by K. Bromberg
Getty.
The old pipes in the house creak. The telltale sound that she’s taking a shower. And a shower means she’s naked. Goddamn, if the image of her standing in the hallway naked except for those mismatching socks that first night we met doesn’t come to mind. Not like it’s gone very far from my thoughts to begin with.
And yet I told Darcy we were cool with rooming together. How did I think that was a good idea? My hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you theory—room with a woman and then maybe I could avoid the temptation of all the others—isn’t working too well for me now.
Daily reminders of her naked curves definitely don’t help.
Not to mention I went and kissed her. Kissed her when I had no business kissing her, because I thought maybe if I got it out of my system, I’d be done and over thinking about it. Yeah. Like that had a chance of happening the minute she made that little sound in the back of her throat that made every part of me want to lay her down and get to know what other sounds she makes.
But more than that, I shouldn’t have kissed her after the way she jumped when I grabbed her arm to stop her from walking past me. That in itself tells me she’s here to deal with her own shit, and kissing an asshole like me isn’t going to help in the least.
I’ve seen flinches like that before. I lived the first seven years of life watching my mom do the same exact thing. Jump over nothing. Shrink into a corner to be out of the way.
Getty’s not my mom, though. She doesn’t need to be saved. She obviously saved herself.
Get that through your head, Zander, and leave her the fuck alone in all aspects.
You’re roommates. You’re both dealing with shit. Sleeping together—because let’s face it, that would definitely not be a hardship if the way she kisses is any indication—isn’t going to fix either of you. It would just complicate matters when they’re complicated enough as it is.
But fuck, is it tempting.
Lost in thoughts of her, I jump when my door suddenly flings open. Getty is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, cheeks flushed. And fully clothed. So obviously my thoughts of her being in the shower were purely for my own sexually frustrated benefit.
She flicks on the switch just inside the door. Light floods the room.
“And the wonder boy has come back from his stint as Popeye!” she says with dramatic flair as she waltzes in, catching me off guard.
“What can I do for you, Getty?”
“Do for me?” She laughs, her eyes moving wildly around the room before she beelines straight for my dresser. “You know what you can do for me, Mander?” she says over her shoulder and with a bit of contempt. She picks up some racing magazines I have stacked on the desk, lifts them a few inches, and then drops them back down with a thud. The top one slides to the side; the bottom one is askew. “You can stop making everything so damn perfect. You can stop lining up your shit on the bathroom counter so it’s all perfectly straight. When you empty the damn dishwasher, you can stop making the forks in the drawer sit perfectly on top of each other. Lined up. You can—”
“Getty?” She’s going postal on me. While I’ve been with enough emotional women that her display doesn’t completely rattle me, something about her acting like this registers on my radar.
“Hmm?” She says it like she has not a care in the world. Maybe she’s not frantic after all. Maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing—and that’s even scarier. Also intriguing.
“What are you doing?” My curiosity is definitely piqued. I don’t mind her touching my things. I invaded her privacy first. Her paintings were ten times more personal than my cologne and magazines, and yet I ask because I’m fascinated over what has caused her to storm into my bedroom like hell on wheels and start ranting.
“Perfection is overrated,” she states as she picks up a folded shirt from the top of the dresser and tosses it carelessly onto the chair beside it. While I know she’s referring to my stuff and how I prefer everything to be in its place, the sound in her voice makes me think she’s talking about a lot more than just organization.
“Good thing I’m far from fucking perfect, then.”
“That makes two of us,” she says with a bit of a giggle, mood changing now that she’s done whatever she set out to do. Turning around, and for the first time since coming into my room, she locks eyes with me. There’s something off about her, something I can’t place, but I know the minute she notices what I’m wearing.
Or rather, not wearing.
Her eyes widen, then roll as she throws her head back and laughs in disbelief. “Seriously? This again? I mean I may not know much, but I know that’s more than above average in size.” Her giggle fills the room as she motions her hand out in front of her and gestures to my dick, bobbing her head for emphasis. When she lifts her gaze back up from the overtly long stare at my package, it’s then that I notice her eyes are a bit glassy. Realize her last words were a tad slurred.
Well, shit. Seems Getty has had a few to drink.
I fight the grin on my lips, her compliment boosting my ego, but the sight of her tipsy is even better.
“Don’t think I can’t see you laughing at me, wonder boy. Do you really think I’m going to fall for your bullshit again? Beautiful paintings, Socks,” she says, mimicking my voice. I can’t help but laugh. “. . . then run away. I don’t want to kiss you, Socks. Kiss me and run away to a boat. A boat? What are you, Captain Jack Sparrow? And now? Now you probably planned this so the towel conveniently slips off so I fall at your feet. And then what? We’re gonna sleep together and then you’ll run away again?” She steps forward and right into my space, finger poking my bare chest. “Dream on, Mander.”
And while her acting bit is pretty damn comical, it’s got nothing on the image she’s put in my head of her on her knees and the towel at my feet and her lips around my . . . Fuck. Stop thinking about it. This towel won’t hide shit if I’m flying half-mast from the thought.
“First Popeye and then Captain Jack? Every woman’s fantasy.” I laugh. “You been drinking tonight, Getty?” She sways a little when she shakes her head, and I hold on to her shoulders before she falls full-court press into me. She shrugs out of my grip immediately, but not in the startled way she did the other day. More bothered because she doesn’t want any help.
“Maybe.” Her grin tells me definitely, but I let it slide. “Just a little. Liam wanted me to settle in on the other side of the bar, watch the game, be a local. So I did. And it was fun. So screw Ethan. Screw him and his A lady would never be caught drinking bullshit. I did. So what would he think about that?”
Ethan? The name throws me. My quick reply fades as I focus on the name and how it reveals a tiny piece of her past that she guards so closely. A part of me wants to ask more, question her when she’s more apt to talk . . . and while I may have no problem skirting the line of morality, this is one line I won’t cross.
“Nothing’s wrong with a few drinks and watching the game.” I play it safe. Prefer to let her business stay her own. No fair taking advantage of someone in any capacity when she’s drunk. “You should have told me. I could’ve used a beer or two and would’ve liked to catch the game.”
“I thought you were busy sailing the seven seas or something.” She snorts when she laughs and it’s fucking adorable.
“Not hardly. You should’ve asked.” What are you doing, Zander? Thought you were going to try to steer clear of her.
She looks at me for a second, eyes narrowed, as thoughts visibly war across her face before she walks to the window. She looks out to the lights in the bay for a few moments before turning back around. “Sorry, but that might have complicated things.”
She shifts her eyes to mine when she says the words, a lift of one eyebrow and a purse of her lips to reinforce her sarcasm. We stand in silence, letting her taunt ricochet in the space between us, building tension with each passing second.
“Define complicated.” I can’t resist. Know I shouldn’t push the buttons I don’t want pushed, but fuck if I don’t like tipsy Getty a whole helluva lot.
Her smile is fast and devious as she steps toward me, and I fucking love it. “Complicated,” she says as she walks right up to me again without hesitation and lifts onto her tiptoes so that her mouth is right at my ear when I lean down, “would be if I kissed you right now.”
Fucking Christ. I’m standing in a towel, can feel the heat of her breath on my ear and her tits brush against my chest when she breathes in, and she goes and says that? I must be off my game, because there’s that split second where we both freeze, both know we want it to happen, but I don’t think I could stop at just a kiss.
Hell no. Not right now. Not with the bed behind me and that playful dare off her lips. Not with her drinking. Not with my promise to myself.
But hell if she’s not making things painfully hard. In all areas.
She retreats a few steps, eyes still locked on mine, like a slightly different woman stands before me from the one I’m used to. The mismatched knee-high socks may be the same, but the defiant smirk on her lips, the flushed cheeks, and the eyes full of life are all different. There’s a newfound confidence about her right now. A lack of inhibition. Her constant guard has relaxed. A hint of the real her that she hides beneath whatever bullshit she’s dealing with is peeking through.
“You didn’t answer,” she says, and she’s right. There’s no way I can, because hell if she’s not making complicated look welcome.
“Is that what you want?” I’ll play her game, answer her question with a question. With her eyes trained on me, I lean back and grab a pair of gym shorts from the bed. Her gaze flickers down to watch as I slide them on under my towel before letting it fall. Now I can get that earlier image out of my head. At least we’re on a bit more of an even playing field. But the one I really want to be on is the horizontal one behind me.
“I want a lot of things. . . .” Damn. The way she says that—throaty, full of invitation—causes a chill at the base of my spine.
“You and me both, Socks.”
“I don’t want to like you, you know.” She tries to stifle the yawn but fails miserably.
“I don’t like me either lately, so no worries.” The admission is out of my mouth without thought. Her head jogs back and forth at it, eyes narrowing in a way that causes a little crease in her forehead.
“What do you—whoa!” That carefree laugh of hers fills the room again—breaking the moment—as she holds her hand to her head. “Did you feel that? The room just moved.” Her hushed whisper makes me laugh too, thankful for the interruption.
“It didn’t move at all, but you’re probably going to want to go lie down.”
“Oh, is that what I’m supposed to do?” She’s looking at me with eyes widened in question, lips pursed in an O shape, and surprise written all over her face.
Innocent. Trusting. Beautiful. Time to step back. Regain that distance.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Zander. No one gets to tell me what to do ever again.” She crosses her arms and gives me a death glare that’s so damn cute I want to laugh at her. And then she sways. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Good idea.” I follow her out of my bedroom door and watch her open hers. “I’ll go get you some Advil.”
I grab two pills and when I shut the medicine cabinet, my eyes veer to the bathroom countertop. To my deodorant and lotion and hair gel all lined up in a perfect little row against the wall.
Her words come back to me. Bug me. Make me wonder if they’re another hint at the life she lived before this cottage. I walk halfway down the hall before stopping, shaking my head, and going back to the bathroom. Not certain why I’m doing it other than that I know what it’s like to have a trigger—a thing to remind you of something you’d rather forget—I knock over my deodorant onto its side and slide my gel out of line.
I stare at them for a beat. Question why I’m even bothering. For the same reason you’re bringing her Advil. Because you care.
Fuck.
When I knock on her door, it swings inward and she’s dead center on her bed, sound asleep. There’s something so peaceful about her. Something that makes me want to just sit here and stare at her, because it’s kind of calming.
Jesus, Zander. You’re really doing well on the distance thing, aren’t you?
Chapter 8
GETTY
Repair List
Replace Front Step—third one
Replace Missing Roof Shingles
Back Deck = Death Trap
Fix Lock on Patio Door—Sorry, Mr. Ax Murderer
Fix Bathroom Mirror
Rain Gutters
Repair Shutters
Add Handrail to Front Steps & Paint
Add Light in GS
Connect Internet for God’s Sake
Bulldoze House and Rebuild
The last line makes me laugh out loud into the empty kitchen, the whole thing amusing. I drop the pad with Zander’s scrawled penmanship and pick up my coffee.
“What’s so funny?”
I cringe inwardly at the sound of his voice floating down the hall, flashbacks from last night coming back to me in bits and pieces. While I may not remember it all, I sure as hell remember sliding my hands up his bare chest and whispering in his ear. Attempting to be sexy. Trying to play him like he did me. And of course with a few drinks under my belt I may have felt like I pulled it off, but I have a feeling I looked more like an idiot. I keep my eyes angled out of the window when Zander enters the kitchen.
“The last thing on your repair list,” I murmur.
He makes a noncommittal sound in agreement. “How’s your head this morning?”
“Okay. Not bad. Just a little headache. Thanks for leaving the Advil on the nightstand. That was nice of you.”
“No biggie.”
God. We’re doing the as-few-words-as-possible thing here. I must have really been an ass last night. Or pissed him off. With a sigh I turn to face him and damn if I wish I hadn’t stayed facing the window. He has bedhead and his eyes are a bit swollen from sleep with a pillow crease on his cheek. His shorts are slung a tad too low on his hips, so that damn happy trail of his is highlighted in all of its glory, drawing my attention to what’s below it when I shouldn’t be looking there.
I may not know much, but I know that’s more than above average in size.
My comment from last night flickers through my mind. The sight of him all rumpled from sleep looking like something you want to crawl next to and cozy up with pushing it to the forefront.
Can I die now, please? If I said that, what else came out of my mouth?
“About last night . . .” I fumble for what to say as the intensity in his blue eyes holds me hostage. “I’m sorry if I said or did anything that was . . . I don’t normally drink. So—”
“No need to apologize. You were cute. Funny. Carefree. I liked it.”
Carefree? Me? I’m practically stuttering as I try to respond with a rush of heat to my cheeks as I blush. “Do you really know how to do all of that?” I ask, motioning to the fix-it list to try to change the subject.
“Nope.” He answers the question, but his eyes are still locked on mine, still asking unspoken questions about the last topic, when I don’t want him to.
“Then how are you going to fix it all? Hire someone?”
“Nope.”
“You’re awfully talkative this morning,” I huff, and somehow the exasperation helps me find a little more footing in this back-and-forth that has become our norm.
“I’ll look on my laptop. Google it if I have to. I’m not worried about it—I’m pretty good with my hands.”
“Oh . . .” I scrunch my n
ose up, trying to keep my mind on track and not the skill of his hands. “There is no Internet in the house.” Why do I feel so stupid saying that? Admitting that I’d rather be closed off from the world for a bit than have it at my fingertips with a search engine.
“I noticed. I’m going to get that set up while I’m here too. In the meantime if I need it, I’ll just do what you do.”
Huh? “What I do?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs like I should know. “Use your hot spot on your cell.”
“I don’t have Internet on my cell.”
He whips his head up and stares at me like I have three heads, mouth open, surprise he can’t quite figure out how to verbalize fleeting through his eyes. “What do you mean you don’t have Internet?” His voice sounds like his face looks: astounded.
“No biggie.” I repeat his words back to him as I try to scramble to explain and sound credible. I can’t just come out and tell him my cell’s a burner phone so just in case my dad or Ethan tried to track or trace me somehow, they wouldn’t be able to. I’ve already been there and done that with them, learned my lesson.
Besides, it’s not in my budget right now.
“So what happens when you’re driving and you get lost?”
“Who said I wanted to be found?” The quip is off my tongue without thought. Suddenly a wave of memories hits me hard and fast. How do you think I knew where you were today, Gertrude? One little click and the app installed on your phone just like that without you ever knowing. I know everything you do. Everywhere you go. Every move you make. You are mine. Don’t ever forget that.
I push the memory away. Shove the panic down. And am met with Zander’s unforgiving eyes, which reveal that he’s making assumptions I’d rather him not make about my remark. I attempt to save face, change the direction of the questions I know are coming. “That question is ridiculous, really. If I were lost, I’d just pull over and ask for directions.” I force a laugh, but I don’t think he’s buying it.
