Chapter 8

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Repair List

Replace Front Step—third one

Replace Missing Roof Shingles

Back Deck = Death Trap

Fix Lock on Patio Door—Sorry, Mr. Ax Murderer

Fix Bathroom Mirror

Rain Gutters

Repair Shutters

Add Handrail to Front Steps & Paint

Add Light in GS

Connect Internet for God’s Sake

Bulldoze House and Rebuild

The last line makes me laugh out loud into the empty kitchen, the whole thing amusing. I drop the pad with Zander’s scrawled penmanship and pick up my coffee.

“What’s so funny?”

I cringe inwardly at the sound of his voice floating down the hall, flashbacks from last night coming back to me in bits and pieces. While I may not remember it all, I sure as hell remember sliding my hands up his bare chest and whispering in his ear. Attempting to be sexy. Trying to play him like he did me. And of course with a few drinks under my belt I may have felt like I pulled it off, but I have a feeling I looked more like an idiot. I keep my eyes angled out of the window when Zander enters the kitchen.

“The last thing on your repair list,” I murmur.

He makes a noncommittal sound in agreement. “How’s your head this morning?”

“Okay. Not bad. Just a little headache. Thanks for leaving the Advil on the nightstand. That was nice of you.”

“No biggie.”

God. We’re doing the as-few-words-as-possible thing here. I must have really been an ass last night. Or pissed him off. With a sigh I turn to face him and damn if I wish I hadn’t stayed facing the window. He has bedhead and his eyes are a bit swollen from sleep with a pillow crease on his cheek. His shorts are slung a tad too low on his hips, so that damn happy trail of his is highlighted in all of its glory, drawing my attention to what’s below it when I shouldn’t be looking there.

I may not know much, but I know that’s more than above average in size.

My comment from last night flickers through my mind. The sight of him all rumpled from sleep looking like something you want to crawl next to and cozy up with pushing it to the forefront.

Can I die now, please? If I said that, what else came out of my mouth?

“About last night . . .” I fumble for what to say as the intensity in his blue eyes holds me hostage. “I’m sorry if I said or did anything that was . . . I don’t normally drink. So—”

“No need to apologize. You were cute. Funny. Carefree. I liked it.”

Carefree? Me? I’m practically stuttering as I try to respond with a rush of heat to my cheeks as I blush. “Do you really know how to do all of that?” I ask, motioning to the fix-it list to try to change the subject.

“Nope.” He answers the question, but his eyes are still locked on mine, still asking unspoken questions about the last topic, when I don’t want him to.

“Then how are you going to fix it all? Hire someone?”

“Nope.”

“You’re awfully talkative this morning,” I huff, and somehow the exasperation helps me find a little more footing in this back-and-forth that has become our norm.

“I’ll look on my laptop. Google it if I have to. I’m not worried about it—I’m pretty good with my hands.”

“Oh . . .” I scrunch my nose up, trying to keep my mind on track and not the skill of his hands. “There is no Internet in the house.” Why do I feel so stupid saying that? Admitting that I’d rather be closed off from the world for a bit than have it at my fingertips with a search engine.

“I noticed. I’m going to get that set up while I’m here too. In the meantime if I need it, I’ll just do what you do.”

Huh? “What I do?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like I should know. “Use your hot spot on your cell.”

“I don’t have Internet on my cell.”

He whips his head up and stares at me like I have three heads, mouth open, surprise he can’t quite figure out how to verbalize fleeting through his eyes. “What do you mean you don’t have Internet?” His voice sounds like his face looks: astounded.

“No biggie.” I repeat his words back to him as I try to scramble to explain and sound credible. I can’t just come out and tell him my cell’s a burner phone so just in case my dad or Ethan tried to track or trace me somehow, they wouldn’t be able to. I’ve already been there and done that with them, learned my lesson.

Besides, it’s not in my budget right now.

“So what happens when you’re driving and you get lost?”

“Who said I wanted to be found?” The quip is off my tongue without thought. Suddenly a wave of memories hits me hard and fast. How do you think I knew where you were today, Gertrude? One little click and the app installed on your phone just like that without you ever knowing. I know everything you do. Everywhere you go. Every move you make. You are mine. Don’t ever forget that.

I push the memory away. Shove the panic down. And am met with Zander’s unforgiving eyes, which reveal that he’s making assumptions I’d rather him not make about my remark. I attempt to save face, change the direction of the questions I know are coming. “That question is ridiculous, really. If I were lost, I’d just pull over and ask for directions.” I force a laugh, but I don’t think he’s buying it.

“No. Let’s go back to the first comment.” He braces his hands on the counter and leans across it so I’m unable to hide from his stare.

“Let’s not.” End of topic, Zander. Let it go.

“Who’d be looking for you, Getty?” His tone—the don’t hide this from me part—makes me want to scream and yell and stomp my feet and tell him he’s crossing those boundaries I don’t want crossed.

Instead, I make sure my voice is implacable when I answer him. “No one.”

“Is that what Ethan would say?”

Everything about me freezes—my mind, my heart, my lungs—at the sound of the name. My past, my fears, the place I never want to see again, rush through my mind like I never left.

“Did he send you here?” My voice is quiet steel when I speak, although my insides are a twisted mess of anxiety.

“Who is he, Getty?” His voice softens, but the determination in his eyes never wavers.

“No one you want to know and none of your business.” I force myself to stop fidgeting with the pad on the counter, my unease clear as day.

“Except for the fact that he’s the reason you’re running.”

“Butt out, Zander.” I begin to round the L-shaped counter so I can exit the tiny kitchen, but he just steps in front of me to block my path.

But unlike with Ethan, I feel no fear of him. I don’t have to scramble to see where I can disappear to. Rather there is the need to protect my secrets, keep my place and identity here limited to only what I want people to know about me.

“If you’re in trouble, Getty . . . please, I can try to help you. All you have to do is ask.”

His words tug on every part of me that’s tired of fighting this alone, tired of being lonely. And yet I know more than anyone that all it takes is one person to know, for that person to comment offhand to someone else, and somehow, someway, Ethan would find out.

“Boundaries.” It takes everything I have to utter that single word. Body tense. Pulse racing.

“You don’t want me to step on your boundaries, then don’t come in my room a little tipsy and act all hell on wheels and compare me to your ex. Because he is your ex, right, Getty?”

“I said it’s none of your business.” I grit the word out between my clenched teeth. Hating myself and worrying over whatever else I said last night and at the same time needing to stop this conversation before he pushes too hard.

“Like hell it is. Don’t you think it’s important for me to know if some man is going to waltz in here to try to take you back or whatever the fuck is going on here, so that I know how best to protect you?”

Put the wall up, Getty. You need no one. That’s how you’re going to survive this—heal from this—by depending solely on yourself. Push him away. Protect yourself.

“First off, Ethan is no one to me. Secondly, no one is going to be waltzing in here, and more importantly, I’m not yours to protect.” I hold his stare, meet it with a resolve I definitely don’t feel. His words start to sink in and break a chip off the walls I have up around me. I can’t think about it now, about how a man I just met is offering to protect me when the ones that should have done it never did.

“You keep thinking that, Socks. Keep thinking that just because you’re not mine . . . whatever the fuck that means to you . . . that I shouldn’t defend you, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not running from anything, and we’ll see how far that gets us.” There’s a bite to his voice telling me I’ve offended him, and I welcome the sound. If I’ve pissed him off, then maybe he’ll keep his distance.

“Can I go now?” I’m a bitch in how I say it, put out, annoyed, but I can’t be any other way. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hurt, distrust, disbelief. I can’t put my finger on it, but I really can’t care, because I need to escape this situation.

This time when I try to move past him, he lets me. And thank God for that, because a few seconds longer and he’d see the tears welling in my eyes and my hands shaking and I don’t want him to.

I don’t want him to know how much hearing that simple name has affected me. How in a split second it’s like Ethan is here, his voice angry in my ear, and all the progress, all the strength I’ve gained, disappears.

With my bedroom door closed at my back, I slide down it until I’m sitting on the floor.

The mental chastising begins immediately. The disbelief of how stupid I could have been to drink enough to say something about Ethan. What else did I say that I don’t remember? What other information did I give Zander to be curious about?

Then comes the worry. The fear. The doubt. Zander mentioned Ethan one time and I go into shutdown mode: lash out, be a bitch, protect myself, push away. I thought I’d gotten further than this emotionally.

Just proves the invisible scars are the ones that cut the deepest and stay with you the longest.

A part of me wants to go back, talk to Zander, apologize, thank him for his concern. But I know I can’t. I know my biggest asset right now is my isolation. My aloofness. The knowledge that I need absolutely no one.

So I hold on to my anger and fear. Hold on to the memories of the mansion in the hills where everything from the outside looked perfect, but on the inside life was as cold and controlled as a prison.

Stay strong, Getty. Stay strong and smart and alone and he’ll never be able to hurt you again.

*   *   *

The sky rumbles angrily as I look out the front door. Hues of gray and charcoal mar the horizon—there’s another storm about to hit PineRidge. Grateful to have heard Zander leave earlier to get his run in before the storm hits, I know I have no chance of bumping into him before I leave for work. No opportunity for him to ask more questions.

I head back into the kitchen and grab my keys out of the basket there, resigned to having to drive my car to work so that I’m not stuck walking in a downpour tonight when I get off shift. Besides, it’s probably best to run it, considering I’ve barely used it since I’ve come here.

When I put the key in the ignition, the engine turns over a few times but never starts. Panic tickles the nape of my neck. It’s just that I haven’t used it in a few weeks. That’s all.

But after the third or fourth time, still nothing.

No. No. No. The word repeats over and over in my head as I fight back the tears that sting and the emotion welling up like a dam, which I fear I’m not going to be able to stop once it starts.

Can this day get any worse? First Zander pushing boundaries with his mention of Ethan. The confrontation with him buckled my resolve, like a slap in my face, showing me how quickly I can be pulled back into that dark place I’d emerged from—the fear and the lack of control—making me realize that I’m nowhere near as strong as I thought I was. And now there is something wrong with my car when I don’t have the money to pay someone to repair it.

And I need my car. It’s my only way to run should they find me. The symbol of my freedom and a reminder of that first step I took to make my life my own.

Ethan and my father would turn their noses down at this old car and maybe that’s part of the reason I love it so very much. The symbolism. The defiance.

The fuck-you to them.

“One more time,” I murmur as I turn the key again. Once again there is nothing but the sound of my choked sob when the first tear falls. And being in emotional-overload mode, I’m mad at myself for crying. Pissed at the car. Unfairly furious with Zander because he started my day like this and the ball just kept on rolling downhill.

I get out of the car, slam the door shut, and just stare at it for a minute while I work myself up to walk to the Lazy Dog.

“Sounds like something’s wrong with your car?”

Zander’s voice has me gritting my teeth and wishing him to go away. I don’t answer, just wipe the tears from under my eyes with as much dignity as I can, and start toward the house to get my umbrella.

“Getty?” I ignore his call and walk right past him, hating that he keeps seeing me in moments when I’m frazzled and a wreck. Footsteps on the wood floor tell me he’s following. “If there’s something wrong with the engine, it’s not a big deal. There’s a shop on the other side—”

“I need my car.” Knowing his eyes are on me, I’m flustered and for the life of me, I can’t remember where I left my umbrella. Like a madwoman, I start rifling through things, the clock ticking away and my urgency growing as the start of my shift looms closer.

“We live on an island. The bar is only a couple blocks away. Your car not starting isn’t the end of the world.”

“Leave me alone, Zander.” He wouldn’t understand.

My closet. The alcove in the hall. The family room. And I still can’t find the damn thing. All with him right behind me. Breathing down my neck. His presence adding pressure to his silent scrutiny.

“Why here, Getty? An island’s not exactly the best place to go if you’re running from something. That car of yours is only going to get you so far until the ferry comes.”

His taunting words knock the wind from my sails. Try to coerce an answer out of me. And I falter for a moment, eyes searching and mind questioning myself for the millionth time on why I picked this location. The answer was simple back then when my only thought was to get as far away as possible. The combination of the island’s seclusion mixed with a place to stay for free was more than enough for me.

But I don’t owe an explanation to anyone, least of all him.

“I need to get my car fixed.” I say it again, mentally calculating how much tip money I’ve stowed away in my secret hiding place while also estimating how fast I can get the consignment shop to sell my clothes to earn more.

“I can fix—”

“I don’t need your help.” I bite the words out. Mad and upset and overwhelmed.

“I’ll call a tow truck for you, then.”

My eyes well with tears. My stubborn anger turns to embarrassment. “No.”

“No?”

“I can’t afford it.” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Come again?” I hate the condescending tone in his voice. The disbelief.

“Leave me alone, please.” He’s still behind me when I speak, but a rush of heat floods my cheeks in a mortification like I’ve never known before.

“You can’t be that broke living on your trust fund.”

I swear my neck almost breaks from the whiplash his words cause. They’re completely out of the blue and so far off base that I don’t know how to respond or why he’d make such an assumption. I try to regain my footing, but my anger at his shitty comment overrides all reason.

My glare meets his and the smirk on his lips is so chock-full of arrogance I say the only thing I can. “Fuck. You.”

“Why not just call Mommy or Daddy up? I’m sure they’d overnight the money.”

Poke. Poke. Prod.

Angry tears burn in my eyes. Disbelief that he’s saying this shocks me momentarily as I try to figure out how I was so wrong about him. How, after his offer this morning, I thought he was a good guy. Nice. Caring.

And now all I can see is the truth. To say it stings is an understatement. To admit I was wrong, even more so.

I look at him as I shake my head in astonishment that I’d actually thought I had a friend in this solitude. And yet I was so very mistaken.

“Just a phone call away.”

Poke and poke and prod.

“You don’t know shit about me, asshole.”

“I know designer clothes when I see them. Seen enough to know that robe you wear costs a pretty penny. You can dress them down, shrug me off, but there’s no hiding how expensive your threads are.”

Poke and poke and poke and prod.

Fury still burns through me, but my need to gain back some ground turns out to be even stronger. The conversation from the bar with his fan the other night flickers in my head, gives me the ammo I need.

Poke and poke and prod and poke back.

“You want to get in my business—how ’bout we start digging into yours, huh? Why’d you lose your ride, Zander? What are you running from? You’ve got to screw up pretty bad to lose your ride and all of the sponsorships I’m assuming go with it, right?”

“Fuck. You.” He mimics me, but I can see that my barb has made its point. That my I’m-gonna-hurt-you-because-you’re-trying-to-hurt-me got the reaction I wanted. “Fuck this. Figure out how to fix your car on your own, then.”

He throws his empty water bottle into the sink, knocking some silverware with it. The clatter fills the empty space around us before he strides down the hall.

“No worries,” I shout after him. “Pretty ironic I have the revered race car driver Zander Donavan living with me, but he’s such a goddamn pretty boy, I bet he couldn’t find his way underneath the hood to fix an engine if he tried.”

The door to his room slams, windows shaking with the force as I’m left standing in an empty room, frazzled, hurt, and very late for work.