Page 31 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
And yet I told Darcy we were cool with rooming together. How did I think that was a good idea? My hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you theory—room with a woman and then maybe I could avoid the temptation of all the others—isn’t working too well for me now.
Daily reminders of her naked curves definitely don’t help.
Not to mention I went and kissed her. Kissed her when I had no business kissing her, because I thought maybe if I got it out of my system, I’d be done and over thinking about it. Yeah. Like that had a chance of happening the minute she made that little sound in the back of her throat that made every part of me want to lay her down and get to know what other sounds she makes.
But more than that, I shouldn’t have kissed her after the way she jumped when I grabbed her arm to stop her from walking past me. That in itself tells me she’s here to deal with her own shit, and kissing an asshole like me isn’t going to help in the least.
I’ve seen flinches like that before. I lived the first seven years of life watching my mom do the same exact thing. Jump over nothing. Shrink into a corner to be out of the way.
Getty’s not my mom, though. She doesn’t need to be saved. She obviously saved herself.
Get that through your head, Zander, and leave her the fuck alone in all aspects.
You’re roommates. You’re both dealing with shit. Sleeping together—because let’s face it, that would definitely not be a hardship if the way she kisses is any indication—isn’t going to fix either of you. It would just complicate matters when they’re complicated enough as it is.
But fuck, is it tempting.
Lost in thoughts of her, I jump when my door suddenly flings open. Getty is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, cheeks flushed. And fully clothed. So obviously my thoughts of her being in the shower were purely for my own sexually frustrated benefit.
She flicks on the switch just inside the door. Light floods the room.
“And the wonder boy has come back from his stint as Popeye!” she says with dramatic flair as she waltzes in, catching me off guard.
“What can I do for you, Getty?”
“Do for me?” She laughs, her eyes moving wildly around the room before she beelines straight for my dresser. “You know what you can do for me, Mander?” she says over her shoulder and with a bit of contempt. She picks up some racing magazines I have stacked on the desk, lifts them a few inches, and then drops them back down with a thud. The top one slides to the side; the bottom one is askew. “You can stop making everything so damn perfect. You can stop lining up your shit on the bathroom counter so it’s all perfectly straight. When you empty the damn dishwasher, you can stop making the forks in the drawer sit perfectly on top of each other. Lined up. You can—”
“Getty?” She’s going postal on me. While I’ve been with enough emotional women that her display doesn’t completely rattle me, something about her acting like this registers on my radar.
“Hmm?” She says it like she has not a care in the world. Maybe she’s not frantic after all. Maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing—and that’s even scarier. Also intriguing.
“What are you doing?” My curiosity is definitely piqued. I don’t mind her touching my things. I invaded her privacy first. Her paintings were ten times more personal than my cologne and magazines, and yet I ask because I’m fascinated over what has caused her to storm into my bedroom like hell on wheels and start ranting.
“Perfection is overrated,” she states as she picks up a folded shirt from the top of the dresser and tosses it carelessly onto the chair beside it. While I know she’s referring to my stuff and how I prefer everything to be in its place, the sound in her voice makes me think she’s talking about a lot more than just organization.
“Good thing I’m far from fucking perfect, then.”
“That makes two of us,” she says with a bit of a giggle, mood changing now that she’s done whatever she set out to do. Turning around, and for the first time since coming into my room, she locks eyes with me. There’s something off about her, something I can’t place, but I know the minute she notices what I’m wearing.
Or rather, not wearing.
Her eyes widen, then roll as she throws her head back and laughs in disbelief. “Seriously? This again? I mean I may not know much, but I know that’s more than above average in size.” Her giggle fills the room as she motions her hand out in front of her and gestures to my dick, bobbing her head for emphasis. When she lifts her gaze back up from the overtly long stare at my package, it’s then that I notice her eyes are a bit glassy. Realize her last words were a tad slurred.
Well, shit. Seems Getty has had a few to drink.
I fight the grin on my lips, her compliment boosting my ego, but the sight of her tipsy is even better.
“Don’t think I can’t see you laughing at me, wonder boy. Do you really think I’m going to fall for your bullshit again? Beautiful paintings, Socks,” she says, mimicking my voice. I can’t help but laugh. “. . . then run away. I don’t want to kiss you, Socks. Kiss me and run away to a boat. A boat? What are you, Captain Jack Sparrow? And now? Now you probably planned this so the towel conveniently slips off so I fall at your feet. And then what? We’re gonna sleep together and then you’ll run away again?” She steps forward and right into my space, finger poking my bare chest. “Dream on, Mander.”
And while her acting bit is pretty damn comical, it’s got nothing on the image she’s put in my head of her on her knees and the towel at my feet and her lips around my . . . Fuck. Stop thinking about it. This towel won’t hide shit if I’m flying half-mast from the thought.
“First Popeye and then Captain Jack? Every woman’s fantasy.” I laugh. “You been drinking tonight, Getty?” She sways a little when she shakes her head, and I hold on to her shoulders before she falls full-court press into me. She shrugs out of my grip immediately, but not in the startled way she did the other day. More bothered because she doesn’t want any help.
“Maybe.” Her grin tells me definitely, but I let it slide. “Just a little. Liam wanted me to settle in on the other side of the bar, watch the game, be a local. So I did. And it was fun. So screw Ethan. Screw him and his A lady would never be caught drinking bullshit. I did. So what would he think about that?”
Ethan? The name throws me. My quick reply fades as I focus on the name and how it reveals a tiny piece of her past that she guards so closely. A part of me wants to ask more, question her when she’s more apt to talk . . . and while I may have no problem skirting the line of morality, this is one line I won’t cross.
“Nothing’s wrong with a few drinks and watching the game.” I play it safe. Prefer to let her business stay her own. No fair taking advantage of someone in any capacity when she’s drunk. “You should have told me. I could’ve used a beer or two and would’ve liked to catch the game.”
