Chapter 22

GETTY

The hammering begins before I take my makeup off. Loud, forceful blows echo through the house and feel resoundingly similar to the way my father’s words felt when he spoke them. Impactful. Relentless. Damaging.

And as much as I want to go and ask Zander why, right now of all times, he’s working on the deck, I don’t. I need a moment to myself. Time to decompress.

Sitting in front of my vanity, I stare in the mirror and go over the events of the day. Waking sated and feeling incredible. The morning of discord. Zander’s confessions at the Treehouse. The zip-lining. Just jump. His voice fills my memory and a trace of a smile turns up my lips. The dinner with my father. Zander’s surprise offensive on my behalf. The absolute silence on the drive home, both of us lost in our thoughts.

I close my eyes momentarily and allow my composure to crack. Weeping for the loss of a father who was never really a father—but I’d always held out hope he would see his wrongs and right them some day. A little girl always wants her daddy to love her. Tonight proved to me that will never happen and that not everyone sees love the same.

But then again, I should have known that already, since Ethan once professed his love for me and look how that turned out.

Outside the sounds of the hammer continue. Five sharp hits before a reprieve, during which I can assume he picks up another nail to start the process all over again.

With a sigh I lift the makeup-remover towelette and wipe it over one eye. And then the other. I rub and scrub and remove the mascara and eyeliner as best as I can. Try to rid myself of the face of the weak woman I no longer want to be.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

When I open my eyes to my reflection, my lids are clean, but traces of black shadow remain under my eyes. A smoky black stain telling me she will never leave me. That I’ll always be that woman until I can erase the darkness that still lingers. The shame. The insecurity.

So I scrub harder. The pounding noise becomes a sound track to my burgeoning panic as I wipe and scrub to rid my face of every last reminder. Of the past I desperately wish I could forget.

Before I’m done, my movements have grown frantic and my emotions run haywire as the tears that I’ve held back all night slowly slide down my face. Some of the black makeup smears and makes trails down my cheeks. Visual reminders when all I want to do is get in the car and drive. To somewhere new. Away from the pain. Away from the hurt.

But I can’t.

Zander proved that tonight with the truths he threw in my father’s face. I showed it too. I stood up to him for the first time in my life. And God yes, it was hard and it hurt, but at the same time it felt so damn good. To finally have a voice, a way to assert myself, and prove not only to him but to myself that I am earning my new place in life. That the meek, scared Gertrude no longer exists. Sure, her memories remain, but I will try to use them as fuel to encourage me to succeed rather than as a fear preventing me from doing something.

Rising from the vanity, I pick up my discarded dress on the bed. I rub my fingers over the expensive fabric and place it in the laundry with the knowledge that I’ll never wear it again. To Mable’s it will go.

A symbol of my past sold for pennies on the dollar. I wish my memories were as easy to get rid of.

With a grumbling stomach, I head toward the kitchen. I’m hungry but don’t have any desire to eat. That sick-to-my-stomach feeling I had listening to my father’s disdain still lingers.

When I glance out the kitchen window, I see that Zander didn’t even bother to change. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, cuffs rolled up at the sleeves. His shoes are off, bare feet sticking out beneath his trousers. But it’s the etched look of concentration and anger that holds my gaze.

He moves to a rhythm only he knows and I can’t help but watch and wonder why he’s so upset. Because he is upset. On the way home, I thought his silence was just a courtesy so I could work through how I was feeling. But now as I watch him, shoulders squared, body tense, face reflecting the civil war of emotions going on inside him, I know his silence has nothing to do with being respectful and everything to do with him.

I just wish I knew what it was.

There’s a precision to his actions that’s mesmerizing and probably best explained as controlled fury. And I’m not sure how long I stand there and watch him, but the more time that passes, the need to do something for him after all he’s done for me tonight develops to the point where I can’t ignore it.

Food. Food helps and comforts. He skipped dinner like I did, so I’m sure he’s hungry, but more than anything, it gives me something to do and will ease my restlessness. Normally I’d lock myself in my room and paint, but for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel inspired. I’m drained and not sure I can handle any more emotion being thrown into the mix.

So I’ll attempt to cook.

The flashbacks come out of nowhere while I’m rummaging through the cupboards and the refrigerator to see what ingredients we have on hand.

The beef bourguignon I had to prepare every Monday and the herb-crusted chicken that was mandatory on Wednesdays and all the other particular preparations Ethan required when our house staff had the night off. The plates upended in my lap because the beef was too tough or the sauce wasn’t thick enough. My answering scramble to hopefully fix what I could so I didn’t have to give him the proper apology he’d deem fitting for the infraction.

The sound of the hammer pulls me back to the present. Never again, Getty. Never. Again.

I look back to all the offerings in the kitchen and struggle with what to make, slightly amused that while I can cook four rather complicated meals to perfection, I really have no idea how to cook anything else, since Ethan never accepted any variation.

Settling on the one meal I can’t screw up too horribly, I opt for eggs, bacon, and toast. Simple. Almost error-proof. And with the hopes that the same meal we had this morning will bring us back to that feeling of contentment we found at the Treehouse.

Soon I’m lost in the easy preparation, but when I reemerge, the hammering triggers thoughts I don’t want to acknowledge. How I want him to slow down, take a night off . . . because the faster he finishes the repairs on the house, the sooner he’ll return to his everyday life.

Away from here.

Once the food is cooked, I load the plates and head toward the sliding glass door just as Zander comes in.

“I figured you were hungry. . . . We skipped dinner. . . . So I made you something.” Suddenly I’m stumbling over the words, feeling ridiculous that I’m nervous about it. “It’s nothing special.”

His eyes widen at the sight of the food. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m hungry.” Somehow it seems the words are just as hard for him to come by too. “Let me go wash up. Thank you.”

When Zander returns to the kitchen, a strange look flickers over his features as he sits down. “Breakfast for dinner, huh?”

I fight the inherent need to apologize. “Yes. Is that okay?”

A soft smile graces his lips as he shakes his head. “Just reminds me of my parents, Rylee and Colton. They used to do this thing when I was younger. They’d pick one day out of the month where we got to eat pancakes for dinner and ice cream for breakfast.”

My laugh floats through the room as the warmth of his smile translates into his eyes. There’s something about the quiet nod of his head that tells me this is a good memory. One he’s fond of. After a night filled with tension, it’s a welcome sight and I want to know more. “Why?”

“It had something to do with when they were dating. Holds some kind of special significance, but anytime I asked to know more, Rylee would shoo her hand at me and say that sometimes you need to live in the moment and enjoy the little things, because you never know what tomorrow brings.”

“She sounds like a neat lady.” My comment causes a shadow to fall across his face before he concentrates too hard on the food on his plate. “You must miss her.” My voice is soft; I’m treading cautiously into unknown territory.

There’s no response aside from silence. Then the scrape of the fork over the plate. The crinkle of the paper napkin. The clink of ice in his glass. So we sit and eat in the quiet of the house that only moments ago was filled with the angry noise of the hammer. Now we both seem loaded down by the weight of our own solemn thoughts.

“It’s good. Thank you,” he finally says with a nod of his head, but he still doesn’t meet my gaze. And I’m left wondering what exactly he doesn’t want me to see if I look too close.

“Mm-hmm.” My vague response earns me a lift of his head so I can finally see his eyes.

“How are you doing . . . after earlier . . . tonight, I mean?” And I know he’s serious, wants to know, but there’s a sadness in his gaze that has me wanting to delve further into what’s going on with him. I only wish I knew how to go about it without him feeling like I’m crossing those boundaries of his.

I shrug listlessly. Scoot my eggs around on my plate as I try to figure out the answer. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hurt. . . . Everyone wants their parents to love and approve and want the best for them.” Something flashes in his eyes and disappears just as quickly. “But at the same time, what was shocking for you to hear was my everyday reality. I’d assumed some of those things were true for so long . . . and then hearing you say them out loud, throw them on the table, was a double whammy. Recognition and hurt all in one swoop. And his reaction . . . his lack of response told me it was all true.”

“Shit, Getty.” He blows out a sigh and runs his hand through his hair, sounds apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Because it was your battle to fight and I couldn’t help myself. I stepped in when I shouldn’t have. Because sometimes there are truths you know deep down, and it’s only when someone else says them aloud do you really hear them. Those are the ones that hurt the most.” His voice is barely audible. I know he’s not just talking about tonight but rather his own life too. “So, I’m sorry.”

“No. Don’t apologize. Don’t you get it, Zander?” I hold his stare for a moment before I continue. “You’re the only person who has ever stood up for me in as long as I can remember. And you’re right. The truth stings when you hear it validated by someone else . . . when someone else who has known you for a whole five minutes sees it clear as day. But do you know what that meant to me, knowing that my feelings mattered to someone enough for them to stand up to one of the two people who have disregarded me for so long?” Tears well in my eyes. The ones I promised I’d never shed again when it came to my father.

He nods ever so slightly, lips twisting and eyes closing momentarily in thought. “You deserve to have someone fight for you, Getty.”

My heart swells at his soft-spoken words. “We all do.”

He opens his mouth several times to say something before stopping himself. And even without words I can see his vulnerability. His need for more from me and yet what that more is I’m not sure.

Without warning, he shoves his chair back and averts his eyes as he grabs his plate and brings it to the sink. “It was good. Thank you,” he repeats. “You cook a mean breakfast.” His voice is gruff, the chuckle he emits strained.

He begins washing his plate and when I look down at mine, I realize that I barely touched it. Well, except for the bacon . . . because, hello, it’s bacon, but the rest of my food just looks spread around. The food I fixed for comfort now seems to have done anything but that.

At a loss, I clear the table in silence and wipe down the counters I already cleaned before we ate. I keep busy while I try to put my finger on what has upset Zander. When I set my plate next to the sink, his wet hand reaches out and grabs onto mine. Startled, I look up to him. His eyes are intense. Angry. All-consuming.

The handsome, valiant, considerate, funny, drop-dead-sexy man in front of me after such an emotional day stops me in my tracks. There’s an undeniable need within me to feel close to someone. Everything collides at a fierce pace. And from one beat to the next, throwing reason and boundaries and everything I’m supposed to think about but don’t want to right now out the damn window, we meet in the middle.

Our lips crash together in a whirl of need and want. Passion ceding way to pure greed. Finesse disregarded by our hunger. We turn into a frenzy of motions. Hands groping. Mouths demanding. Bodies grinding closer.

His mouth closes over my nipple through the thin cotton of my cami-tank. My head goes dizzy. My hands unbuckle his trousers without any conscious thought. Goose bumps race over my skin. Hands finding his skin warm, cock hard and ready for me. My body begins to ache. His hands slide inside my waistband, and the cool air of the room strokes my skin as he pushes my pajamas down. The ache turns molten; liquid desire burns its way through every muscle. The clatter of dishes being swept into the sink startles me. Our smothered laughs as his lips find mine again. His hands on my waist, lifting me up, setting my butt on the counter. My legs part automatically. The tear of the condom wrapper from his wallet.

My desire is ravenous. Real. Unbridled. So very new to me.

Our movements slow. Our gazes focus downward where his dick is unhurriedly pushing its way into me. The torturous anticipation of watching me take him in—while the sweet burn of my muscles accommodating him inch by inch seeps through my entire body. Nerve by nerve, sensation by overwhelming sensation.

And then when he’s fully sheathed—with his hands gripping my thighs and my fingers digging into his shoulders, a moan falling from both of our mouths—the urgency returns. The carnal need takes over as our bodies move in sync, trying to give and take and own and sate.

Murmured words fill the room, the running water of the sink the only other sound. Now. I want you. Yes. I need this. Oh God. Right there. Fuck. Harder.

He pulls me into him. His hands slide under my tank and brand themselves to my back as he picks me up a bit to adjust the angle. And just that tiny change—my weight the determining factor for the depths he can reach—catapults the sensations he’s drawing out of me from borderline heaven to full-blown ecstasy.

His name on my lips. His dick swelling inside me. The need to lose myself in something other than what happened tonight. His hushed pants in my ear as he works our bodies into that point of no return.

When it hits—first me and then him shortly thereafter—there’s no scream into the room, no harsh grunt to let the other person know one of us has come. Instead there is a tensing of bodies, an honest connection of our eyes, and the sound of Zander saying my name in the softest of groans. It’s a quiet acknowledgment that the moment held as much for him as it did for me.

I can see the flash of panic in his eyes right afterward. Feel it in the sudden tensing of his hands.

And I’m not sure what prompts me, but right when he begins to pull out and break our connection, I wrap my arms around him, bury my face under the curve of his neck, and hold on. Understandably, his body jerks in response.

“Just . . . I just need a minute,” I murmur against the warmth of his skin.

Being the great guy he is, he pulls me tighter against him and kisses the crown of my head without a single word.

And when I realize that I just crossed another probable boundary of some sort, a part of me is brutally embarrassed at my sudden neediness. So much that I don’t want to let go so I have to actually meet his eyes. But the other part of me breathes him in and realizes it’s his warmth I’m craving now. My life has been so filled with coldness and cruelty, Zander’s basic show of warmth and compassion is something I cling to.

“Sorry,” I sniff after a bit as I pull back from him, gaze angled down, and teeth biting my bottom lip as awkwardness sets in. “Just a lot to handle today. I needed a minute.” I try to save face, not feeling very certain that I did.

“I understand,” he says as he slips out of me, both of us unsure what to do.

Yes, our lust is undeniable, considering we just screwed like rabid rabbits against the kitchen counter, but it’s that something else—that almost palpable shift between us—that’s causing this sudden uneasiness.

“I’m . . . I’m gonna go clean up.”

I nod my head, not trusting myself to speak, since the urge to cry returns, tears stinging like a bitch as I try to hold them back. The problem is I’m not sure why I feel like crying. Is it everything with my father? Is it the fact that Zander stood up for me? Or is it Zander in general? I know I can’t have him and yet increasingly I want him in my life regardless.

I’m left sitting on the counter, pajama pants hanging off one foot, to ponder the answer as the pipes creak when Zander turns on the shower.

And I still haven’t figured out the answer over an hour later as I lie in the darkness of my bedroom, surrounded solely by the warmth of my comforter. Too chickenshit to face Zander after his shower because I’m overwhelmed by this feeling that I need to explain myself, apologize—I don’t know what—about my sudden moment where I needed more from him than just friends with benefits.

Maybe I just needed the friend part.

Ha. But the benefits part was pretty damn good too.

And therein lies the crux of the problem. I want more already when I know that’s not an option with him.

His movements around the house carry through the two inches of space where my bedroom door is cracked open. I purposely left it ajar, not wanting to feel cut off from him after everything that happened between us today. My ears trace his footsteps down the hall and into his bedroom. More footsteps, then they hesitate this time, and I swear he stops right outside my bedroom door. But just as I convince myself I’m right, the steps retreat down the hall toward the kitchen. There’s the rattle of the rest of the dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. The telltale sound of his MacBook turning on. His exhalation that’s loud enough to travel into my bedroom.

There’s a comfort to the sounds, to not being alone, and I hate that as much as I don’t want to face him, I also want to go out into the family room, sink down on the couch, and just watch him do whatever he does on his laptop.

It’s only ten o’clock. I’m tired but can’t sleep. There’s some laundry to fold. I’m still hungry. I run the list of reasons through my mind over any excuse why I should get up, but when I hear his voice, I freeze.

“Hey, man, I know. . . . I know. . . . I’ve missed you too.” There’s so much affection in his tone I can hear it all the way down the hall. There’s a pause while the other person speaks. “I’m glad to hear that. I’m proud of you. Is Mom there?”

I sit up in bed in reflex. Surprised. Intrigued. Curious. He’s calling home. To his mother. To his real life.

The one without me in it.

The notion stings, but I’m so transfixed by the fact that he’s calling home for the first time that it overrides the hurt.

“Rylee.” His voice is cautious and solemn. “It’s good to hear your voice too. . . . I just wanted to call to let you know that I’m all right. I’m doing well actually.” He laughs in a way that sounds like it’s hard for him to believe his own words. “I know you deserve answers, apologies, a whole shitload of things. . . . I’m still working through some stuff, trying to find my way, but I am finding it. . . .” He murmurs in agreement to something she says. “I called because—I know, I know.” His voice is sympathetic and the simple mix of sounds proves to me that whatever happened, whatever crappy things he says he did, he at least feels sorry over his actions. And that says a lot to me about the measure of the man.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you a time frame. . . . I know the season is almost— Yes, I know, but I screwed so much up that I—” His answering sigh is audible as she cuts him off. I hate that as much as I want him to go put things right with his family, I’m also selfishly happy that he didn’t put a finite limit on his time left in PineRidge. “I know you’re not pushing, Ry, I . . . yeah, I get it. . . . I wasn’t going to call. Not until I had my head straight, but something happened tonight that put things in perspective. Made me realize how much you two have always stood behind me, and so I wanted you to hear my voice, because I know how much you worry.” His laugh again. A little more relaxed this time.

And with the sound of it, a picture starts to emerge for me. The angry hammering. His need for the physical release—in the work on the deck and in the unapologetic, no-holds-barred sex in the kitchen.

I smile softly to myself, thinking about the differences between last night and tonight. How last night I was seduced, pleasured, placed on a pedestal that left me feeling swoony compared with tonight’s bruising pace that left me feeling recklessly desired and utterly exhilarated.

The thoughts circle in my mind as I focus back on the silence in the kitchen, waiting for him to speak again.

“No. I can’t.” The distress is back in his voice. “I have . . . shit, I don’t have a reason why, other than I made promises I need to keep before I talk to him. . . . Yep. Uh-huh. I’ve gotta go, but . . . I just needed to call.” He says something else I can’t hear, but it’s obvious to me by his sudden backpedaling and defensive tone she asked if he wanted to speak with Colton. “I love you too. Bye.”

Silence descends on the house once again until I hear the creak of the floor in a pattern that sounds like he’s pacing.

As I sink back into my bed, guilt over eavesdropping on his private conversation ties my hands from comforting him. My mind replays his comments, homing in on the notion that his meeting with my father tonight triggered something in him. Did he see how callous and cruel my father was and realize that his family isn’t half as bad as he thought when he left?

No, he already admitted he screwed up and hurt people. But maybe tonight just reinforced that for him.

The knock on my door startles me.

“You awake?”

“Hmm?” I murmur, trying not to sound obvious that I’m in here concerned for him.

The door creaks open farther, but the light from the hall is off and so I’m left with his shadowed figure in the darkened doorway. He stands there for a moment, and somehow I can sense his need to talk across the distance.

“Can I come in?” His voice is quiet but gruff.

“Yes.”

He crosses the few feet in silence and the mattress dips as he sits on the edge. But he doesn’t stop there. He surprises the hell out of me when, without another word, he pulls back the covers and slides into the bed beside me. Strong hands reach out and pull me firmly against him, my back to his front, before he wraps his arms tight around me.

I’m shocked, surprised, and every other adjective there is to describe being thrown for a loop from his actions—and yet I try not to let my body relay that to him.

“This okay?” he murmurs, his chin moving against my shoulder where it rests and the heat of his breath on my ears.

Coherent thoughts are hard to come by, so I do the best I can with a murmur of agreement.

“I just need a minute,” he whispers my own words from earlier back to me.

“Okay.” I sink against the firmness of his body, that warmth I craved earlier seeking me out this time. I can all but hear his mind turning next to me. His silence more powerful than a scream.

I know we both want to say more, but instead we let the magnitude of the moment—the unspoken admission that he needs me—eat us whole. Devour our insecurities. Gnaw at our doubt. Consume us with emotion. Relish in the connection. Create potential. For what? I can only hope we’re moving toward something.

After a bit of time, my nerves feeling more alive than ever from the body-to-body connection and my mind overthinking the situation, I realize how much he is missing out in his life by being here: his family, his passion, his job. I hate the thought as soon as it fleets through my mind, but I still can’t deny that the quicker he confronts his past, the sooner he can decide when he wants to return to that normalcy. And while that means I’ll be here alone again, I can’t hold him tight for my own selfish reasons.

But oh, how I’d like to.

I break the silence. “If you want me to help you go through the box, I will.”

I can hear immediate rejection of the idea in the subtle hitch of his breath. But he doesn’t speak, just pulls me in a little tighter, giving the idea time to settle.

“I think I’d like that. . . . Thank you,” he murmurs to my surprise when I thought he wouldn’t respond. “I can’t promise you I’m not going to be a moody jerk over it, Getty, and I’d like to think I should do it myself . . . because, you know, boundaries.” I feel his shoulders shrug and the reverberation of his soft chuckle against my back makes me smile.

“Boundaries, huh? How’re they working out for you right now?”

His laugh grows louder and joins mine. It’s a comforting sound in the quiet of the room, but he doesn’t answer the question. I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it: Zander curled up behind me, his breath evening out, and his muscles falling lax.

Seconds turn to minutes and minutes to an hour as we lie in a tangled mass of arms and legs, him asleep and me awake, while I wonder what just happened. We’ve created a day-to-day routine, and after tonight, we’ve knowingly added our pasts to the equation.

Thoughts, hints of more, flicker and fade. My pulse accelerates. My mind tells me to shut down. To fall asleep. To stop thinking how nice this feels.

But it proves impossible. So the digital clock on my nightstand shows the passage of time, when I just want to stay right here in this moment.