Page 43 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
I direct daggers his way. My emotions are warring over what to tell him, even though I know I can’t just yet. There’s too much at risk for me—emotional and otherwise. “I don’t really want to like you, but you make it damn hard not to. There. That’s a confession.”
That’s all I’m giving him with his quick grin and baby blues and coaxing questions.
“It’s a start. I’ll take it.”
Chapter 12
GETTY
“Ican’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I groan, but inwardly I revel in it. The red and white checkered tablecloth, the half-eaten pizza sitting on a metal stand, and what he called the wimpy starter wine shared in glasses between us. How after we came in from working on the deck, he told me to get dressed because he was taking me to dinner to thank me for helping.
Of course I refused.
But I’m so glad he persisted, because getting out, seeing the town through his eyes, showed me that I needed to have a little fun. Everyone he greets knows who he is because of his job, and really being a local instead of fading into the background has been liberating.
In fact I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself like this.
“We forgot to make a toast,” he says as he lifts his glass up. I roll my eyes but can’t help smiling.
“To friends,” I offer up, unsure what we should be toasting, but I figure this is as good an option as any given our situation.
“No. Not to friends.” My eyes flash to Zander’s at the sound of his forceful reply; I’m a little surprised and a lot curious. “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’”—he pauses, tapping his glass to mine—“whatever us may be.”
“To us,” I murmur as his eyes search mine. All the while I’m trying to figure out what part he doesn’t want with me: the friends with benefits or the ending in disaster.
The rest of the meal passes how the whole evening has, with us fabricating sordid backstories about the people sitting across the restaurant from us: townspeople we don’t know but will remember from here on out from our silly game. How the quiet mom with three rowdy boys in the corner really is a dominatrix for hire at night, or the gregarious busboy hoards Barbra Streisand memorabilia in his basement.
The speculation and laughs are endless, but they don’t stop Zander’s toast from repeating in my mind as we walk back home to the cottage together.
“Your toast? I don’t want that with you either.” Maybe it’s the few glasses of Moscato that have gone to my head or just that I’ve thought about his comment enough, but there’s no denying the tinge of hurt to my tone.
Maybe he didn’t hear the hurt part.
But I have to give it to Zander—while he falters midstride, he doesn’t ask what I mean. Rather he nods his head and keeps walking the rest of the way home without saying much more. He opens the door, turns on the light, and heads into the kitchen to put the leftover pizza in the refrigerator all without a word as I stare at his silhouette and wonder what he’s thinking. What I did to piss him off other than agree with him.
Because I’m used to things—whatever they are—always being my fault. Every mood swing. Every bad day at work. The change in the weather for God’s sake, if I were to believe Ethan.
So I stare at the broad lines of Zander’s shoulders, his hair disheveled from the wind on the walk home, his eyes focusing on where he’s pushing the house key around on the counter, and I wonder what I’ve done wrong this time.
“Tell me something, Getty.” He lifts his head finally and meets my eyes. “If you were in the restaurant tonight and saw the two of us, what story would you have made up to explain us being there?”
His question throws me momentarily. His eyes hold fast to mine as he rounds the front of the counter and leans his hips against it. There’s something so distinctly masculine about the stance that I stop and stare for a moment before answering him.
“Why?”
“Just humor me.” He flashes me a heart-stopping grin, and between that and the intensity in his eyes, it’s impossible to refuse when he pats the counter beside him for me to sit.
Suddenly leery of being close to him when I’ve been just that all day, I move slowly and take my time hopping my butt up on the countertop, scooting back so that my legs are dangling over the edge.
“If I was making up a story about us, I’d say that we were friends who met for dinner after working all day.”
“Friends.” He makes a noncommittal sound and then shifts so that he can meet my gaze. I squirm under his quiet scrutiny: eyes narrowing, tongue tucked in his cheek, hand placed way too close to the side of my thigh. “That’s all you’ve got, Socks?” He shifts so that his pelvis is against the counter, hip hitting my knee. “That’s not very creative coming from an artist.”
I start to scoff, immediately reject his label, but the warning look in his eye stops it on my tongue. “Sorry.”
Annoyance flickers over his face, but it’s gone just as quickly as it comes. “Don’t apologize.”
I begin to say I’m sorry again and stop myself, heeding the cautionary tone in his voice. “What’s your story, then?” He doesn’t like mine—then he needs to give me his. But the minute I make the comment, I feel like I’ve just played right into his hands even if I can’t figure out what the endgame is.
