Page 84 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“C’mon, you smart-ass.”
“I’ll probably be back later,” I tell the clerk as we leave the shop, which earns me a sideways glance from Zander that I shrug off. “I’ve never been in there. It’s fun to look around.”
“I’ll never understand women and their never-ending need to buy useless crap.”
“Not useless,” I correct. “Sometimes it’s just fun to look. What did the mechanic say?”
“A lotta shit. He’s running some diagnostic tests. I’m gonna head back in an hour or two and see what he finds. You like chips and guacamole?”
The change of subject paired with how he suddenly grabs my hand in his means it takes me a second to respond. “Yes. Um, I do.”
“Good. I’ve got a table saved for us.” He tugs on my hand to lead me toward the island’s lone Mexican restaurant. And while it’s more of a hole-in-the-wall with a palapa-style canopied patio overlooking the water, the place is a tourist favorite, where it’s not uncommon to see a line of people waiting outside to eat.
As we make our way in that direction, I welcome the hustle and bustle of the crowded boardwalk around me. It’s a new and surprising sensation, considering populated areas are the very thing I’m so accustomed to avoiding.
Maybe it’s because I’m no longer looking over my shoulder expecting my father or Ethan to be hiding in the crowd. I know my father well enough to recognize he’s not going to give up his quest to get me back so easily. But at the same time, he knows where I am, so the constant on-edge feeling I’ve lived with for four months is slowly fading.
Or maybe it’s because I’m holding the hand of a handsome man who’s taking me to lunch on a beautiful, sunny island day. The situation makes me feel like a normal twenty-six-year-old woman, carefree, enjoying life, having fun on my Saturday before I head to work.
My steps slow down as we hit the line twenty or so deep outside the door, but Zander just keeps my hand in his and passes by the crowd. When we enter, the hostess’s eyes light up at the sight of him. She lifts her chin and signals for him to go on through. I can’t say she gives me the same warm smile, but I guess with my hand in his, I also don’t blame her.
Zander maneuvers us through the maze of tables until we reach the far corner of the crowded patio. Our table has a perfect view of the sparkling ocean.
In less than fifteen minutes, we’re eating chips and guacamole under the shade of a huge umbrella that’s angled perfectly to block out the stares from some of the patrons who have realized who Zander is. It’s a weird feeling to be under the microscope in a completely different way from what I’m used to. The excited murmurs and the constant feeling of being watched. The camera phones being used on the sly. The constant flux of people slowing by our table building the courage to ask for an autograph.
“God, I could get used to this,” he says with a tip of his bottle of Dos Equis toward the ocean view. “You sure you don’t want a strawberry margarita or something?”
“Ewww. No thanks. Besides, I have to work later.”
“Ewww to the margarita, says the bartender,” he teases with a shake of his head and a sudden bumping of his foot against mine beneath the table.
“No. The margarita part is fine. It’s the strawberry part that’s ewww.”
“Are you serious? How can you not like strawberries?” he asks like I’ve lost my mind, followed by a loud crunch of his chip. How could I ever resist him? He’s like an animated little boy wrapped inside this irresistibly perfect grown-up package.
“The same way you don’t like tomatoes.” I purse my lips and raise my eyebrows as he looks at me in befuddled amusement.
“How did you know that?”
“That night at Mario’s, you pushed all the big chunks of tomato in the sauce to the side of your plate like a little kid who doesn’t like something.”
“Huh.” He leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowed at me. A few moments pass—the crash of the waves on the rocks below, an outburst of laughter a few tables behind us, a quick rush of breeze that makes the umbrella sway—before he speaks again. “I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other besides the fact that we both have unique names. Like what’s your favorite color?”
I eye him cautiously, see the curiosity blazing in his blue eyes, and won
der where he’s going with this. I’m so used to keeping everything about me under lock and key to prevent gossip that it takes me a moment to realize I don’t need to be as guarded anymore. Or defensive. It seems Zander can do his own fair share of investigative googling and so it’s not like telling him my favorite color is going to divulge any hidden secrets.
Besides, I can’t be okay with sleeping with him and not be okay about letting him know my idiosyncrasies.
“Orange. Yours?”
“Black.”
“Nope. That’s no good. Black technically isn’t a color—pick again.” I know I’m being a smart-ass, but by the lift of his brow and the curl of his lip over the edge of his beer bottle as he nods, he’s accepting my challenge.
“Blue, then.” He raises both eyebrows as if to ask me if his answer is acceptable. “Dark chocolate or milk chocolate?”
The question makes me laugh at how silly this is. But the conversation feels good in the same way as walking through the crowded boardwalk and not feeling anxious. “Dark. Definitely dark. You?”
