Page 95 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
Just in case you ever want to be found . . .
—Zander
My eyes flash up to his and all I see is complete kindness in his gaze—all I feel is the sincerity of his gesture—as my mind returns to that conversation we had weeks ago. Even before I untie the ribbon and open the box, I already know what’s inside.
And when I do open it, the brand-new iPhone sits nestled in the packaging.
He’s given me a way to ask directions if I should ever want to be found. The importance of this moment, his words, the gift he’s offering—it’s all so heavy it takes a minute for me to blink the tears from my eyes before I can look up to meet his.
“Zander.” Hopefully the sound of my voice can convey what I can’t quite put into words—appreciation, surprise, humility. “You shouldn’t have. You didn’t have to—it’s—wow.”
His face breaks into a dimple-territory smile. “There was this great promotion. Buy a phone and get two years prepaid for all services, so I couldn’t resist.”
“Zander . . .” And I know he’s lying. Know he’s trying to save my pride and my budget by prepaying for the service and the phone. “Thank you, but I can’t accept this. It’s too expensive.”
He takes the box I hand to him and sets it down before grasping my hands in his. “This isn’t about money or pride, Getty. This is about me being a man and”—he looks out to the storm outside—“and knowing that if you need help, if you’re lost, or as the card says, if you want to be found, you can be.”
Only if you’re the one finding me.
I swallow over the lump in my throat, wondering in this world of friends without long-term possibilities if he gets how much his words mean to me. Like maybe he wants there to be a future for us. And then I realize I’m getting this all wrong.
The damn to-do list . . . the one I refused to look at earlier today. Well, now I desperately want to know how many tasks are left to complete. Because this gift suddenly seems like his way of telling me the end is near, that he’s going home soon and he wants to make sure that I’m okay when he leaves.
I fight the immediate panic, the urge to reject the gift because if I don’t take it, then he can’t leave, and instead just meet his eyes, while he’s completely oblivious to the silent war of emotions going on inside me. So I do the only thing I can, nod my head, try to take the gift for what it is, and not read too much into it.
“I just want you to be safe. Okay? So please accept it?”
“On one condition.” I love the quirk of his lips and the lift of his eyebrows. “If you accept a gift I have for you.”
He starts trying to refuse immediately as I rise from the couch. “I don’t need any gifts.”
“I got it last week,” I tell him over my shoulder as I enter the kitchen, my eyes immediately glancing toward the list as I walk by the counter. But I mask the sigh of relief and scold myself at my ridiculous melodramatic panic when I see the list has only two more items crossed off than it did last week.
He still has time.
The thought runs over and over in my head with each footstep down the hallway.
“Getty . . .” The way he says my name is equivalent to an exasperated toddler throwing a tantrum. Defiant. Resolute. Wanting what he’s not supposed to want.
“Hush.” It’s the last thing I say before I enter my bedroom and head for my closet, where I hid the humidor. Luckily its package went unnoticed on the bed in the melee with Ethan.
“Did you just tell me to hush?” His chuckle reaches my room, telling me he followed me.
“Hush,” I repeat with a laugh. And of course I’m bent over, ass up in the air, so I’m sure he’s taking his time enjoying the view.
“Nice socks, Socks.” Enjoying the view, indeed.
But I love that just like that, he brings us back to that fun, flirty banter when moments ago I was silently freaking out over him leaving. It’s like he somehow knows what I need to hear when I need to hear it, and you can’t put a price on something like that when it comes to a relationship.
A relationship? There you go again, Getty, with rainbows and pots of gold that don’t really exist.
When I stand up with the humidor in my hand, I turn around to find Zander leaning with his shoulder against the doorjamb, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans,
and this adorable little crease in his forehead as he tries to figure out what in the hell I have in my hands.
“Let’s open it here,” I suggest, lifting my chin toward the bed, as that crease grows deeper.
He steps forward, confusion still etched in his face contradicted by the little-boy smile on his lips. Within seconds we’re seated on my bed: me cross-legged with my back to the headboard, and him a mirror image of me at the foot of the bed with the bag-covered box in between us.
