Page 44 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“I’m glad you asked.” A shift of his feet. His hips slide farther into mine. That flutter of something deep in my belly. “I would have seen a famously successful painter—world renowned in fact,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows, “going to dinner with the inspiration for her next painting. He’s a championship-winning race car driver. Ruggedly handsome. Not pretty at all.”
I scrunch up my nose. “A little pretty.”
He places his hand on my knee and squeezes gently, a playful warning. But his hand remains there and even as he continues speaking, all I can think about is the sudden warmth and weight of his touch. “They are there discussing their next project.”
“What if she doesn’t paint people?”
“Oh, she does.”
“She does?”
“Yes. She’s branching out. Challenging herself. A nude of him is next on her list.”
I throw my head back, the laughter bubbling up and over, and the sound of his laughter mixed with mine is comforting. “No. Not a nude. He’s not pretty enough for a nude.”
“Touché,” he says with a shake of his head, and his grin widens.
“Tell me more about them.”
“She’s trying to ply him with cheap wine, get him drunk, maybe take advantage of him a little later.” I raise my eyebrows. “She thinks she can teach him a few things in all aspects.”
“Oh.” The sound falls from my lips. Is he implying what I think he’s implying?
“Oh?”
“So they’re more than just friends, then?” My mind runs wild. About as wild as my heartbeat when Zander moves between my parted knees so that he’s face-to-face with me. And the dim light in the room that he just blocked with his change in position only adds to what suddenly feels like the intimacy of the moment. The shadow that falls over his face and the quick dart of his tongue to wet his lips draws out all kinds of feelings within me, that slow, sweet ache in the delta of my thighs included.
“Do you want them to be more than friends, Getty?” The way he says my name, the intention laced in that single word, calls to every single part of me.
And I know we’re definitely not talking about a made-up scenario right now. We’re talking about the frustrated kiss he gave me at work the other day and the fire he says I’m not ready to light that has kept me up thinking late at night.
“I don’t know.” I try to steady my breathing as he places his hands on the counter beside my thighs and leans his body into me.
“You don’t?”
“No. I need to know more about them.” I try to buy some time. Attempt to gain some clarity in the face of his powerful physical presence so I can decide which side I want to win: my need for things to remain simple with him or my want to feel more than just his kiss.
By the look on his face, I can tell my request throws him, but he recovers quickly. “More about them? Hmm. Let’s see. She’s had a troubled past. He wishes she’d talk more about it—trust him—because he’s a much better listener than her canvas and paints are, but he understands that these things take time.” Even with the sudden serious turn of the conversation, his last comment pulls the corners of my mouth up in a smile.
“And him? What about him?”
“You tell me.” It’s not a request, not a demand, but it’s clear that he wants to know what I think of him.
“I think—”
“She,” he corrects.
“She thinks that he has this big persona he feels he must live by—the grandiose asshole.” I get a lift of his eyebrows with the term. “He’s stubborn and infuriating . . . but underneath all of that, he has a kind heart. He’s confident and sure of himself in a way she only wishes she could be. And despite that, she knows he’s been hurt somehow or has seen hurt, because most men aren’t patient enough to stand back and let her go through what she’s going through without pushing. And he isn’t pushing, so she knows that he gets it, even though he doesn’t know what ‘it’ really is.”
He nods his head and runs his hands up and down my thighs. And I swear to God he does it out of a comforting reflex, because I can tell the minute he realizes he is doing it—his hands falter in motion, eyes widen momentarily—and yet he keeps them where they are and doesn’t remove them.
“What about him? Why does she think he’s here on the island?”
I twist my lips, so many theories coming to mind, and yet I’m not sure how to go about saying them. “Because he hates Sundays.” Better start with some humor and see how he plays it.
That earns a soft chuckle from him. “Really?”
“Yeah. And probably any day that ends in y, since he’s away from his passion, but she gets a feeling there’s more there. She’d listen if he wanted to talk about it, but won’t ask.”
