Page 69 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
I snarl and clench my jaw, because the last thing I need is her presence here to cloud my thoughts. Give me reasons to want to stay. Make me want to walk up to her, back her against the counter, and kiss her senseless.
Which is exactly why I’m leaving. Right now.
Distance. Space. Clarity.
And yet I don’t move. Just stare. Both of my heads at war over what they want right now.
Keys. Jacket. Wallet. That’s what you want. Get your shit and go.
“Let’s go.”
What the fuck are you doing?
“Go?” she asks, forehead furrowed in confusion.
I stride into the kitchen, grab her jacket off the back of the barstool next to mine, grasp her hand, and pull her forward. “Yeah. You’re coming with me.”
So much for distance.
Chapter 20
GETTY
We’ve been driving for thirty minutes or so, mostly in silence except for the low hum of the radio. The terrain around us rises up, becoming more mountainous, the patches of pine trees getting thicker.
Everything about this morning so far has been unexpected. Waking up alone in Zander’s bed. The flash of hurt he wasn’t there. The confusion as to why he was up on the roof.
And then the hit of reality. The realization that even though last night was incredible in so many ways for me—a selfless lover, achievement of an actual orgasm by someone else’s hand, praise and not criticism—it was probably just run-of-the-mill for him. I’m just another friend among a list of friends with whom he most likely has enjoyed benefits.
It was a hard thing to accept as I was lying in his bed, the subtle scent of his cologne on his sheets, and the memory of his hands on my skin and words in my ears. He was everywhere around me and yet still not really there.
Hence his warning, his offer to find the damn lighthouse, made perfect sense then. He somehow knew ahead of time that it wouldn’t be so simple. That I’d probably develop feelings despite knowing there wasn’t a chance of more.
But could you blame me? My mind can’t help but skim back over the events of yesterday. First the confessions and afterward feeling like I finally let someone in. Then last night— reverent touches and murmured promises and his all-consuming hands on my body. I’d enjoyed being with a man who pulled me close
instead of spewing insults while pushing me away. Who made me feel beautiful and competent and sexy. The last thing I’d ever thought myself to be.
I’d woken up giddy and satisfied with those butterflies in your stomach you read about in romance novels and expected he was going to be on the pillow beside me when I rolled over. So what if I’ve misplaced my gratitude and possibly turned it into feelings for him? Isn’t that natural?
Asking myself the question yet again, I stare at Zander, his eyes focused on the road ahead, who hasn’t spoken since he told me to put a seat belt on when he started the car. And the difference is this time when I ask myself the question, my concern about how this is all going to play out isn’t just in my head like it was when I was in his bed. Rather I’m looking right at him and seeing it for myself.
The man beside me is very different from the one I was with last night. He’s pensive, quiet, irritated. I sense something is wrong and all I can figure is that he’s had time to think about it all and now realizes we made a mistake.
So why am I here, then?
I’m startled from my thoughts when Zander makes an abrupt turn off the main road and pulls in front of a log cabin of sorts. It’s rather large with green awnings over the windows and smoke trickling from two chimneys. The awnings have some kind of logo on them, but from where we’re parked, I can’t quite make them out.
“C’mon.” It’s all he says as he gets out of the car and walks toward the front door. I stare after him, hating that for the second time he’s telling me what to do. I immediately want to follow after him, while at the same time I want to know where the hell we are and what his problem is.
Eventually I scramble out of the car and around a few of the others parked in the lot to catch up with him. He waits for me on the steps with the door held open. At least there’s that.
When I enter, I’m surprised to find a hostess stand and a full-fledged restaurant inside. Ornately carved wood seems to be the theme and the intricate pieces that adorn the interior are quite incredible. A few patrons dot the place and yet they seem to be talking across the tables as if they know one another. I turn toward Zander just as his smile spreads wide on his face at the lady approaching us.
She’s as wide as she is tall, with silver hair cut short, and a warm smile lights up her face when she recognizes Zander.
“Good morning, Zander. Good to see you brought her with you this time,” she says with a slight accent I can’t place, but I’m more flustered by the knowledge he’s been here before and has obviously spoken of me.
“Hi, Lynn. You twisted my arm . . . and the patio, please.” The warmth in his voice after the chill I got in the car surprises me. And I hate that I kind of resent it a little.
