Page 39 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
He looks down at the beer and the towel and then back up to me with a scornful expression, but under the hardness, I see a softness in his eyes. Part of him feels like a schmuck and is completely uncomfortable being a good guy when he’s the self-proclaimed asshole.
Tension builds in the silence. Just as I’m about to speak, he reaches down to the hem of his T-shirt and pulls the sopping fabric over his head. His hat falls off with it as he goes. Yes, I’ve seen him naked before, but with the veil of shock removed and his kind heart revealed, I’m seeing him in an all-new light. I take in the defined muscles of his torso—not too big but not too slight—the V that disappears beneath his waistband of his worn jeans, and the strength of his hands when he reaches out to take the towel and the beer without a single word.
He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a long, lazy drink, face tipped up to the ceiling, while I unabashedly admire the obvious work he puts into his physique.
“Thank you.” I may say only two words, but they’re filled with meaning.
He pauses and slowly lowers the bottle, taking his time to meet my gaze. With a nod of his head, he works his tongue in his cheek. “Your alternator is bad. I pulled it out but have to wait for the new one to come in. I had the garage in town order one for me.”
“Thank you. I’ll pay you for
the parts and your time and—”
“It’s on me.” He shrugs nonchalantly.
“I won’t take your charity or your pity. I’ll pay you back.”
“That’s not needed. Besides, I didn’t do much.”
“You’re fixing my car. You went grocery—”
“We were running low on food. It was my turn to buy.”
“It was more than that. It was—”
“Drop it, Getty.” His warning is loud and clear and while I hear it, I feel it needs to be said.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Getty.” The look in his eyes and the tone in his voice stops the rest of the comment on my tongue. “Quit being so goddamn stubborn and we’ll be fine.” His eyebrows lift up, a challenge thrown down.
“Quit being such an asshole.”
He fights the smirk on his lips and I can tell he’s a tad surprised by my quid pro quo. But this banter between us is where we seem most comfortable, what we always come back to, so the fact that we fell into it so quickly means that our fight just might be over.
And while I’d prefer to get some answers on why he said the things he said and pushed so hard, I can also let sleeping dogs lie so that there’s a bit of peace too.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Socks,” he says after running the towel through his hair, biceps flexing with the action, before hanging it over his shoulders. “I have eight brothers, so if you want to fight, I assure you, I’ll win every time. Hands down. And for your information, I didn’t run away. Not like you. I was out of control. Hurt some people and needed to deal with some of my own shit before I can return home to make it right.” He steps closer, face angled down so I can see the truth in his eyes. “I came here to get some clarity, some time to myself away from the chaos in my life, and fix up the house for Smitty because I owe him. Big-time. I’m not here to take your house away. I wasn’t sent by anyone to find you and bring you back to wherever you’re from. And while most days I’m a grade A asshole, that doesn’t mean I don’t have manners, and manners mean I wouldn’t hesitate to protect you if need be. That’s how I was raised and that’s not going to change.”
I think of the groceries, the repairs to my car, the damn silverware drawer, and know without a doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to defend me at all. “Thank you.”
“And another thing—this is how I am. I’m loud and brash and in-your-face if I need to be, but that doesn’t mean you need to shrink inside yourself, because I’m not a threat. I’m not going to hurt you.” He takes a step closer as my mind whirls wondering if it’s that obvious how skittish I am when his temper makes an appearance. “You want to know why I pressed you earlier? Why I stepped into the role of pushy asshole? Because this is a small town, Getty. People talk. People gossip. And they’re going to want to know more about the new girl in town who keeps to herself and is rattled after a glass bottle breaks on the floor while she’s at work. So you better start knowing the answers to the questions before they’re asked. You need to be prepared for assumptions, pressure for answers, whispers around town. You need to be able to give it to them with a straight face and off the cuff, or your cover story isn’t going to hold.”
I swear to God I feel like this is a Ping-Pong match. One minute I like him and the next not so much. But the problem is right now I don’t like him because he’s telling me truths I don’t want to hear. He’s making me realize that as prepared as I was to do this, create a new life for myself—it’s still hard as hell to pull off and I haven’t been doing as good of a job as I thought.
Worrying my bottom lip with my teeth, I take in what he’s saying, try to hear the advice for what it’s worth, but still have a hard time not stiffening my spine at the reprimand.
“You don’t know anything about me.” My voice is slight but strong, my need to assert myself front and center despite his calling me on the carpet.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Socks. I might not know where you’re from or why I ruffled your feathers today, but I know you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Whatever it is that you ran from back home, you did it. You got out and are making it on your own. That takes guts and you deserve mad props for that. I know you like things messy and are goddamn cute when you’re tipsy. I know you’re stubborn as hell and gorgeous as fuck. And that your kiss tastes like an aged whiskey: something I want to sip slowly, feel on my lips, savor on my tongue, and take my time with before I get drunk on it.” With a lift of his eyebrows and a nod of his head, he walks past me, leaving me with my mouth agape and eyes wide.
I can’t move. Just stand staring at the door in front of me as I try to process what he just said, what he meant by it, and yet there’s no use because we just had a whole one-sided conversation and that need to banter with him is gone. Lost to the tingling in my lower belly and the wild spinning of my thoughts.
“Oh, and, Getty?” Zander calls out to me from the kitchen, refusing to continue until I turn to face him, standing there unabashedly shirtless. “If you ever call me pretty again, we’re gonna have a real problem. I guarantee you there is nothing pretty about me.”
I almost smile at the fact that out of all of the crappy things I said to him, that is the one that bugged him the most.
“You are kind of pretty, though,” I murmur, unable to resist goading him further, needing to try to get us back on an even playing field. Because hell if right now I don’t feel like I’m on the low end of the teeter-totter.
