Page 85 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“I’d have to agree with you on that one. There’s something about it drizzled over a ripe strawberry that makes it so appealing.”
“Oh, please. We’re back to the strawberry thing again?”
“I’m not sure I can trust a girl who doesn’t like strawberries. I mean that’s one of the best fruits there is.”
“No. If you want to talk the best fruit out there, then let’s discuss pineapple. That’s by far the clear-cut winner here.”
He rolls his eyes and laughs. “Never knew a woman to be so protective of her fruit before. Geesh!” My only response is to sigh in mock frustration, because he’s truly adorable in so many ways. “Oh! I got one. Sock, sock, shoe, shoe, or sock, shoe, sock, shoe?”
I find myself bursting out laughing at the ridiculous question. “Seriously?” I ask as I dip a chip in the delicious guacamole.
“I was going to be happy with simple questions like favorite food, sunrise or sunset, Indy or NASCAR, movie theater or Netflix, comedy or drama, but then you went and got all technical on me, so I had to up my game.”
The challenge to answer those questions is clear as day in his eyes, but the boyish smirk that ventures into dimple territory wins every damn time. And the bad thing is, I know he knows it and I have a feeling he will use it to his advantage any time he needs to.
I pick up my lemonade and take a long, slow draw on the straw while keeping my eyes on his. “Well, Mr. Technical.” He hmphs in response to my sarcasm. “Pancakes. Definitely sunrise. I’ve never watched a race in my life, so I’ll have to say Indy because I think that may just work in my favor. I haven’t been to the movie theater in years, so I’ll say Netflix and anything but horror.” I nod my head at him in triumph for answering but then realize there was one more. “And sock, sock, shoe, shoe, because that is the most logical, but I’d much rather just say flip-flops, because that’s what I’d prefer to wear.”
“Wow,” he muses as he leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. “That was impressive . . . but you’re wrong.”
“I am not.”
“Pancakes are definitely a favorite I can deal with, although apple pie à la mode is a far better choice. And it’s a serious travesty about your lack of racing knowledge, but I do agree with your Indy pick. That answer definitely works in your favor.” We’ve ventured into dimple territory again and I shift in my seat to prevent myself from staring too long, because that smile does funny things to my insides. “Netflix because less crowds. And horror because a scared woman will want you to protect her from the dark and that means you might just get laid.” He winks on the last one and I can’t help but laugh out loud.
“I should have guessed. And it’s sad if a horror movie is your only game to try to get laid.”
His laugh garners attention from nearby tables. “Hey, being a man can be rough. We need to take any advantage we can get.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Oh you poor, deprived, sex-starved man. But you forgot one answer.”
“Oh yes . . . while I disagree with your discrimination against strawberries, I do have to agree with you on sock, sock, shoe, shoe.” He taps the neck of his beer against my glass and then takes a long pull on it.
“At least we can agree on that.” The breeze blows off the ocean and the sparkle of the water distracts me for a minute.
“But I’d pick you in knee-high socks every damn day of the week if I had a choice.” This time his wide smile carries through to his eyes. And I know he’s just being nice, but every part of me perks up at the silly compliment. “So we’ve got some of the basics covered—what else don’t we know about each other?”
“You know I’m messy,” I say off the cuff, a shadow spreading across his face as he purses his lips.
“Nah. I don’t think you’re messy.” His comment catches me off guard.
“Are you kidding me?” I laugh, suddenly nervous as my gaze fastens to his. Deep down this feels like so much more than a tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine example.
“Nope. The first night we met, I thought you were messy, yes. What with your skirt trapped around my ankle, but now I know it’s your way of making a point to yourself. A reminder that you can do whatever you want, even if it’s leave a trail of clothes down the hallway.” He offers me a slight smile, but it’s the intensity in his eyes and the words he’s spoken that really hold my attention.
He understands me. The why. The how. Even though I’ve never specifically told him about my time with Ethan, he still gets me. There’s something extremely poignant about being heard and having your reasons validated by someone who matters to you.
Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, Zander does matter to me. Way more than I want to admit to myself.
And just as I start to grow uncomfortable about him seeing me so candidly, faults and all, as if he’s pulling my thoughts from the depths of my eyes, he leans even farther across the table and says ever so quietly, “You’re forgetting the really important question, Getty.”
“Like what?” What am I missing?
“Like . . . what is the point-of-no-return spot on your body?”
“Point-of-no-return spot?”
“Yeah, that one spot where once your lover touches you there, there’s no turning back. The only thing ahead is sex and reaching an orgasm.” His voice is barely audible and yet I hear every single word along with suggestion lacing each one.
The question throws me. We’ve gone from playful, to serious, and now to the kind of interrogation that makes me squirm in my seat because I’m not used to the flat-out directness of him asking about my erogenous zones.
