Down Shift

by K. Bromberg

  Push it away, Getty. Carpe diem. My new motto.

  It’s one I decided I needed to adopt while I lay in bed with Zander the other morning. He was snoring quietly beside me—one of the rare times he wasn’t up first—and I realized that every day that passed was one fewer I’d be able to spend with him.

  So my decision? I was going to seize the day, enjoy each moment with him, and then worry about tomorrow when tomorrow happens. Heartbreak is okay. Because at least that means my heart was full enough to feel love—and I don’t think I really ever knew what that felt like before.

  Get a grip. It’s called lust, Getty. Hot sex with a hot guy. Let’s not jump the gun here.

  “Easier said than done,” I murmur to myself because I know full well the difference and I’m still trying to deny it. Setting the to-do list back down, I lift my head to peer out the window to the sunny beach outside. I can’t help but smile. Things seem to keep getting better and better.

  Sure, the disastrous dinner with my father from last week still lingers in my mind, but I’m dealing with it. I’m moving on. I didn’t expect him to change with a miracle about-face, so I’m focusing on reveling in this new life I’m building. In the handsome man who has been ignoring his boundaries by sharing my bed with me most nights. In my creativity that’s resurfaced and has me picking up my paints again. In the beautiful day outside that I plan to take advantage of while Zander is on the boat meeting a mechanic, since my shift doesn’t start until tonight.

  My good mood still has me smiling hours later when I’m running my fingers over items in Angelique’s Antiques on Main Street. I’ve been in to see Mable to just chat, had a pedicure, sat on the boardwalk, watching the tourists fret over sunscreen and optimal sun-to-sand towel positioning, and even ventured to the craft store to look at replenishing my supply of paints.

  Then just as I was about to head home, an idea came to mind. I wanted to buy something for Zander—a thank-you for fixing my car. It’s the least I can do, since he refuses to let me pay him for his time or the expense of the repairs.

  When I open the antique walnut humidor, I’m surprised and pleased to find it doesn’t smell of cigar smoke. The rectangular box strikes me as dark and masculine. It’s in perfect condition, fits into my price range, and is the perfect size for what I want to use it for.

  Just as I meet the store clerk’s eyes to tell her I’m going to take it, the bell on the door rings.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Zander’s voice fills the small shop.

  The smile is automatic as I look over to him, immediately stepping away from the shelf with the humidor, hoping my eyes don’t look as panicky as I feel in almost being caught.

  “Hi.” And I can’t help that my heart stumbles in my chest when I see him standing in the doorway, wearing a T-shirt and board shorts, a Donavan Racing Team baseball hat low on his head, and a smile wide enough to light up a room on his lips.

  “I ran into Mable. She said you were out and about on Main Street.” He shrugs shamelessly over the fact he was asking about me. And that little flutter in my belly only strengthens with each step I take closer to him, which is silly considering that we share the same house and most nights we’ve been occupying the same bed.

  “I’ve been running some errands.”

  He gives me an even bigger smile. “It’s good to see you out and about. Can I take you to lunch?”

  And now I’m doubly surprised at his presence with that unexpected offer. “Well, my list of possible lunch companions is long and distinguished, but I’ll let you skip to the front.”

  “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?”

  “I’d have to agree with you on that one. There’s something about it drizzled over a ripe strawberry that makes it so appealing.”

  “Oh, please. We’re back to the strawberry thing again?”

  “I’m not sure I can trust a girl who doesn’t like strawberries. I mean that’s one of the best fruits there is.”

  “No. If you want to talk the best fruit out there, then let’s discuss pineapple. That’s by far the clear-cut winner here.”

  He rolls his eyes and laughs. “Never knew a woman to be so protective of her fruit before. Geesh!” My only response is to sigh in mock frustration, because he’s truly adorable in so many ways. “Oh! I got one. Sock, sock, shoe, shoe, or sock, shoe, sock, shoe?”

  I find myself bursting out laughing at the ridiculous question. “Seriously?” I ask as I dip a chip in the delicious guacamole.

  “I was going to be happy with simple questions like favorite food, sunrise or sunset, Indy or NASCAR, movie theater or Netflix, comedy or drama, but then you went and got all technical on me, so I had to up my game.”

  The challenge to answer those questions is clear as day in his eyes, but the boyish smirk that ventures into dimple territory wins every damn time. And the bad thing is, I know he knows it and I have a feeling he will use it to his advantage any time he needs to.

  I pick up my lemonade and take a long, slow draw on the straw while keeping my eyes on his. “Well, Mr. Technical.” He hmphs in response to my sarcasm. “Pancakes. Definitely sunrise. I’ve never watched a race in my life, so I’ll have to say Indy because I think that may just work in my favor. I haven’t been to the movie theater in years, so I’ll say Netflix and anything but horror.” I nod my head at him in triumph for answering but then realize there was one more. “And sock, sock, shoe, shoe, because that is the most logical, but I’d much rather just say flip-flops, because that’s what I’d prefer to wear.”

  “Wow,” he muses as he leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. “That was impressive . . . but you’re wrong.”

  “I am not.”

  “Pancakes are definitely a favorite I can deal with, although apple pie à la mode is a far better choice. And it’s a serious travesty about your lack of racing knowledge, but I do agree with your Indy pick. That answer definitely works in your favor.” We’ve ventured into dimple territory again and I shift in my seat to prevent myself from staring too long, because that smile does funny things to my insides. “Netflix because less crowds. And horror because a scared woman will want you to protect her from the dark and that means you might just get laid.” He winks on the last one and I can’t help but laugh out loud.

  “I should have guessed. And it’s sad if a horror movie is your only game to try to get laid.”

  His laugh garners attention from nearby tables. “Hey, being a man can be rough. We need to take any advantage we can get.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Oh you poor, deprived, sex-starved man. But you forgot one answer.”

  “Oh yes . . . while I disagree with your discrimination against strawberries, I do have to agree with you on sock, sock, shoe, shoe.” He taps the neck of his beer against my glass and then takes a long pull on it.

  “At least we can agree on that.” The breeze blows off the ocean and the sparkle of the water distracts me for a minute.

  “But I’d pick you in knee-high socks every damn day of the week if I had a choice.” This time his wide smile carries through to his eyes. And I know he’s just being nice, but every part of me perks up at the silly compliment. “So we’ve got some of the basics covered—what else don’t we know about each other?”

  “You know I’m messy,” I say off the cuff, a shadow spreading across his face as he purses his lips.

  “Nah. I don’t think you’re messy.” His comment catches me off guard.

  “Are you kidding me?” I laugh, suddenly nervous as my gaze fastens to his. Deep down this feels like so much more than a tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine example.

  “Nope. The first night we met, I thought you were messy, yes. What with your skirt trapped around my ankle, but now I know it’s your way of making a point to yourself. A reminder that you can do whatever you want, even if it’s leave a trail of clothes down the hallway.” He offers me a slight smile, but it’s the intensity in his eyes and the words he’s spoken that really hold my attention.

  He understands me. The why. The how. Even though I’ve never specifically told him about my time with Ethan, he still gets me. There’s something extremely poignant about being heard and having your reasons validated by someone who matters to you.

  Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, Zander does matter to me. Way more than I want to admit to myself.

  And just as I start to grow uncomfortable about him seeing me so candidly, faults and all, as if he’s pulling my thoughts from the depths of my eyes, he leans even farther across the table and says ever so quietly, “You’re forgetting the really important question, Getty.”

  “Like what?” What am I missing?

  “Like . . . what is the point-of-no-return spot on your body?”

  “Point-of-no-return spot?”

  “Yeah, that one spot where once your lover touches you there, there’s no turning back. The only thing ahead is sex and reaching an orgasm.” His voice is barely audible and yet I hear every single word along with suggestion lacing each one.

  The question throws me. We’ve gone from playful, to serious, and now to the kind of interrogation that makes me squirm in my seat because I’m not used to the flat-out directness of him asking about my erogenous zones.

  “Why?”

  “It’s important for your lover to know these things, Getty.”

  I laugh nervously as the air between us shifts and twists into an unexpected undertow of desire. Unable to think with his salacious stare asking so much, I avert my eyes back to the ocean, thankful he’s willing to give me a moment to collect myself before I respond.

  Oh my God. How do I answer him? First of all, this isn’t something Ethan ever cared to ask me, and second, I’m not very good at voicing something like this aloud. Maybe under the covers in a dark room . . . but not with piercing blue eyes holding steadfast to mine watching for my answer. Add on to that the fact that every part of my body—mind, nerves, pulse—is reacting in some way to the look he’s giving me and the topic he just introduced.

  “Don’t be shy, Socks,” he murmurs, and places his hand over mine on the table. My eyes flash back to his. Those parts of my body that were reacting a second ago now go into overdrive. “You don’t get to be shy after last night.”

  That grin again. But this time it’s one reflecting full-blown arrogant male smugness over yet another bout of incredible sex. And there’s something about that look that restores my con
fidence. The part that realizes I’m the one who put it there.

  So I take a fortifying breath before looking back at him. “Everywhere.” It takes everything I have to maintain our eye contact. Every ounce of self-confidence I’ve found in myself to not look away and be ashamed for being honest. “In all the years we were together, Ethan never took the time to care . . . so I can’t tell you for sure. My lips maybe? Because you kiss me like I matter. Like I’m innocent and a vixen all in one. You worship them. Demanding at the same time you’re so patient with me. Or maybe my skin? Because I love the feel of your hands and how when you run them over me . . . their strength and noticeable restraint reflects your desire for me. Or the curve of my neck? Because when your lips are right there, I can hear that hitch in your breath when I put my hands on you. That sound tells me you want me to touch you. So I don’t have an answer for you. I like when you touch me everywhere, Zander. . . .” I pointedly emphasize the last words. Draw them out, making sure my tone sounds like how his touch makes me feel. Greedy. Desperate. Consumed.

  Before I can even take in his expression—wide eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip, the bob of his Adam’s apple—and gauge how he took my confession, I think about me. About my unexpected candor and the comfort level I have with him.

  What a far cry this woman I am is from the shadow I was months ago.

  Now that the words are out, I can’t take them back. And if the look in Zander’s eyes is any indication, I don’t think he’d want me to if I could.

  “If that’s not a challenge to touch every erogenous zone on your body until you can pick just one as your favorite, I don’t know what is. Shit.” He blows out a whistle and unsuccessfully fights to hide the surprised grin on his lips. “I think I need a cigarette after that.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. Long and loud. And to wonder just what other parts of me he’s going to awaken on his quest to make me pick a favorite.

  No complaints here.

  Chapter 25

  GETTY

  There’s only one word to describe how I feel as I head home after wandering aimlessly around town for a bit. Content. I picked up the humidor, sat on the waterfront for a while eating an ice-cream cone, and then headed over to the farmers’ market to pick up some peonies.