Page 41 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
I’m not used to this kind of thing. What am I supposed to say to him? Ethan courted me with bouquets of roses, dates for dinner or the movies, pecks on the lips I mistakenly thought were romantic at the time, and abstinence before marriage.
Proper at all times. Every date was a well-synchronized dance to win over my affection, make me believe I was desirable, so that he and my father could secretly join family empires. And then after marriage . . . the real Ethan showed his true colors. Hurt me enough until I ran away.
So this—Zander—I don’t know how to handle his close proximity. His bruising kisses and intense eyes and unexpected admissions and kind heart beneath his brash exterior. The cocky smile and strong hands and brutal honesty. How do I deal with all these weird tingly sensations he keeps making me feel? I just don’t know. So I’ve been avoiding him. Sneaking down the hallway after he goes for his run in the morning or heading straight for my room when I get off work. No time to chat or make an idiot out of myself when I’m not face-to-face with him.
But now that I realize how long I’ve been sitting here lost in my painting, I suddenly feel the ache of my back and the strain on my eyes from the constant concentration. And recognize that I’m starving. When I enter the kitchen, the television is on low, and Zander’s on the couch with his back to me, feet up on the table. He doesn’t turn or acknowledge me, although I’m pretty sure he heard the creak of the wood floor as I walked in. I’m okay with that, since at least I have a few more minutes to prepare myself to face him.
But as I walk into the family room with a bowl of cereal in hand, I realize there is no amount of preparation that could stifle the way he makes me feel: lust and irritation and want and frustration all rolled into one. So I do the only thing I can and sit on the opposite end of the couch from him and settle in to eat my cereal, hating that I feel awkward in my own home.
“Hey,” I finally say softly, not wanting to interrupt but letting manners get the best of me.
“Hey.” That’s it. No glance my way.
Determined not to let him have the run of our house while I slink away in avoidance, I settle into my seat and turn my focus from him to the television.
He’s watching a race. The drone of the cars going around and around the track is constant, while the screen switches between the lead car and then the action farther back on the track where cars pass one another and change positions. I’ve never really watched a race before—too lowbrow for Ethan to care for—but there is a definite draw to it, something thrilling, that I think I can understand.
In my peripheral vision, though, Zander is much more interesting to observe. His body language seems tense, hands fisted as if he’s behind the wheel. He grimaces every few seconds like there’s been a mistake made that I’m sure the layman fan would never notice.
But he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just scrutinizes the racing world he’s been removed from. And that in itself has to make it brutal to watch.
So we sit on the same couch, both viewing the race but for different reasons. The only sounds come from the clink of the spoon against the glass bowl. Or a mutter under his breath. The announcers droning on. The creak of the couch as I shift positions.
“Let’s see if Colton Donavan can clinch this, Al, or if the absence of his teammate affects his ability to help block Grayson Dane from slingshotting past him on the final turn. He’s been running smooth and fast all day. Both have new tires and are good on fuel. But Dane has two more teammates on the track. Let’s see how much help they’ll be able to give him.”
The race unfolds lap by lap, turn by turn, pass by pass, and as each second ticks by, Zander leans forward farther and farther: elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, and his features etched in intense concentration. The events on-screen own his attention so much that I don’t even think he remembers I’m there sitting beside him.
“Goddammit!” he swears angrily as he shoves up off the couch and watches a blue car pass a red one. The announcers are going wild, but I’m too busy watching the emotion play over Zander’s face to hear what they are saying.
When I can tear my eyes off him, the camera is following the winning car on its victory lap before panning back to the second-place car turning into the pits. Zander squints his eyes as if he’s waiting to catch a glimpse of something. The shot moves back to the victor before he sees it, because he angrily mutters something under his breath before throwing the remote down.
The back door slams. The pounding of a hammer starts. And I’m left looking at a closed door with my empty cereal bowl in my hands and a lot of unanswered questions.
That is, until the field reporter begins to interview the second-place racer. His name is splashed along the bottom of the screen in big, bold letters—COLTON DONAVAN—and seeing it in print causes puzzle pieces to fall into place.
The matching last name. The missing racer from the team. The lack of help on the track.
All of it.
Even though I’ve never followed racing, Colton Donavan is definitely a name I’ve heard before—synonymous with his prolific successes and his renowned family—and obviously somehow related to Zander.
Of course—how could I have been so stupid to not make the connection? That was Zander’s team, his ride, and the reason he now hates Sundays. It’s everything he left behind.
Did his team lose today because he wasn’t on the track? Now the grumbling and the storming out make sense to me. When the hammer pounds harder and harder outside, it’s a clear indication that my assumption is correct.
I try to ignore him, busy myself with picking up the house, cleaning the kitchen, folding the towels in the dryer, but the continued sound of the hammer keeps dragging my thoughts back to Zander. Curiosity nags at me. What did he do? How bad was it?
Bored and yet too preoccupied to go back to painting, I stand in the kitchen and fight my own bad idea. Wanting to go sit in the sun for a bit before the incoming storm moves in. Close my eyes and soak up the rays while I relax.
Except whom am I fooling? I’m not going out to sit in the sun so much as I’m going outside to sit with Zander—the man I’ve been avoiding.
So I grab a bag of chips and head out in the direction of the incessant pounding noise and the occasional muttered curse word. When I step into the frame of the open sliding glass doors that lead to the deck, I’m surprised to see that Zander has ripped almost the entire thing down in the past few days—he’s starting to reinforce
the remaining pieces.
He’s in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, hammer in hand, bent over in concentration with a level and a box of nails at his side while he lines up the next piece of wood. And I hate that I catch myself admiring his body. Taking note of the patch between his shoulder blades where a trail of sweat has darkened the cotton fabric of his shirt. The flex of his biceps as he works. The light flecks of sawdust in his dark hair. The small trace of blood on his forearm where he must have scratched it on something.
“It’s therapeutic. Grab a hammer if you want to give it a try.”
