Page 32 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“I thought you were busy sailing the seven seas or something.” She snorts when she laughs and it’s fucking adorable.
“Not hardly. You should’ve asked.” What are you doing, Zander? Thought you were going to try to steer clear of her.
She looks at me for a second, eyes narrowed, as thoughts visibly war across her face before she walks to the window. She looks out to the lights in the bay for a few moments before turning back around. “Sorry, but that might have complicated things.”
She shifts her eyes to mine when she says the words, a lift of one eyebrow and a purse of her lips to reinforce her sarcasm. We stand in silence, letting her taunt ricochet in the space between us, building tension with each passing second.
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“Define complicated.” I can’t resist. Know I shouldn’t push the buttons I don’t want pushed, but fuck if I don’t like tipsy Getty a whole helluva lot.
Her smile is fast and devious as she steps toward me, and I fucking love it. “Complicated,” she says as she walks right up to me again without hesitation and lifts onto her tiptoes so that her mouth is right at my ear when I lean down, “would be if I kissed you right now.”
Fucking Christ. I’m standing in a towel, can feel the heat of her breath on my ear and her tits brush against my chest when she breathes in, and she goes and says that? I must be off my game, because there’s that split second where we both freeze, both know we want it to happen, but I don’t think I could stop at just a kiss.
Hell no. Not right now. Not with the bed behind me and that playful dare off her lips. Not with her drinking. Not with my promise to myself.
But hell if she’s not making things painfully hard. In all areas.
She retreats a few steps, eyes still locked on mine, like a slightly different woman stands before me from the one I’m used to. The mismatched knee-high socks may be the same, but the defiant smirk on her lips, the flushed cheeks, and the eyes full of life are all different. There’s a newfound confidence about her right now. A lack of inhibition. Her constant guard has relaxed. A hint of the real her that she hides beneath whatever bullshit she’s dealing with is peeking through.
“You didn’t answer,” she says, and she’s right. There’s no way I can, because hell if she’s not making complicated look welcome.
“Is that what you want?” I’ll play her game, answer her question with a question. With her eyes trained on me, I lean back and grab a pair of gym shorts from the bed. Her gaze flickers down to watch as I slide them on under my towel before letting it fall. Now I can get that earlier image out of my head. At least we’re on a bit more of an even playing field. But the one I really want to be on is the horizontal one behind me.
“I want a lot of things. . . .” Damn. The way she says that—throaty, full of invitation—causes a chill at the base of my spine.
“You and me both, Socks.”
“I don’t want to like you, you know.” She tries to stifle the yawn but fails miserably.
“I don’t like me either lately, so no worries.” The admission is out of my mouth without thought. Her head jogs back and forth at it, eyes narrowing in a way that causes a little crease in her forehead.
“What do you—whoa!” That carefree laugh of hers fills the room again—breaking the moment—as she holds her hand to her head. “Did you feel that? The room just moved.” Her hushed whisper makes me laugh too, thankful for the interruption.
“It didn’t move at all, but you’re probably going to want to go lie down.”
“Oh, is that what I’m supposed to do?” She’s looking at me with eyes widened in question, lips pursed in an O shape, and surprise written all over her face.
Innocent. Trusting. Beautiful. Time to step back. Regain that distance.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Zander. No one gets to tell me what to do ever again.” She crosses her arms and gives me a death glare that’s so damn cute I want to laugh at her. And then she sways. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Good idea.” I follow her out of my bedroom door and watch her open hers. “I’ll go get you some Advil.”
I grab two pills and when I shut the medicine cabinet, my eyes veer to the bathroom countertop. To my deodorant and lotion and hair gel all lined up in a perfect little row against the wall.
Her words come back to me. Bug me. Make me wonder if they’re another hint at the life she lived before this cottage. I walk halfway down the hall before stopping, shaking my head, and going back to the bathroom. Not certain why I’m doing it other than that I know what it’s like to have a trigger—a thing to remind you of something you’d rather forget—I knock over my deodorant onto its side and slide my gel out of line.
I stare at them for a beat. Question why I’m even bothering. For the same reason you’re bringing her Advil. Because you care.
Fuck.
When I knock on her door, it swings inward and she’s dead center on her bed, sound asleep. There’s something so peaceful about her. Something that makes me want to just sit here and stare at her, because it’s kind of calming.
Jesus, Zander. You’re really doing well on the distance thing, aren’t you?
