guys want first spots.” She glances down to her watch as we clear the top of the stairs.

“We'll take it. And the usual for both of us, please.”

My jaw drops, mouth easily wide open, when I step out into the room around us. It's not really a room, though. More like a covered patio open on all sides, the pine trees within arm's reach if you tried to touch them.

I find myself wandering around the space, utterly lost in its beauty. There are tables and chairs up here too, but they are more the comfortable, outdoorsy type of sets with big cushions that sit lower to the ground. I run my hand over the back of a chair and then step up to the railing, a varnished, twisted log. The forest is stretched out before me—pine trees growing out of jagged landscape, a canopy of green.

And then I look down. I gasp in surprise and my head grows dizzy. From the entrance, the cabin looks like it's on solid ground. From where I stand, it appears to be perched on the edge of a canyon, the hill dropping away, giving the feeling that you're more than two stories up.

“It's like an overgrown tree house.” I turn around to catch Lynn watching me with anticipation in her expression.

She nods, her soft smile growing wide. “I knew you were a smart girl,” she says with a wink as she glances over to where Zander is moving a set of chairs and tables closer toward one of the railings. “That's what this place is called. The Treehouse.”

Something in the far-off distance rings a bell in my mind over the name, something from when I first arrived on the island and looked through all the tourist pamphlets on the ferry.

“Go, get comfortable,” she says as she squeezes my arm. “I'll go get your coffee and breakfast.”

“Don't we have—”

“Zander ordered for you.”

“Oh.” There's not much else to say as I watch her walk back toward the stairs, not sure if I'm miffed or okay with the fact that Zander took the liberty.

I try to tell myself that it's not a control thing on his part. He's not Ethan, who ordered my food whenever we went out under the guise of being a good husband but
really wanted to make sure I didn't gain any more weight. Zander was just being nice.

There's a thought—
nice
—considering he hasn't said a single thing to me other than telling me to follow him. The nerves return now that Lynn is gone, and we're alone. He's sitting in the chair with his back to me, feet propped up on the railing, when I turn around.

I make my way to where he is, look out to the forest beyond a bit longer, and then slowly sink down into the chair he's moved for me. It's silent except for the birds chirping and the rustling of the trees around us.

We sit for some time, the chasm of uncertainty increasing with each passing second regardless of how peaceful the setting is. And just as I'm about to say something, Lynn comes back with a busboy carrying a tray.

“Here you go, you two! Coffee. Eggs and bacon. Sourdough toast.” She sets plates onto the small table between us, pours us some coffee, pulls silverware, napkins, and condiments off the tray, and gets us settled.

“Thank you,” we both say in unison, and when our eyes meet, I realize it's the first time since we've left the house. We hold each other's gaze, unspoken words flicker across his face, and yet I can't read a single one of them.

“Eat before it gets cold,” he finally says, and when I break away from his stare, I realize that Lynn is long gone and I have no idea how long we've waged this visual standoff.

The deck fills with sounds—the scrape of a fork on a plate, the clatter of a knife, the hiss of too-hot coffee burning his tongue—but the one sound I want to hear the most doesn't happen. His voice. And even though the food is good, I don't taste it.

The silence eats at me until I can't stand it anymore. There's too much doubt. I'm feeling like we screwed things up by sleeping with each other last night. And yet I don't think I'd want to take it back if I could. The way he made me feel was too powerful to want to wish it away in lieu of how I feel today.

So I glare at him as he takes a bite of toast, a sip of coffee, then another bite of toast, and looks anywhere but at me.

“Is there a point you're trying to prove with the silent-treatment, moody thing you've got going here? Because if this is your way of trying to make me forget about my dinner with my father tonight, I assure you this isn't the way to do it. And if not . . . if there is something else you're trying to tell me, it'd be much easier if you just laid it all out on the table.” I gesture to the table between us. I'm irritated, hurt, unsure, and all three come through loud and clear when all I wanted to do was sound aloof and confident.

Zander's eyes flash up to meet mine above the rim of his coffee cup, eyes guarded, face expressionless, and he holds my stare as he slowly lowers his cup and leans back.

And of course now that my initial surge of courage is gone, the words thrown out there without any precursor, the doubt laced with nerves takes over and I begin to second-guess whether I should have kept my mouth shut.

His unwavering stare and continued silence scream for me to explain myself. I hate that I want to, that I don't want to, but this morning-after business is all new to me and I don't know what to do or expect.

All I know is how I feel. It's a jumbled mess of want and need and fear of the unknown and insecurity and confusion. I already know I've stepped over the imaginary line he's set for whatever
to us
meant that night at the Italian restaurant and yet don't know how to pull myself back.

In a move I'm not sure is smart or stupid but is spurred on by his unyielding stare, I try again. “Look, if you think last night was a mistake . . . or you were faking how you . . . oh, just never mind.” I shift my gaze to my own fingers fiddling with the handle of my fork, hating my sudden inability to string words together to make a coherent sentence and my lack of nerve to stand behind my opening question.

“If you're gonna open the door, Getty, you might as well walk on through it.” There's a warning tone in his voice that makes me fidget in my seat and I wish I'd just let things play out however they were playing out.

But now I can't. Now I have to finish what I started and I'm not so sure I want to. My mouth suddenly becomes dry as uncertainty clouds every ounce of hope I
woke up with this morning. “I just—I understand why . . . if I wasn't . . . if you regret last night . . . that's all.” My eyes sting with the rejection ringing in my tone.

“What gives you the impression I regret
anything
?” His eyes search mine and his voice scolds me in a way that makes every part of my body stand at attention. And I'm not quite sure what it is about him that gives him such pull over me, but as much as I want to look away, I can't. “Well?” The quirk of an eyebrow. The dart of a tongue. A lazy but more-than-deliberate glance down my body and then back up to my eyes.

“It's not like you've been exactly pleasant this morning.” When he just raises an eyebrow again, telling me to go on, I continue. “A few grunts here and there followed by one-word commands . . . the caveman thing doesn't do it for me.”

“I'm pretty sure I know what does it for you,” he says as a smile ghosts over his lips and travels up to his eyes, but then it's gone just as quick as it comes. The fleeting appearance of the man I slept with last night feels just as confusing to me as the verbally stunted jerk of a guy from this morning. “I warned you.” He shrugs. “I'm moody.”

“
Seriously?
The Mander excuse isn't going to fly with me right now. I mean . . .” I huff out a breath and roll my eyes, distracted momentarily by a loud clatter of sounds on the floor above us. “Was saying good morning or granting me more than two words on the ride here that difficult for you to do?”

We sit in silence, eyes locked. I'm not sure what happens to cause it, but all of a sudden his face softens subtly and he shakes his head before looking down at his fingers on his coffee cup. His voice is gruff when he finally speaks. “I'm pissed at you.”

“What?”
I laugh in disbelief, more confused than ever. “What the hell did I do?”

When he looks up, I'm staggered by the sudden empathy in his eyes and the shy smile on his lips. The hard edge from moments ago is gone. Stripped bare. This is the man who was with me last night. The one I'm still trying to figure out but, more important, want to know more about.

He licks his bottom lip and then bites it as he leans back into his chair and shakes his head. There's a knowing look in his eyes like he wants me to understand something that he doesn't understand himself. Confusion wars across his handsome features as I just sit and wait for him to work through whatever is weighing so heavily on his shoulders.