Page 75 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
Taking a deep breath, I find myself wondering if he has any idea that this is the first time anyone has ordered me to do something with my better good in mind. It seems so silly but means so very much.
“How did you—?”
“It’s a small town, Getty. People talk. All it took was for me to make a call to my new friend Mable to get the town gossip about the obviously well-to-do man who stayed at the PineRidge Inn last night. How his driver asked the clerk at the gas station for directions to the restaurant. And how he complained about the low thread count of the sheets, among other things, and the lack of Nespresso machines in each room.” He rolls his eyes. “Cars with drivers are rare here and they stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Right. I’m still not used to the everyone knows your business aspect.” I shake my head, more for my father’s elitism than anything else.
“I know, but we’ll use it to our advantage tonight. Everyone here assumes we’re dating, so be prepared that your father thinks the same thing.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure why that phrasing bugs me, but I shrug it off, shift in my seat, and reach for my phone.
“No. Use mine. Unless you want him to have your phone number.”
I freeze momentarily, understanding the implications of what he’s saying—the possible tracking of my phone—before sitting slowly back down and picking up his phone.
* * *
With a fortifying sigh and Zander’s hand firmly wrapped around mine, we enter the restaurant. I focus on remembering Zander’s reaction when I entered the family room earlier, instead of acknowledging the nerves humming through my system.
His quick inhalation. The widening of his eyes. The whistle he blew out. All three made for the confidence-building reaction I needed in order to do this.
It’s unsettling for me to walk into the most expensive restaurant on the island looking like the woman I used to be—hair in a chignon, the Stepford makeup on, wearing a classically cut dress more expensive than most people’s rent—when I’m nothing like her anymore.
I glance over to Zander for reassurance—strange to see his styled hair when I’m used to it messy, face smooth when sometimes he goes days between shaving, his button-down shirt and khaki trousers when he’s typically in gym shorts or jeans and a T-shirt. And while I like this dressed-up version of him, I like the everyday look better.
“Here goes nothing,” I murmur as the hostess leads us to a table on the far side of the crowded restaurant. It is by far the best seat in the room with the table perched against the wall of glass facing the ocean. My father sits with his head angled down, attention on his cell phone, a bottle of wine already open, and the tables immediately surrounding his are void of customers. I have no doubt he heavily greased some palms to make sure it remains that way during our dinner.
We’re ten feet from the table when he lifts his silver head of hair and meets my eyes. And there’s a moment—quite brief, but it’s there—when he jolts in surprise and narrows his eyes in shock over the unexpected guest beside me. Between the dismissal of his driver earlier and now Zander’s presence, I know he’s already irritated with me. Displeasure owns his expression as he shifts his gaze back to me, that subtle sneer I know all too well gracing his mouth.
“Gertrude,” he says after clearing his throat as he stands up, always the polite gentleman.
“Father.” I nod and bite back the comment on my tongue, for him to call me Getty. Because as much as I want him to acknowledge the new me, I also don’t want to have the memory of his voice saying my nickname in that tone of utter disdain like he does my birth name.
I hate that for a split second, I still want him to be the father I remember him being when I was a little girl. Smiling. Cuddly. Caring. But that was before my mother died and I think I’m remembering even those times through the eyes of a child wanting her father’s unconditional love. Desperate for his affection.
When I really look closely at him, his hand motioning me to have a seat without any overtures to hug me after he hasn’t seen me for months, a small part of me dies, one I hated anyway for wanting that gesture from him.
“You can go now,” he says to Zander with an indifferent flick of his wrist and without so much as looking at him. “Please, Gertrude, take a seat.”
My lips pull tight and before I can gather an acceptable response for the formidable Damon Caster, Zander responds for me. “Zander Donavan.” He reaches his hand across the table in an open-ended offer of a shake. “And thank you, but I’ll be staying for dinner.”
My father looks down to Zander’s hand and then back up to his eyes while they have a silent battle for control of the situation. As the seconds stretch o
ut, my heart pounds like a freight train. My body is so riddled with adrenaline that I have to clasp my hands to prevent any trembling from showing.
Sitting down without shaking Zander’s hand or saying another word, my father makes a show of sharply snapping his napkin and placing it in his lap. Zander turns and places his hand on my back—a simple gesture of warmth as he ushers me into the chair he’s pulling out farthest from my father. As I step past him to sit down, we make brief but reassuring eye contact. His smile is encouraging as he mouths, “Just jump.” And I welcome that subtle reminder that I can in fact face my fears.
When I look up to my father, he’s directing his glare solely at me.
“Thank God you still know how to dress like a lady. I was afraid you’d lost all sense of class and your responsibility to uphold the Caster name when I saw you in that disgraceful outfit yesterday, Gertrude.”
“Well, if someone hadn’t manipulated my accounts, there wouldn’t be the need for me to have a job that requires a uniform. . . .” I shrug, finding strength to stand up for myself with each word. Beneath the tablecloth, Zander’s hand rests on my knee and squeezes ever so slightly in silent support.
“Hey, I kind of like the socks,” Zander says with a smirk, eyes darting to my father with an unapologetic lift of his shoulders before he returns his look to mine. And then without preamble he leans in and unabashedly plants a kiss on my lips. It’s a simple brush of lips, but the statement it makes packs quite a punch.
“Gertrude.” My father’s sharp warning resonates around the room. We’ve been here no more than five minutes and his temper has already surfaced—the hum of conversation in the restaurant stops, forks scraping against plates cease, and the uncomfortable air around us thickens with tension.
And while everyone else around can sense the underlying and unapologetic rage in my father, including me, Zander fights back the sarcastic smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
