Down Shift

by K. Bromberg

  Quit being such a wimp and go shut the door. The wood’s swollen from the rain. It probably didn’t click shut all the way the last time Zander used it.

  With a nervous laugh and a quick glance at the mini-blind wand, I head down the hall to find the front door slightly ajar. See. Just the wind and rain.

  “Goddammit!” The sound of Zander’s frustrated shout scares the shit out of me when I’m already on edge. I jump at the sound coming from outside, my nerves rattled but my temper lit from the combination of his comments earlier and his carelessness at leaving the door open.

  I’m not sure what I expect to see, but what I do stops me dead in my tracks.

  The hood of my car is up, a mechanic work light hanging from a hook on its underside, and Zander is bent over the engine. It takes me a good second or two to believe what I’m seeing, but when I do, I can’t seem to look away.

  I’m a little shocked. Somewhat unsure. And have a bit of a bruised ego after my strong opinions about him being an asshole. But more than anything, I know that there’s something about him that captivates me.

  And it’s not because he’s doing whatever he’s doing under the hood of my car to obviously help me out. No. It’s so much more than that . . . and at the same time, nothing at all.

  It’s the way he looks. Hands braced on the front of the car, head hung down in concentration, water dripping off the bill of his baseball cap. And of course his shirt is plastered to his body, so that even through the rain, I can see the cords of muscles flexing as he reaches forward with the wrench and adjusts something. He seems to be a bit of bad boy, wounded soul, and life of the party all mixed into one package—effectively the anti-Ethan—and maybe the realization right now when I’m still semimad at him kind of knocks me back some. Makes me look a little closer when I should be looking the other way.

  Despite what he said today—the quick barbs and the unapologetic push for more information—he obviously has a good heart and is trying to help me even though I was a bitch to him. I pushed his buttons on purpose to keep him at far enough of a distance to stop pushing mine. And yet despite everything, he’s out in the pouring rain working on my car.

  And more than anything, it’s the way he makes me feel watching him. That warm feeling down deep in my belly. The goose bumps racing over my skin that have nothing to do with the temperature outside. How I want to go out and talk to him even though I still want to be mad at him. It seems so odd that I can’t remember what it feels like to have someone take care of me—not since my mother died—and yet now that I feel it, I can’t believe how much I’ve missed it.

  Thoughts race through my mind. The kind that make you want and need, and I’m not in a position to want or need anything; I shove them away. Try to convince myself he’s fiddling with my car because he feels guilty about the things he said to me earlier.

  But what guy does that, Getty?

  I can’t like him. I just can’t. It’s not in the cards. Hell, it’s not even in the damn deck. And yet there he is. Soaking wet. Doing something to help me because I told him I couldn’t afford it.

  Not only that, I insulted him, lashed out. I’d like to think maybe I did it to see what he’d do—whether he’d help me—so I could see the true nature of his character, but I was so angry there was no forethought in my off-the-cuff words.

  Now I stand here at one o’clock in the morning having traded places with him—me warm and dry and him wet and cold—and the need to talk to him overwhelms me. And not just because he’s helping me, but because as messed up as it is, in a sense, he’s the only friend I have.

  I venture into the kitchen to find a peace offering. Maybe I can round up some cookies or a beer or something, but the offerings are meek considering my appetite lately has been nil and money’s been tight. So when I open the refrigerator and find it stocked to the gills with fresh produce and beer and everything else I could imagine, I’m a tad taken aback. I open the cupboards and find them just as full of cereal boxes and cookies and pasta.

  My vision blurs in the face of the humility that washes over me. I bite back the urge to storm out there and confront him. I’m embarrassed that he actually heard me when I said I couldn’t afford to repair my car; that he realized that was why the house was so light on groceries and took it upon himself to run to the store and buy food.

  In the pouring rain.

  My pride wars with the attraction I feel toward him. I don’t want a handout of any kind. Don’t want the pity of a man—let alone any other of the islanders here—in any way, shape, or form. Because it was my choice to flee and leave my old life behind. All the privilege. The control that ruled my every waking moment.

  The punishments.

  I knew it was going to be tough. I knew it was going to be lonely. And so I hold back the tears of frustration, my own self-pity, and wonder how to thank Zander for all of this and at the same time to tell him to never do it again without sounding ungrateful.

  I close the cupboards, bottom lip between my teeth, and reach into the fridge for a cold bottle of beer. But it’s when I open the drawer of silverware to get a bottle opener that I get an even bigger surprise than the food. I know it’s silly and stupid, but when I look down to the tray, the silverware is sitting every which way. Gone is the perfect alignment from yesterday with everything in its proper place. The slot for forks has the big ones mixed with the little ones—some tines facing up, some tines facing down. The spoons too. The knives are a mishmash of butter and steak thrown in several slots.

  In disbelief and filled with gratitude, I stare at the disarray. Such a mess wasn’t allowed in Ethan’s house. And there’s a small part of me that sags in relief at knowing I wasn’t wrong about Zander or his kind heart. That he has gone through all this trouble—even messing the silverware drawer up—to give me whatever he thought I needed based on my rant the other night, even though he didn’t understand why.

  I’ve been shown a lot of kindness in the last few months. By Darcy with this place to live and Liam with a job when I have zero experience, but this by far has been the sweetest thing because of the history behind it.

  Grabbing the beer and a beach towel, I head to the front door, but just as I’m going out, Zander is coming in. Water drips off every inch of him and pools on the rug inside the front door.

  Our eyes meet, blue to brown, and in that instant there is so much I want to say to him but there are no words to express it. I hold the beer and the towel out to him despite feeling even more ridiculous considering I’m offering him a cold beer when he’s probably freezing to death.

  He looks down at the beer and the towel and then back up to me with a scornful expression, but under the hardness, I see a softness in his eyes. Part of him feels like a schmuck and is completely uncomfortable being a good guy when he’s the self-proclaimed asshole.

  Tension builds in the silence. Just as I’m about to speak, he reaches down to the hem of his T-shirt and pulls the sopping fabric over his head. His hat falls off with it as he goes. Yes, I’ve seen him naked before, but with the veil of shock removed and his kind heart revealed, I’m seeing him in an all-new light. I take in the defined muscles of his torso—not too big but not too slight—the V that disappears beneath his waistband of his worn jeans, and the strength of his hands when he reaches out to take the towel and the beer without a single word.

  He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a long, lazy drink, face tipped up to the ceiling, while I unabashedly admire the obvious work he puts into his physique.

  “Thank you.” I may say only two words, but they’re filled with meaning.

  He pauses and slowly lowers the bottle, taking his time to meet my gaze. With a nod of his head, he works his tongue in his cheek. “Your alternator is bad. I pulled it out but have to wait for the new one to come in. I had the garage in town order one for me.”

  “Thank you. I’ll pay you for
the parts and your time and—”

  “It’s on me.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

  “I won’t take your charity or your pity. I’ll pay you back.”

  “That’s not needed. Besides, I didn’t do much.”

  “You’re fixing my car. You went grocery—”

  “We were running low on food. It was my turn to buy.”

  “It was more than that. It was—”

  “Drop it, Getty.” His warning is loud and clear and while I hear it, I feel it needs to be said.

  “You didn’t have to—”

  “Getty.” The look in his eyes and the tone in his voice stops the rest of the comment on my tongue. “Quit being so goddamn stubborn and we’ll be fine.” His eyebrows lift up, a challenge thrown down.

  “Quit being such an asshole.”

  He fights the smirk on his lips and I can tell he’s a tad surprised by my quid pro quo. But this banter between us is where we seem most comfortable, what we always come back to, so the fact that we fell into it so quickly means that our fight just might be over.

  And while I’d prefer to get some answers on why he said the things he said and pushed so hard, I can also let sleeping dogs lie so that there’s a bit of peace too.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Socks,” he says after running the towel through his hair, biceps flexing with the action, before hanging it over his shoulders. “I have eight brothers, so if you want to fight, I assure you, I’ll win every time. Hands down. And for your information, I didn’t run away. Not like you. I was out of control. Hurt some people and needed to deal with some of my own shit before I can return home to make it right.” He steps closer, face angled down so I can see the truth in his eyes. “I came here to get some clarity, some time to myself away from the chaos in my life, and fix up the house for Smitty because I owe him. Big-time. I’m not here to take your house away. I wasn’t sent by anyone to find you and bring you back to wherever you’re from. And while most days I’m a grade A asshole, that doesn’t mean I don’t have manners, and manners mean I wouldn’t hesitate to protect you if need be. That’s how I was raised and that’s not going to change.”

  I think of the groceries, the repairs to my car, the damn silverware drawer, and know without a doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to defend me at all. “Thank you.”

  “And another thing—this is how I am. I’m loud and brash and in-your-face if I need to be, but that doesn’t mean you need to shrink inside yourself, because I’m not a threat. I’m not going to hurt you.” He takes a step closer as my mind whirls wondering if it’s that obvious how skittish I am when his temper makes an appearance. “You want to know why I pressed you earlier? Why I stepped into the role of pushy asshole? Because this is a small town, Getty. People talk. People gossip. And they’re going to want to know more about the new girl in town who keeps to herself and is rattled after a glass bottle breaks on the floor while she’s at work. So you better start knowing the answers to the questions before they’re asked. You need to be prepared for assumptions, pressure for answers, whispers around town. You need to be able to give it to them with a straight face and off the cuff, or your cover story isn’t going to hold.”

  I swear to God I feel like this is a Ping-Pong match. One minute I like him and the next not so much. But the problem is right now I don’t like him because he’s telling me truths I don’t want to hear. He’s making me realize that as prepared as I was to do this, create a new life for myself—it’s still hard as hell to pull off and I haven’t been doing as good of a job as I thought.

  Worrying my bottom lip with my teeth, I take in what he’s saying, try to hear the advice for what it’s worth, but still have a hard time not stiffening my spine at the reprimand.

  “You don’t know anything about me.” My voice is slight but strong, my need to assert myself front and center despite his calling me on the carpet.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Socks. I might not know where you’re from or why I ruffled your feathers today, but I know you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. Whatever it is that you ran from back home, you did it. You got out and are making it on your own. That takes guts and you deserve mad props for that. I know you like things messy and are goddamn cute when you’re tipsy. I know you’re stubborn as hell and gorgeous as fuck. And that your kiss tastes like an aged whiskey: something I want to sip slowly, feel on my lips, savor on my tongue, and take my time with before I get drunk on it.” With a lift of his eyebrows and a nod of his head, he walks past me, leaving me with my mouth agape and eyes wide.

  I can’t move. Just stand staring at the door in front of me as I try to process what he just said, what he meant by it, and yet there’s no use because we just had a whole one-sided conversation and that need to banter with him is gone. Lost to the tingling in my lower belly and the wild spinning of my thoughts.

  “Oh, and, Getty?” Zander calls out to me from the kitchen, refusing to continue until I turn to face him, standing there unabashedly shirtless. “If you ever call me pretty again, we’re gonna have a real problem. I guarantee you there is nothing pretty about me.”

  I almost smile at the fact that out of all of the crappy things I said to him, that is the one that bugged him the most.

  “You are kind of pretty, though,” I murmur, unable to resist goading him further, needing to try to get us back on an even playing field. Because hell if right now I don’t feel like I’m on the low end of the teeter-totter.

  His immediate response? A snort to signify that his chiseled abs and the tall, dark, and handsome thing he’s got going on are nothing more than average.

  “Last warning, Socks.” His eyes flash with mirth. And what looks like desire.

  An unexpected part of me—the one who usually hides and doesn’t ever take a chance—wants to say it again. Just to see what he’d do if I did.

  “So damn pretty.” I don’t know who’s more shocked at my comment, him or me, but we stand there for a moment, gazes locked, unspoken words warring across the distance between us.

  He walks toward me with a predatory gleam in his eyes and a salacious smirk on his lips that catches me off guard. “I know I said you were brave, Getty, but now you’re just playing with matches.”

  I draw in a long inhalation as he steps right in front of me. I can’t look at him. My nerve is suddenly gone. Outside, rain pelts the roof. The constant drip into the bucket in the hallway serves as a metronome to this anticipatory silence we are dancing in. The goose bumps on his chest are the only thing I can focus on.

  When his thumb and forefinger direct my chin up so I’m forced to meet his eyes, every part of me hums from his touch. From the want of something I don’t quite understand myself and couldn’t ever put into words. Our eyes meet—his intense, mine searching for answers that aren’t his to give—before his gaze flicks down to my mouth and then back up again.

  “Not yet, Getty.” He closes his eyes for a beat, and I see what I think is restraint reflected in his grimace, before a ghost of a smile spreads on his lips. “I don’t think you’re ready to light this fire just yet.”

  And once again, he nods his head, tongue licking out to wet his bottom lip, before turning his back and walking down the hallway without saying another word. I watch him move, turn into the bathroom, shut the door. Hear the shower turn on, the pipes creak. But I don’t move a muscle. His words—all of them—repeat in my mind and stoke the sweet ache they created that my body can’t deny.

  With a loud sigh, I shake my head and walk to my bedroom.

  I think we’re going to need a damn hose in the house to keep this fire out he’s already lit in me.

  Chapter 10

  ZANDER

  Shane said you’re not answering his texts. So now you get me, the best brother. Hope you’re figuring everything out. We’re all worried. Just want the best for you. Dude, you keep standing me up for our we
ekly round of golf, so I’m taking lessons while I wait for you to get your ass back home. It’s up to you how many I take . . . so please, take your time. I’ll be at scratch before you know it. Besides, lessons are being charged to your membership anyway. Miss ya, bro. Oh, and be prepared, if you don’t answer, we’ll just keep moving through the ranks until you do.

  The smile comes easily. Thoughts of my second to littlest shit of a brother, Scooter, who’s getting too damn decent at golf for his own good and way too big for his damn britches, by the words in his text. Scratch golfer, my ass. There’s no way he’s even close to par.

  He can’t be. I haven’t been gone that long.

  And with the smile comes the anger. The guilt. The how can he care about me when I was such an asshole to him?

  I glance up from the sawhorse to the beach for a moment. Rein in my temper. And let myself miss home for a split second. The constant ribbing between all of us brothers and the relentless bitching to mind your own business from at least one of them.

  Shit, I got what I wanted. To be left alone. To not be nagged and coddled and asked for the hundredth time what my problem was. To not have to see the hurt and disappointment in their eyes when I fucked up again.

  But all these goddamn texts—the ones I get every few days or so from one of my brothers like they’re on a schedule—make it all that much worse. I don’t deserve their concern after the way I treated them.

  They should kick my ass is what they should do. For the birthday party I missed. The phone calls I didn’t return. For showing up at Ricky’s house plastered and picking a fight. I’ve done so damn much I hardly recognize the man I was to them.