Chapter 19

ZANDER

“Goddamnmotherfuckingshit!” I drop the hammer and suck on my thumb. It hurts like a bitch, but that’s what I get for trying to replace roof shingles when my mind’s elsewhere.

Like back in the damn bed, cozied up against Getty and her warm, tempting, sexy-as-fuck body.

I groan. And not because of the pain in my thumb. But rather because images of last night flicker through my mind. The same damn ones that distracted me and are most likely going to give me the purple badge of honor under my thumbnail.

But hell if that badge wasn’t worth the pain.

I’m standing on the roof in the cool morning air, with the view of the harbor spread out in front of me, but all I see is her: lips swollen, thighs spread, pussy wet, nipples pink. Down, boy. And yet it’s the look in her eyes that keeps coming back to me. A combination of wounded trust and hopeful desire. Plus shy vixen. The last one she doesn’t quite see yet, but I sure as fuck can.

But it’s her eyes that I woke up remembering. As I lay there with our bodies tangled together, I kept thinking about everything she’d told me about her past—the half of which I’m sure wasn’t confessed. And what kept repeating over and over in my head was how much trust she gave me last night.

I grab the hammer and a nail. Pound it with vigor over the frustration I can’t shake.

The frustration that made me shove out of bed. Away from her warm body and hot curves and pillow creases in her cheeks. Because I needed distance. Space. I got what I wanted—Getty naked and beneath me—but I think I also got a few things I didn’t want. That I can’t have. That I don’t deserve.

Another nail. Another noncathartic pound of the hammer.

She shouldn’t trust me. Shouldn’t look at me with those chocolate eyes, a warring combination of damaged and innocent, as she puts her mistreated self in my hands, because I’m in no position to make her life better. In fact, I’m just as fucked-up as she is. Maybe even more so.

Slide a shingle over. Hold a nail. Grab the hammer.

It was just sex. Friends-with-benefits sex. Mind-blowing friends-with-benefits sex. Wake-up-and-want-to-do-it-all-over-again sex. And then possibly again. And not because we did some of the kinky shit that makes it interesting, but more so because we didn’t. It was simply her and me; trust and give-and-take and everything I said to her during it when I should have kept my mouth shut.

Pound the hammer until there is a dent in the shingle because there’s nothing left to nail in.

No one believes what anyone says during sex anyway. Just empty words to fill the quiet. To turn her on. To make her feel special. To set the mood. Words you don’t remember later because you lose yourself in the endgame.

So why do I remember every single thing I said last night? Each and every promise? Every last word?

Because I meant them.

I miss the nail. The hammer thuds into the composite material.

“Fuck.” I grit out the word. Scrunch my nose and squeeze my eyes shut while I blow out a breath.

I can’t mean them. I have a life to live. A career to pick back up. Wrongs to make right.

I warned her. Told her I couldn’t give her more than a few months of fun. Figured that would be enough, to lay it on the table before anything happened. You’d have thought I would’ve been smart enough to warn myself too.

Seems I forgot that part.

But it’s not like I could have predicted yesterday. The ride to the lookout. The unexpected confessions. How she stood in the hallway stepping into me with the ocean at her back and desire palpable between us.

I’m not a have sex, then get up and leave while the sheets are still warm kind of guy. But I’m also not a let’s fall asleep, wake up, have sex again, and figure out how to spend the day together type of guy either.

So why was I wanting to do just that?

Positioning the claw of the hammer under the shingle, I push down and shove it up. Remove it. Toss it off the roof with a thud.

Damn complications. I have an agenda. Face the cardboard box. Thank Smitty by finishing the repairs to the house. Figure out how to make things right with my family: Rylee, Colton, my brothers, the crew, my fans. Then actually do it.

I’m here to simplify shit. Not make it harder. And yet the minute I got exactly what I wanted—Getty spreading her thighs for me—I dove headfirst into complication.

And hell if I don’t want to do just that again.

Hammer. Nail. Pound the shit out of it. The release I was looking for when I came up here is nonexistent. Frustrated, I sigh and roll my shoulders.

I need to clear my head. Gain some perspective. Get away from the house for a bit so I stop thinking about Getty’s soft lips and enticing body. Take some time for myself.

It’s not like I haven’t done the friends-with-benefits thing before. But I’ve never done it when I’m living with the person. That causes some problems. Like when you want more benefits, all you have to do is walk ten feet to the next bedroom rather than step back, tell yourself to cool your jets, and either use your hand or wait until you can meet up again.

That’s gotta be why I’m feeling like this. Because the meet-up is right in front of my face, so keeping my distance is going to be harder.

Shit. I’m out of nails. I glance down to the box of them on the sawhorse bench I’ve set up on the ground.

Adrenaline. It’s what I need. To remind me I have a career to return to. To reinforce that my time here is limited. That I need to finish these repairs sooner rather than later. That Getty’s just a fling: some hot sex. A friend with benefits. To stop making promises I won’t be around long enough to keep.

Adrenaline’s the cure-all. I’m decided. It clears my head. Reminds me of the start of a race when I’m forced to focus on me and only me, which is exactly what I need.

Not on Getty.

I give up on fixing the roof. I’m gonna grab my keys and a jacket and head out exploring. Alone. Might as well see the island, since I won’t be here for much longer. Find an empty stretch of road and break the speed limit just for a bit while I’m at it. Get the adrenaline. The clarity I need to put my head back where it needs to be.

I take the first step down the ladder.

Keep lying to yourself, you pussy.

Next step down.

If you’re not on the roof, you’re not repairing it.

Move down another rung.

If you’re not repairing it, you can’t leave yet.

Almost there.

If you can’t leave yet, you get more Getty.

Last rung.

Pretty convenient, if you ask me.

My shoes hit solid ground.

Shut the fuck up, I tell the voice in my mind. The one mucking it up with lies. I’m still shaking my head, convincing myself I just need a little me time, when I open the door and walk in the kitchen. I’m irritated, frustrated, and annoyed.

And when I lift my head up, the one person who’s making me feel that way is standing right in front of me. Her hair is piled on top of her head, cheeks are flushed, eyes wide, and mouth shocks open into an O shape.

Damn gorgeous.

I snarl and clench my jaw, because the last thing I need is her presence here to cloud my thoughts. Give me reasons to want to stay. Make me want to walk up to her, back her against the counter, and kiss her senseless.

Which is exactly why I’m leaving. Right now.

Distance. Space. Clarity.

And yet I don’t move. Just stare. Both of my heads at war over what they want right now.

Keys. Jacket. Wallet. That’s what you want. Get your shit and go.

“Let’s go.”

What the fuck are you doing?

“Go?” she asks, forehead furrowed in confusion.

I stride into the kitchen, grab her jacket off the back of the barstool next to mine, grasp her hand, and pull her forward. “Yeah. You’re coming with me.”

So much for distance.