Vital Sign (13 page)

“Don’t think too much, Sadie.
Just be.” Zander lifts his hand, running the pad of his thumb across the space between my eyebrows, smoothing away worry wrinkles the same way that he did last night.

“Can’t help it.”

“I know,” he whispers, close enough to me that I can feel his breath against my cheek with each syllable.

Without another word
, Zander pushes past me, going right to my purse. He scoops it up and holds it out to me. He looks frustrated and I scrunch up my brows, eyeing him cautiously.

“What’s wrong?” I turn in the doorway to face him
where he stands by the bed with my purse in his big hand.

“Nothing’s wrong, Sadie
, but if I don’t get us out of here I’m going to lose all restraint with you. I don’t think it’s a secret that I want nothing more than to kiss you, touch you, feel you. You’re all I think about…” he trails off, shaking his head and looking purely aggravated.

I’m rendered speechless by his confession. I release the door, stepping back into my room. The weighted door forces itself shut and suddenly I’m alone in my room with Alexander McBride, the man who
has taken my fragile world and tilted it even further off kilter than it already was simply by our meeting.

Zander’s eyes look beyond me to the door that has just given us a dangerous amount of privacy. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m not thinking. I’m only doing what he told me to do.

I’m just being
.

I take one step closer to him and he does the same. We’re toe to toe.
He drops my purse to the floor at our feet, freeing both his hands. He brings them to my face, holding his warm hands against my cheeks. I feel like I could melt right here on the spot.

“You’re beautiful, Sadie.”

“I’m not beautiful, Zander. I’m the worst version of myself. I have been for two years.”

“You’re beautiful, Sadie,” he repeats, brushing his thumbs across my cheek
s.

He’s so close. God, he’s so close I can feel his warmth filling t
he space between us. His breath is laced with mint and an intoxicating blend of everything I want most right now. He licks his lips and watches me closely, like he has since I met him on the beach. My heart pounds, my mind is spinning, and I’m scared. I can’t do this. I can’t be this close to him. It’s wrong but it’s perfect.

“I can’t,” I mutter as I pull away from him and claim a little more space for myself.

Zander inhales deeply and nods knowingly. Instead of that awkward silence that I expected, he reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “When you’re ready, I’ll be here. Just hope that you’ll still be here too. Atlanta’s close, but it’s not close enough.” Zander’s probing gaze lingers, locked in a sort of duel, my brown eyes enduring the sweet torture of his sapphire gaze.

The only response I can manage is a weak nod. I want to tell him so badly that I want him. I want this.
Whatever
this
is. I want to be here in this moment with him and allow it to just be whatever it is. I want to tell him that I’m scared, but I’m even more scared of the regret I may feel if I don’t dive in headfirst with him. I want to tell him but I’m a pathetic waif with a serious lack of courage.

Zander smiles weakly
and reaches down, picking up my purse. He hands it to me then takes my hand in his and leads me from my room. “Pregame drinks?” he asks, smiling sweetly.

“Sure!”

“Good. Gotta swing by the store. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

***

We enter a small shop that has what appears to be a hand
-painted sign reading “Bill’s Beer and Bait.” There isn’t much to the place. It’s exactly as the sign says. Mostly beer and other drinks on one side of the store with assorted fishing supplies on the other. Behind the counter is an older man with a look on his face that tells me the deep wrinkles marring his cheeks and forehead are likely from a lifelong shitty disposition versus laughing. He’s balding and has a hefty gut rubbing against the counter. He looks none too pleased to see us.

Zander quickly makes a few selections
, moving from shelf to shelf, and then heads to the counter with me in tow. “How’s it going, Bill?” he asks curtly, fishing his wallet from the back pocket of his tattered jeans.

Bill huffs sarcastically while
he loads the items into a bag. “I’d be better if that daddy of yours would actually do his job,” Bill mutters in his southern drawl from behind the cash register, punching keys forcefully with his fat index finger.

Zander waits
patiently to pay, saying nothing to the man who is clearly insulting him.

“37.26.” Bill taps a key and looks to Zander for payment with
out an ounce of customer courtesy. I’m unsure of what the tiff is between these two, but whatever it is, it clearly doesn’t rile Zander much, and if it does, he’s really good at hiding it.

Zander pays
, then grabs the paper sack off the counter and stuffs the receipt in his pocket. I watch as he and the storeowner share a less than friendly silent exchange.  Even through his passive appearance, Zander has this, this energy or something radiating from him. It screams “don’t fuck with me” to everyone else and purrs “come closer” to me. He doesn’t have to say a word and yet, somehow, I can tell what he’s thinking. I imagine Bill feels it too. I can’t imagine anyone could be in his presence and not pick up on whatever this silent brooding thing is.

“I can’t believe I was on
that snake’s side,” Bill mumbles.

Zander turns towards the door, paper bag in hand
, and I follow.

“Have a nice day, Bill.” Zander tosses over his shoulder
, lacking sincerity.

I turn just in time to see Bill sneer at Zander’s fa
rewell remark. I linger for a beat just inside the entrance to the small store. “Fuck off, Bill,” I chime from the door, like I just confessed my undying love for him.

Bill mumbles under his breath like old men do and we leave him to it.

Once we’re back on the sidewalk and walking at an easy pace back towards his Jeep, Zander smiles wide, melting my insides a little. Okay, a lot.

“What?” I ask
, taking four steps per his two steps.

Zander shakes his head, looking down. “
You
. That’s what.”

“Elaborate.”

“Why would you say that to that crotchety old bastard?”

“Um
, he was a dick?” I answer, sounding more like a question than a statement.

“Yeah
, but he was a dick to
me.
Not you,” he adds.

“Yeah. So?” I shrug.

Zander shakes his head some more, chuckling under his breath.

“Sometimes I let off steam by acting like an asshole to people around me,” I admit
, ashamed of my less than honorable actions.

“I get that. Trust me
, I get that.” Zander nods, looking lost in thought.

I had thought about explaining myself
, but it seems that it’s unnecessary. He understands, I guess. He’s the first person that hasn’t given a look of pity or disapproval when they witness my snide remarks firsthand. Most everyone cringes and looks at me like I’m some errant child. It’s so hard for people to understand that I’m angry at life, not any one particular person.

He
doesn’t bother trying to explain what was at the root of the unfriendly exchange. I’m not too sure that it’s any of my business, but curiosity wins out over propriety.

I rep
lay the unpleasant exchange in my head while we drive in comfortable silence.
Why would that guy have a problem with Zander’s dad? He hasn’t even mentioned much about his family to me.
After milling it over in my head, it does seem peculiar that a heart transplant recipient wouldn’t have family breathing down his neck all the time. I can’t get a moment of peace from my family and friends and somehow Zander has found a way to completely isolate himself. I have to admit that it makes me a tad jealous and even more curious about this enigma that is Alexander McBride.

McBrid
e?

His name sounds so damn familiar
; it’s like a connection between the man and the name is just on the tip of my tongue. I make a mental note to search the internet for more information at some point.
Google will shed some light on the reason his name sounds so familiar.

As
if reading my mind, Zander peeks over at me in the passenger seat. “Penny for your thoughts?”

I shake my head from side to side
, doing my best to pretend like my mind isn’t racing with an entire line of intrusive questions.

“Okay. Okay,” he says with a smirk on his lips
, holding his free hand up in mock surrender. “I get it. I can appreciate the need for privacy.”

We round the corner and cross the road nearing Zander’s str
etch of beach. Our silent drive comes to an end once we are back at his beach house. We climb the stairs and he leads me to the wet bar off of his living room. Pulling out a stool, he prompts me to sit.

“Red okay?”

“Red wine is perfect.” I slide myself onto the cool high gloss barstool and watch as he moves fluidly behind the bar, pulling everything he needs from cabinets and drawers. He pours my glass of red wine and cracks open a bottle of water for himself, pouring it over ice in a glass tumbler.

Seeing him
so focused and attentive like this awakens that nagging primal desire that dwells deep down. For the millionth time, I resent my stupid female body for finding him so attractive. I resent
him
for being so attractive. It makes me angry at myself and a little bit more convinced that I may be truly insane. I’m off my goddamn rocker.

***

When he said golfing, I hadn’t pictured this. He’s just pulled his man toy Jeep into the parking lot with a marquee that reads, “Adventure Island.” The letters are all lit up in a rainbow of colors. I scan the property to confirm that Zander has brought us to a teenage hangout and not a country club. Miniature golf obstacles dot the property, including a windmill, a mini cottage, and a crocodile with its mouth snapping open then shut. On the opposite side is an oblong racetrack complete with go-karts made to look like drag racers. It’s hilarious. I definitely didn’t expect Zander to come “golfing” here. A smile breaks out across my face as I turn in my seat to face him.

“This seems—ah—pretty legit for a former professional golfer,” I croon sarcastically
, nodding my head.

“I’m retired
,” he reminds me. “And I’m a heart patient. I have no real social life thanks to my fucked up family. I take what I can get.” He shrugs, boasting an absolutely acerbic grin that has me regretting pulling away from him back at the motel room. 

“You’re serious?” I’m confused by his comment about his family and the only thing that I can imagine is
that his family is as stifling as mine, but maybe they do it from afar? It’s difficult to believe that though. If they were the smothering type like mine, they’d be at his side all the time or at the very least, calling, texting and Facebook stalking him. I ditched all social media a long time ago. It was just too much.

“Of course. I know the owner. I come hang out sometimes
.” He shrugs his defined shoulders again, distracting me from my thoughts. His body as a whole is distracting. He isn’t bulky, but he’s tall, lean and sculpted. It’s difficult to imagine a heart patient as anything more than a pale, feeble-bodied person in a hospital gown, but Zander is quite the contrary. It’s obvious to me that he takes care of himself and keeps himself in order. It makes me happy to see. “Shall we?” he asks, opening his door to get out of the Jeep. I smile and nod as he rounds the front, letting me out. I’m glad that I wore capri pants and flats. Horsing around like teenagers isn’t a dress-friendly activity.

“So you’re telling me that the former pro golfer plays putt-putt and races around the track in go-
karts?”

“I get my thrills where I can.” Zander’s smile is an attack of the most gorgeous kind. Every brick of the wall that I
’ve formed around myself seems brittle when he smiles at me like that.

He leads the way to the first hole of the cours
e. There are two putters and two golf balls sitting there, waiting for us.

“Don’t we have to pay or something?”
I glance around, looking for a line or a desk or something.

“Nope. Just us for a while
.” Zander sets a fluorescent yellow golf ball on the green then holds a putter out to me.

“What? How?”
I idly take the putter, staring disbelievingly at Zander the entire time.

“Asked a favor
.” He shrugs and
holy fuck
. I’m an oozing puddle of congealed estrogen and all things
girl
.

“Wow. You know how to make a woman feel special,” I admit
, stepping up to the ball that he has set up for me at the first hole.

“Not
women
. Just you.” Even his short and choppy Zander McBride style explanation has me swooning. I’m in deep. “Okay. Get ready to lose to a golf master,” he quips, popping his neck and straightening his shirt, feigning cockiness.