Page 48 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Oh, Getty,” he sighs with clear affection as he rests his forehead against mine. We are nose to nose, his hands still on my face, the warmth of his breath feathering over my lips. There’s something so comforting in the action, in the fact that, rather than run away, he stepped into me. I close my eyes and feel his concern, accept his compassion.
“One of these days you’re going to find a man who treats you right,” he murmurs softly. “Sweeps you off your feet. Treats you like you walk on water. Inspires you to paint sunny skies and calm oceans.”
“Not nudes?” I can’t help it. It just felt right to say. And as I reel that he noticed the correlation between my emotions and my pictures, he steps back from me, eyes alight with humor and a quiet laugh on his lips.
“No. Not nudes.” He runs his hands down to my shoulders and squeezes them gently. “You deserve nothing less than the best, Getty.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, wondering how he figures into all of this, considering he was the one kissing me moments ago.
He breathes deeply, whatever it is I can see on the tip of his tongue weighing down the atmosphere around us. Is he thankful for my hesitancy because now that he’s stepped back, he regrets getting involved with the head case that I obviously am?
I wouldn’t blame him if he did. And I hate that I’ve already lost a little piece of my healing heart to this man standing in front of me with conflicted eyes. He’s kind and patient and stubborn and my God, the man can kiss me so senseless I forgot my old and my new name. Is it stupid to say that? Yes. But when you’ve never known kindness like this, it’s easy to give a part of yourself to the person who shows it, because when all you have are broken pieces to begin with, who’s going to miss one more little piece?
Seriously? Why am I having ridiculous thoughts like this when three weeks ago I was ready to poke his eye out with a mini-blind wand? I look at him—blue eyes, dark hair, hard body—and wonder how he went from annoying to attractive. Am I that messed up—that emotionally wrought—that being nice to me is all it takes?
I hate that I don’t know the answer to the question.
“I need you to hear this when I say it and really listen, okay?” he says, pulling me from my self-deprecating thoughts.
Here it comes. I was right. He regrets this.
I nod my head.
“Right now every damn part of me wants to kiss you again. Kiss you till we can’t breathe, then lay you down on my bed and show you what it’s like to feel that kind of worship. But God, Getty, I can’t do it knowing that I might hurt you in the end when you’ve obviously been so hurt already. I can’t make the promises you deserve. I have my life back home. My racing. My family. I need to sort my shit out, make my amends, and then in a few months I’ll head back to it. That’s not fair to you. I want more than anything to be the selfish prick I’ve been over the past few months and think only of myself. Sleep with you, feed that crazy need you’ve created in me, and then walk away when the time comes without a care . . .” He blows out breath and shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s not going to, before meeting my eyes again. “But I can’t do that to you. I can’t knowingly walk you into my storm without showing you where the lighthouse is so you have a way out before you even begin.”
My eyes go wide and chest constricts as I attempt to process everything he’s saying. The civil war
happening inside him over being who he needs to be versus who he wants to be. Over what I know is best for me and what could break me again.
And of course all coherent thoughts vanish when he steps into me again, hands back on my cheeks, eyes locked onto mine. He leans forward and brushes his lips to mine in the most tender of kisses. The kind that makes you want to simultaneously sag inwardly and fist your hand in his shirt to demand more.
His unsteady draw of breath is audible—restraint held by a thread—before his blue eyes find mine. “I’m showing you where the lighthouse is, Getty. Giving you a way out. It’s up to you to decide if you want to step into my storm before it passes through or head for safety. I can’t decide for you.”
I begin to speak, my heart in my throat and my pulse racing, but he shakes his head to stop me. “Not now. You need to think about it. Sleep on it. Get a clear head and figure out your answer. I’ll wait.” When he reaches out to put one hand on the side of my face, I close my eyes and turn into the touch. My lips kiss the palm of his hand; his compassion has undone me in so many ways I can’t think straight. “Good night.”
“Zander,” I call after him as he turns to walk down the hall.
He stops momentarily, head hanging down, broad shoulders set proudly. “Good night, Socks.”
There’s so much I want to say. Stop. Wait. Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m sorry. But none of them come out, because I’m not sure which one I want to say the most.
I want to tell him that I don’t care. That we should just live in the moment. Not worry about tomorrow or a few weeks from now when the to-do list is complete. Ask him to help me get over the hurdle of Ethan’s lies by showing me how sex should be. Be the spontaneous person I aspire to someday be.
Desperation fuels my thoughts, makes me already miss how he made me feel tonight. But I can’t tell him, because he’s right. I already like him too much as it is. What’s going to happen if I fall for him and he leaves and doesn’t look back? Is it presumptuous? Yes. But at the same time, he’s given me something that no one else has in a long time: hope.
Oh my God, Getty. Get a grip. Go back to painting angry thunderstorms instead of thinking of beautiful sunsets, because you’re not going to ride away into one of them with him. You’re naive if you think you will. While he may be a good guy, there’s no place in his life for a wannabe painter/bartender in any capacity let alone as more than friends.
And he already said he definitely doesn’t want friends with benefits.
To us. His toast echoes in my head as I hear the door to his bedroom close quietly, and I grip the edge of the counter to keep from acting on that want for spontaneity.
Now I’m left in the darkened kitchen with his kiss on my lips and his words in my head, wondering what exactly I want us to be.
The problem is the difference between want and need is a thin line called self-control.
And I’ve already been controlled enough in my life.
Chapter 13
