Chapter 23

ZANDER

With a flick of the power switch, the table saw falls silent. After I gather the freshly cut wood and shake the sawdust from my hair, I glance up and my eyes fall on the lone figure on the beach beyond.

Getty. Her brown hair is pulled up in a loose bun and her feet are bare. She’s enjoying the warmth of the sun with her face angled up to the sky, and she’s holding a bag of shells I’ve been watching her aimlessly collect in one hand.

And that’s the problem—how much I’ve been watching her. How much I’ve been reliving that unexpected, purge-your-emotions, use-each-other sex we had in the kitchen. Then immediately thinking about the way she bounced back after the cruel shit her father said to her without shedding a tear. Who says that kind of unbelievable crap to their kid? I realize that I’m starting to care about her in other aspects beyond sex.

But fuck, how can I not? I’m not that much of a prick. To think she lived in that life for twenty-five years before finding the courage to escape. To make a life on her own terms.

To be messy and unorganized.

Talk about being brave. Strong. Tough. And yet I don’t think anyone knows the half of it, including me.

And what kind of shitbag is this Ethan prick? To go right along with her father’s plan? Treating her as less than worthy . . . although I have a feeling his treatment of her was a whole lot worse than I’m allowing myself to think about. My blood boils. Distant memories of my own mom and dad return and I wonder just how bad it was for Getty.

My eyes veer back to her. To where she’s bent over petting a jogger’s dog. I didn’t know she liked dogs. In fact there’s a lot I don’t know about her and suddenly the idea of finding out more is very appealing.

Jesus, Donavan. Quit thinking about her. Or how good she smells. Or how goddamn warm her body was against mine all night. Or how fucking great the sex was last night when it was a little rougher. And oh, how I’d like to show her just how fun rough sex can be. Or that little sound she made when she grabbed me tight and didn’t let go.

Any more ors and you’re gonna need a damn boat to use them.

My laugh rings out. I’m fucking losing it. In more ways than one. I lift my hat and run my hand through my hair as she bends over to pick up something from the sand. And I hate that she offered to help me go through the box.

Let someone in instead of shutting everyone out.

Colton’s words echo through my head. Cause pangs of guilt that I couldn’t let it be him. Or Rylee. Or anyone else close to me for that matter.

But last night . . . fuck, last night watching Getty’s piece-of-shit father treat her like she was his pawn—it not only pissed me off, but made me step back and realize how goddamn lucky I was. I was so angry at myself for not seeing it sooner, at Damon for not giving that to Getty, at the whole fucking world, that I just needed a minute. Some time on the deck with a hammer in my hand to work through my thoughts, my aggression, because I have a feeling Getty’s had enough taken out on her over the years that she didn’t need any more from me.

And what did I get in return? Her taking the initiative. Her reaching out to me when she probably felt so exposed after what I saw at the restaurant. How she needed me: for sex. To work out the emotional overload. To just be held.

And of course, I’m the asshole. The one running away from his family because they care about me, when she’d probably give anything to have what I have. A loud, interfering, patient, meddling, intrusive, chaotic family that lays down the law only because they love me, not because they want something from me.

Talking to Rylee and my little brother Ace last night only solidified that for me. Reinforced that regardless of the bullshit I pulled and the hurt I caused, they still missed me and wanted me back home. Only wanted the best for me. Even after the stunts I pulled, acting like a goddamn prick so lost in myself that I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Couldn’t ask for help, an ear to listen, an explanation to dispel my assumptions—anything—because it was so much easier to feel the rage than accept the vulnerability that came with it.

For a man, showing weakness, letting people see the one thing that will instantly knock him to his knees when he’s supposed to be standing tall on his feet, isn’t an easy thing for him to do voluntarily. Myself included.

And yet why the fuck am I willing to let Getty see what my past holds when I wouldn’t let my own parents know about it?

The thought lingers, feeds my train of thought, creates ideas that I shouldn’t even be entertaining. Like the type that made me slide into her bed last night and pull her against me simply because she understands without me having to say a single damn word.

The two-by-fours in my hand begin to get heavy. A reminder of what I should be doing—finishing the damn deck instead of thinking about her. Paring down the to-do list. Not Getty. Fulfilling my promise to Smitty, to Colton, to my fans, instead of sitting here with scattered thoughts. Not knee-high socks. Overthinking shit that should be simple. Not a certain mini-blind-wand-wielding female. I miss home but at the same time I have a perfectly good reason here as to why I’m not headed there just yet.

And all points lead to Getty Caster.

The woman I can’t get out of my damn head.

Collector of seashells.

A breaker of boundaries.

Painter of stormy seas and broken sunsets.

And one I sure as hell like having in my bed.

Or hers.