Chapter 1

GETTY

“You good, Getty?”

Good?

My mind flashes to a few hours ago. How jumpy both my heart and the rest of me felt when the man from table nine simply touched my forearm as he reached to get my attention for another round. The crash as the bottle of triple sec hit the hardwood floor. The immediate waves of panic. The rush of memories. The fear. From another place, another time, to rattle nerves already on constant edge.

And until now I was doing so well hiding my uneasiness behind my tough-girl facade.

But I saw the customers’ stares. Heard my stammered excuses. Suffered the immediate regret of giving them a glimpse of the secrets I’ve kept hidden. Of the life I left behind.

So, good? Not by a long shot, but I’m not about to let Liam know. Besides, I’m making progress. It’s been three months and I’ve already got a job, a place to live, and more freedom than I’ve felt in forever.

Baby steps.

Trudging uphill and through what feels like barbed wire.

But it’s progress nonetheless.

I collect my distracted thoughts—exhale a sigh to cover up my preoccupation—before turning to look at the Lazy Dog’s owner, walking beside me. A tight smile hits my lips when I nod. “It’s debatable if I’m good,” I finally say, trying to make light of the earlier incident. Add humor so that he doesn’t ask more questions. It’s something I’ve learned how to do way too well. “But I do know I deserved to be fired after dropping that bottle.”

The laugh I force—the one that used to be my everyday normal— sounds hollow to my own ears. Funny how it seems so odd in this new life I’ve created for myself.

“Nah. Everyone makes mistakes.” Liam’s voice pulls me back from my thoughts. “It’s no big deal. Really.”

“I can add an extra hour on my shift or help cover during a game night if you get too busy. It’s the least I can do.” I slow down my footsteps as we approach the fork in our paths on the walk home from the bar.

“Not necessary. Besides, you should come in during a game. Be a customer. Most of us here are a little obsessed with the Mariners. It’s a good time.”

“Nah. Not my thing.” Too many people crowded in one spot. At least when I’m working, I have the bar counter as my barrier. A space between me and any unwanted contact.

Who am I kidding? All contact is unwanted these days.

“Are you telling me you don’t like my bar?” he laughs in mock offense as we stand on the corner beneath the streetlight.

“No. Not at all,” I correct myself. “I mean—”

“Relax. I’m just teasing you.” He reaches out to touch my arm and I freeze at his motion. Then curse myself. Shit. He obviously notices my reaction, because he pulls his hand back immediately, but his gaze remains locked on mine. Searching. Asking. Wanting more.

“I, um—thanks for walking with me. I’m beat and—”

“Getty?”

“Yeah?” My voice is cautious because I know what comes next and don’t really want to venture there.

“If there was some kind of problem . . .” I’m not sure if the flash of hurt in my eyes stops his words, but they stop nonetheless. He nods in silent understanding. “Well, if you need any kind of help, I’m here, okay?”

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I murmur softly. “Good night.”

I walk away, knowing he hasn’t moved and is watching me make my way through the night toward my house. He’s sweet and kind. So very different from what I’m used to, and so I need distance between us. It would be way too easy to lean on him, use his friendship to get through this, when I know better than anyone that the only person I can depend on is myself.

And yet the weight of his stare and the concern in his eyes are like magnets pulling me backward, begging me to find someone I can confide in, when all I really need to do is learn how to manage this new life on my own.

Keep walking, Getty. You can let him in once you figure yourself out.

I look out toward the moonlit ocean view beyond and take stock as to why I’m here. It seemed like the stars aligned when my mother’s oldest friend offered to let me stay in the vacation house she and her husband were renovating before they could flip it. And because of that, I have a roof over my head. A place to reflect on what I want. A solitary space where I’ll be able to come to terms with the mistakes from my past so I can have a better future.

You don’t know they’re mistakes until you make them. Or learn from them. Let’s hope I’ve done both and can move forward.

I walk down the alleyway, past my car, parked in the narrow, shrub-lined driveway, to the front door of the old cottage. Skipping over the third step to avoid the broken wood slat, I remind myself that should be first on the very long list of repairs that I need to schedule for the house.

It’s the least I can do, considering she’s letting me stay here for free during the renovation.

Exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks once I’m inside. I move through the darkened foyer quietly, in practiced precision, as if I’m still back in the Palo Alto house. I flick the light off in the kitchen, surprised I forgot to turn it off before I left, and ignore my grumbling stomach for the enticing hot water of the shower. Hopefully the muscles in my lower back will get used to my standing on my feet for eight-hour shifts soon, because this constant ache is annoying.

But it also means I’m doing this. Changes are really happening. And the past is over.

In a show of defiance no one will ever see and only I will understand, I make a trail of my discarded clothes as I walk down the hall toward the bathroom light I purposely left on at the end of the hallway: a beacon of imagined hot water calling my name.

Shoes. Shirt. Bra. Skirt. Panties. All come off one by one, throwing them to the floor in a messy trail as I go.

I’m exhausted, my mind still preoccupied with the mistake I made tonight dropping the bottle, so that when I clear the doorway, it takes me a second to come to my senses. The reaction is instantaneous—an earsplitting scream, a physical jump back, a shock to my heart, and hands immediately reaching to cover my pelvis and breasts—at the sight of the man standing in my bathroom.

And not just any man.

No.

But a buck-naked man. Dripping in water. I see a flash of ink on his back in the partially fogged-up mirror’s reflection. One hand holds a towel up to his wet hair. The other is doing I don’t know what, because I’m so fixated on his presence that thinking clearly isn’t a priority.

“HELP!” I scream the moment I get my wits about me, body frozen in fear, mind reeling.

And even though his blue eyes look as shocked as mine probably do, his mouth spreads into a slow, disbelieving but definitely cocksure smile. “I’ve had women go to extremes before,” he says with a chuckle, silencing my next shriek for help, “but this takes it to a whole new level.”

In my confusion, my guard comes up instantly, although for some reason I don’t actually feel threatened like a rational person would. I’m naked, hunched over trying to cover all my lady bits, caught between stepping back down the hallway and grabbing my last discarded item to cover myself up. But I know damn well my panties sure as hell aren’t going to make a very good shield. Add to that there’s no way in hell I’m giving him the wrong impression, that I’m retreating in fear.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I’m shaking with adrenaline as I hop around in the I’m-naked dance, every ripple and roll of imperfection on my body on display in the wash of bathroom light into the hall. My eyes flicker desperately to assess the situation I have absolutely zero control over. I want more lights on to flood the house and don’t want them on at the same time.

“I believe I should ask you the same question,” he says as he slowly lowers his hand, the towel now hanging at his side. Of course I look.

And there it is. . . .

I jump back like my eyes have been burned and yet first impressions are hard to erase: cut abs, that V of defined muscles, a trail of happy, and a more-than-impressive package. What the hell is wrong with me? There is a man in my house. He obviously just showered in my bathroom. And I’m staring at his dick.

“Put that thing away!” I command, with my hand reaching out to gesture at his waist before I realize that I’ve just removed my hand from my own breasts and offered a peep show of my own. Of course I replace it promptly but not before the man throws his head back and emits a deep laugh. It causes his Adam’s apple to slide up, then down, chest to heave, and dick to bob.

I force myself to look away because . . . well, because he’s a stranger. In my house. Naked. And oh my God, something is wrong with me, because I’m not running and calling 911 like I should.

When his chuckle subsides, he brings his head back down, so I can see the tears in his eyes from laughter. “That thing is my cock, and since this is my bathroom and you seem to be attempting to seduce me in my house, I don’t think you have any right to tell me what to do.” And with that, he leans a hip against the counter and folds his arms across his chest, eyes locked on mine and one eyebrow lifted. Everything else is left hanging out there in the wind.

“Your house? Seduce you?” At that point I realize I’m sputtering and shaking my head. “This is my house. You’re in my house.”

Confusion drifts across his face and his jaw falls lax. “Hold up.” He lifts his hands in the Hold on a minute position, drawing my eyes back to where they don’t want to be. If this whole situation weren’t so unbelievable, it would be comical, and yet as true as that is, I don’t seem to be laughing at all. “I think there seems to be some misunderstanding.”

“No shit.” Sarcasm is my fallback and it doesn’t disappoint me now. A lot of good it does me, though, as I’m still doing the naked dance while trying to react to this surreal situation.

The look of disdain he gives me at my comment earns him no points in my book. “While I’m digging the socks with your outfit,” he says with a smirk, eyes veering down and then back up to my strategically placed hands, “you should cover up.” I catch the towel he tosses me and immediately wrap it around myself. I’m certain my mismatching knee-high socks make a statement about me, but I’m beyond caring, because I’m still alone in my house with a strange man and have no answers as to how this has happened.

With one hand clutching onto the towel at my collarbone, I use the other to motion to him. “You too.”

A lightning flash of a grin glances across his lips. “Sorry, but you just took the only towel left.”

Why is this funny to him? This is not funny. Not in the least. And neither is my procrastination over folding the load of towels currently sitting in the dryer. Shit.

I glance around quickly. Needing to keep an eye on him for safety’s sake and not wanting to look too closely for obvious reasons. Instinct tells me he’s not a threat and yet sensibility tells me he is. So I do the only thing I can, look slyly around for a weapon. Something. Anything.

But I’m in a hallway. Pickings are slim. When I take a step back, the ancient mini-blinds behind me rattle as my butt hits them. The sound clicks my mind into gear and I reach back and pick up the broken wand that opens the blinds sitting on the windowsill. Without thinking, I hold it up in front of me like a swashbuckling sword.

“How’d you get in here?” I demand in my deepest, growliest voice.

“With the key under the frog on the back deck.” He doesn’t even fight the smile on his face or make an attempt to cover himself up. Nope. He just stands there nonchalant as day, like he’s used to women staring at his naked body.

Maybe he is. He said he thought I was here to seduce him. Is he some kind of male escort or something? No. Wait. I have that all mixed up. He would be seducing me, then.

Focus, Getty. Focus.

“What key?” How come I didn’t know there was a key under the frog on the back deck? I jab the wand toward him to emphasize each word. “And the wood on the deck is broken. How’d you climb—”

“How’d you get in here?”

“I’ve been here and I’m the one asking questions.”

That laugh again. Full-bodied. More than amused. Enough to make me wonder what it sounds like when he really means it. “Right. I forgot. You’re one to give orders in a bath towel, socks, and holding that fierce sword of yours.”

I fight back the urge to drop the wand regardless of how stupid I look, because I don’t know this guy from Adam. “Answer. Me.”

“Testy.”

“Now.” I jab the wand to show him that I mean it. The smile again, but this time he bites his bottom lip to prevent it from spreading all the way to dimple territory.

“Smitty gave me instructions on where to find the key. We made a deal. I get to stay here so long as I make some repairs for him.”

What? “There’s some kind of misunderstanding. Smitty messed up. I’m already living here.”

“So I gather by your Custer’s Last Stand demonstration,” he says with an indifferent wave of his hand.

“How do you know him?” I already have a sinking feeling that something is seriously screwed up here and that I’m not going to like his answer.

“He’s like an uncle to me.” He shrugs. “You?”

“Darcy’s like an aunt,” I mimic him in reference to Smitty’s wife.

We stare at each other as the knowledge that we’ve both been given access to this house settles into place between us.

“Well, Smitty must have forgotten that Darcy told me I could stay here, so you’re going to have to find somewhere else to crash for the weekend.” There. I said it. Take that.

“Good one.” He seems unfazed by my comment as he waltzes past me in all his masculine glory and heads into the bedroom to the right of the bathroom. “But I’m not just here for the weekend. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are!” I follow him the few steps into the bedroom and whoa, I’m greeted with a full male backside as he bends over to rifle through a duffel bag at the foot of the bed.

“Get your eyeful now, Socks,” he says with a glance over his shoulder as he steps into a pair of boxer briefs and pulls them up. “Because after I call Smitty, I’m sure you’re the one who’ll find out you’ve overstayed the welcome.”

He walks past me again, but this time I’m standing in the doorway. His body brushes ever so slightly against mine on the way out. I’m greeted with the scent of soap and masculinity fresh from the shower. I’m so busy admiring his ass, when I shouldn’t be, as he moves down the hallway that it takes a moment for his comment to break through his enticing scent clouding my brain.

“Over my dead body!” I shout, rushing after him, clutching the towel tighter around me.

“That would be a helluva waste with that body,” he murmurs from ahead of me. At least I think that’s what he says, but I can’t be certain and I sure as hell know he can’t be speaking about me.

“What did you say?”

“I said you sure are messy.”

“No, I’m not.” He flicks on the hallway light just as the words leave my mouth. The path of my clothes is visible in all its cluttered glory. I cringe—not because of the destruction, but because he thinks he’s right. When really he has no fricking clue of what’s behind my messy trail. “Look, you don’t get to come into my house—”

“It’s Smitty’s house,” he corrects as he holds up one finger and the face of his cell phone out with the other hand.

“No, mine—”

“Zander.” The phone crackles to life and a voice full of warmth comes through the speaker.

So he has a name.

“Hey, Smitty.”

I open my mouth to speak but shut it instantly when Zander levels me with a look.

“Did you find the key all right? Get in okay?”

“Yeah. Right where you said it’d be. But man, that deck is a death trap waiting to happen.” He laughs again. This time it’s softer, flooded with the same warmth in Smitty’s voice.

“I told you, you’d have to earn your keep.”

“I will. I’m good for it.”

A sudden heavy silence settles on the line. One I don’t quite understand, but it’s obvious at the same time.

“I know you are,” Smitty finally says quietly. “Just as my word to you is good. I promised you I wouldn’t tell them you were there—”

“There’s a problem,” Zander interrupts, unexpectedly changing the subject. And I can’t quite put my finger on it, but whatever Smitty was talking about, Zander obviously doesn’t want to. I can see it in the sudden darkening of his eyes and the tense set of his shoulders.

“What’s up?”

“There’s a woman here. At the house.”

“Did you already forget what to do with one?” He laughs. “I thought you were long past the birds and the bees speech, Zee.”

A genuine smile glances across Zander’s lips, and his eyes flash up to meet mine. “I assure you I know what to do with one. But, uh . . . that’s not what I’m talking about. There’s a woman here. Her name’s . . . ?” His eyes prompt me to respond.

All of a sudden I can’t find my voice and when I do, I’m shy. Hating that giving him my name is almost an invitation for him to get to know me, when I want nothing more of this strange, obviously charismatic man than to see him walk out of the house and not come back.

I clear my throat. “Getty.”

“Getty?” He gives me a curious glance as if he’s questioning if I know my own name. I nod slowly to him because he’s right—it still sounds a little foreign to me too.

New person. New name. New life.

“Smitty, her name’s Getty. She says Darcy—”

“Oh shit.” Smitty laughs into the line.

“Yeah. Oh shit.” Zander’s not amused.

“Hmm,” he muses, “Darce went on a girls’ trip up to the mountains. No service. She’ll be home midweek. . . . I’ll have to ask her about it then.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not in the least. There’s two beds. One bath. You’re a big boy. Figure it out,” he says with another chuckle before the line goes dead.

“Goddammit. Smitty?” Zander swears again as he drops the phone onto the countertop with a thud. He braces both hands on the counter, head angled down looking at his phone while I look at him across the dimly lit room. Waiting. Wondering. Pushing aside the tickle of unease on the back of my neck as I hold tighter to the towel.

My gaze flickers around the room frantically. My instinct is to try to find the smallest corner to fade into. Figure out where the fallout of his temper will have the least impact.

After a moment, he lifts his head up and smirks. The tightness in my chest, the fear that crept in out of conditioning, slowly eases as I exhale.

“Well, shit. I guess we’ve been told,” he says as he breezes past me down the hallway.

It takes me a moment to regain my bearings and realize I’m not back there and this stranger isn’t Ethan, before I turn on my heel and rush once again down the hall after him.

“Whoa. Wait!”

“What for?” Zander turns back around like he has not a care in the world. Like he’s not in his underwear with one foot currently trapped in the leg of my skirt, and I’m not in a towel with knee-high socks on.

“You’re not staying here.”

He chuckles. “Yes, actually, I am.”

“No, you’re not. There’s a hotel down the road on the boardwalk. A bed-and-breakfast too.”

“You heard the man. There are two beds. One bath. Pretty straightforward.”

Oh my God. The man is infuriating. And pigheaded. “You’re not hearing me.”

“No, I’m hearing you all right. I’m just choosing not to listen.” He works his tongue in his cheek and lifts his eyebrows in a nonverbal challenge. “Besides, I promised Smitty I’d fix the place up and as of recently, I’m a man of my word. So I’m going to do just that.”

Something about the way he says the last statement tells me there is more behind it than he’s letting on, but I’m tired from my shift and can’t find the effort to care.

“You can do your repairs but stay at the hotel,” I instruct in my sternest voice as he turns around and heads toward the back of the house. “A win-win for both of us.” I attempt to infuse enthusiasm in my voice.

“Did you take the big bedroom?”

“What?” My head is spinning. Did he not hear a word I just said? He is not staying here. He can’t. This is my space. Well, technically Darcy and Smitty’s space, but it’s been mine for almost three months. The first place I’ve had as my own, ever, and it’s working—I have no other option but for it to work—so there is no way this is going to happen.

“I asked if this is your shit in the big bedroom in back?” he asks over his shoulder as he goes to turn the knob on the door.

“Did you touch it?” My defiance comes back immediately. My scattered thoughts are now focused. After being trivialized for so long, my privacy is so very important to me. Did he go in, rifle through my stuff? See my work, the bleed of my emotion onto canvas, and judge it?

“No.” His answer is resolute. I’m right behind him, so when he turns around and sees what I can assume is the panic on my face, he angles his head and stares for a moment longer. “I opened the door, figured the stuff was Darcy’s from the last time they were here. Didn’t want to touch anything I wasn’t supposed to, so I dropped my shit in there.” He points to the only other bedroom in the house, right next to mine.

He’s too close for comfort, so when he steps back to turn to face me, I retreat too. The space between us is clogged with his . . . his . . . everything about him, and I find it hard not to react.

“Wait. Stop.” I hold my hands up, shake my head. “Just give me a minute here.” Give me space.

“Take all the time you want in the world, Socks,” he says, eyes full of a strange mix of humor and sincerity. And yet he doesn’t step back, doesn’t shift out of the way, so it’s the wall behind me and him directly in front of me.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” He doesn’t move, just continues to look at me with a face that’s the portrait of innocence, and yet a hunch tells me he’s anything but.

“Personal space, here,” I say sternly, motioning with my one free hand for him to back up some.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He takes a small step back and fights the half-cocked grin on his lips. “But you’re going to have to get used to us sharing it, since it looks like we’re going to be shacking up together for the next couple of days until Darcy gets back and tells Smitty that your time’s up.”

That grin comes at me full force once he knows his comment has hit its mark with my sputtering lack of response.

“You’re frustrating and irritating and . . .” And handsome and too close and too many things I don’t want to cloud my space when men are the last thing on my current agenda.

“And you’re still standing here naked in a towel. And socks. I’ve had a long few weeks. I’m tired. It’s late.” He looks at his watch and then back to me. “Why don’t we go to bed and we can figure out the rest in the morning?”

“It’s not that easy,” I argue.

“Yeah, actually it is. You lie on your bed, close your eyes, and drift off to sleep. The only decision you need to make is back, stomach, or side. See? Easy.”

I hate that he’s turned on the boyish charm, because it’s much more endearing for some reason than the naked-man-in-the-bathroom thing. “How do I know that you’re not—”

“I assure you I’m a lot of things, but a creep or a murderer or a rapist isn’t one of them,” he states, stealing the thoughts from my head.

“Like you’d tell me if you were.”

He laughs. “If I were one, I already had plenty of opportunities.” He shrugs. “Besides, Smitty vouched for me. You heard him. Shut off your mind. Go get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

And with a flash of a smile and a nod of his head, he enters the bedroom next to mine and shuts the door with a resounding thud. I’m left staring at the faded wood door with unspoken words on my tongue and confusion cluttering my mind.

“Well then . . . there’s that.” It’s all I can say as I slip into my own bedroom and stand there in the darkness, hunger forgotten, shower no longer a priority, and attempt to process the last twenty minutes.

I reach back and twist the handle on the door and test that it’s actually locked, but as I sit back on the bed, I wonder if the lock is as shoddy as so many other things in this house. Besides, lock or not, if he wanted to open the door and get to me, one swift kick of his foot against the handle would grant him access.

The notion settles about the same time I hear his door open. I suck in my breath, my own thoughts and jaded reality melding a bit too much for my own liking, but when I hear his steps head down the hall toward the kitchen, I relax some.

Should I push the dresser in front of the door, just in case? I’ve slept with enough fear in my lifetime; this is one place I don’t want to have to do that.

Just as I’m about to move to the dresser and test its weight, there’s a knock on my door. I jump out of my skin and feel stupid immediately. It’s not like I didn’t know he was here or anything.

“Just in case you’re still scared of me and need some protection,” he says with a chuckle through the door, which leaves me more confused until I see a glint off the moonlight as something slides beneath it. “Night, Socks.”

I wait to hear his door shut again before I move toward mine and switch on the light. Fighting the laugh that falls from my mouth is futile when I look down to see the mini-blind wand on the floor.

Smart-ass.

Unsure what to do and feeling completely unsettled, I leave the wand where it is, throw on some pajamas, and slide into the bed.

But sleep doesn’t come regardless of how tired I am. My mind goes a million miles an hour as I think about what just happened.

The bathroom standoff. The naked dance. The ludicrousness of having to defend myself with a mini-blind wand. All of it.

And yet none of it matters, because he’s still here and I’m still left trying to figure out how I’m going to make him leave.

The funny thing is, I should have been petrified, especially on the heels of my freak-out tonight at the bar. And I was at first. My heart was pounding and adrenaline was racing, but not once did I run away and cower like I used to. There’s something to be said for that.

Baby steps.

At least I just proved to myself that I’m making some.