Page 46 of Down Shift (Driven 8)

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“No, he’s afraid for him. What if she paints him with an incredible set of abs? A perfect eight-pack that he can’t seem to get in the gym regardless of how hard he works at it? I mean that’s a valid reason for him to be afraid. To have to leave her when she makes him feel better about himself than anyone else has in a long time.”

My inhalation is shaky. And while he’s trying to add levity to the unexpectedly deep conversation, his comments still hit home with a sincerity I never expected from him. I can’t help the small smile on my lips when what I really should be doing is figuring out whether he’s serious about being afraid of getting closer to me, or if he is just saying it to lighten the sudden insecurity I have after admitting I’m afraid of him.

Or rather she’s afraid of him.

I struggle to find a balance, because all of a sudden I feel outmaneuvered and a bit vulnerable, and my mind latches onto something he said.

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“I would think if she’s going to be painting him nude, he’s going to be more concerned about the size she paints another area than just his abs.”

He throws his head back and laughs while I sit with eyes narrowed wondering if I just in fact flirted with him. And while to other women, that may sound like the stupidest observation ever, for me, it’s something I can’t remember having done in the longest time. In fact I’m so used to downplaying every conversation with a male—sparse eye contact, proper distance between us, an air of disdain—for fear of possible repercussions that it takes a minute to compute that this really is me sitting on a counter with a very hot man standing between my legs.

Cue the nerves.

But it’s hard to be too anxious when Zander is laughing the way he is and I’m the one who caused it.

“You’ve got a point there,” he chuckles, and runs one hand through his hair, leaving it adorably tousled before returning his hand to the top of my thigh in the most natural of actions. “She has a very good sense of humor.”

“Hmm.” I’m busy watching him. Studying him. The little crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. The slightest dent in his chin that’s noticeable only from up close. The five-o’clock shadow shading his jawline. “She does?”

“Yes, she does.”

Silence falls around us as his thumb subtly rubs back and forth on my thigh. Tension fills the room as expectation builds over what’s going to happen next.

My nerves reappear. The panic button suddenly pushed, so I try to escape the uncertainty of what to do or say next.

“I thought you said he had questions for her,” I finally stammer when the unknown becomes way too much.

“He does.”

“And . . . ?” I prompt when he takes a long pause, my mind struggling to stay alert when my hormones are all focused elsewhere.

He slides his hands up and down the tops of my thighs, his lips twisting as he thinks about what questions he wants to ask the most.

“He wants to know why she thinks she’s a disaster. He wants to know what he can do besides be patient to help her.” His voice becomes softer with each word, more serious, more intent. “He can’t figure out why even though he’s sworn to himself he needs to stay away from her, he can’t seem to follow through.”

“I don’t think she can answer that last question for him.” I feel the need to shift, fidget, under the intensity of his blue eyes and yet I do neither.

“True.” He arches one eyebrow up, a shy smile ghosting his lips as he lifts his hands to my cheeks again. “Maybe she can answer this one for him.”