Zander grins playfully. It’s damn near breathtaking. He’s like a wet dream in the flesh. His playful smile does something funny to my stomach and I hate myself for it. My treacherous, neglected female anatomy has these mental images of Zander rolling through my mind like a movie clip.
I glance over my shoulder into my motel room, thinking that the courteous thing to do would be to invite him in while I get dressed in the bathroom, but I’m not sure. I don’t even know this man. He could be a psycho.
Even thinking it is so out of place for me. He’s no psycho. I know it. I’m unsure of how I could be so damn sure, but I am. Standing here, looking at this perfectly imperfect man with a borrowed heart, a scar on his cheek, and an amazing smile, I feel a sense of comfort, a comfort that only comes when you know a person. Like really know someone. I’m insane. Medical professionals have a term and a treatment for this sort of thinking. Psychosis and lithium.
Screw it.
“You can just wait in here if you want,” I offer, feeling a little insecure but secretly hoping he’ll take me up on my offer.
Zander eyes me carefully, like he’s reading my mind, studying my body language in search of sincerity. “You sure?” One eyebrow lifts in question.
“Yeah. It’s no problem. I’ll be ready in about five minutes. Plus, the movie playing is a good one.” I smile and it nearly startles me. I never smile. Ever. I haven’t smiled a real, genuine, lighthearted smile in what feels like an eternity, but in the time span of ten minutes or so, Zander has managed to win two from me.
He looks almost as shocked as I feel.
***
I lied. I said I’d be ready in five minutes and here it is, fifteen minutes later and I’m finally pulling on the maxi dress that I couldn’t decide on.
What. The. Hell, Sadie?
In the last two years I’ve done next to no planning when it comes to choosing my clothes on any given day. I just haven’t given a shit. But knowing that Zander is out there waiting for me? With Jake’s heart in his chest? It’s kind of like he’s here with me. It’s his heart. It may be in Zander’s perfectly defined chest, but it’s still Jake’s. In my mind, it will always be Jake’s heart. The thought of the combination—Zander and Jake—has me nervous. I take a deep breath and examine myself in the bathroom mirror.
Shit. Makeup.
It takes me a moment to recall if I even brought my small bag of cosmetics. I haven’t put on my “war paint,” as Mom has always called it, in a very long time, but I still have it. Mom has always called it that because she says a pretty woman that is well put together usually leaves a path of wounded men, eager to know her, in her wake. It’s always been a little joke between me, mom, and Jenna. I peek into my bag looking for the long-lost makeup. I haven’t worn it consistently over the last two years and it may have spider webs on it by now but it will do. I snag the small light pink pouch and get to it. I coat my lashes with a generous amount of mascara. I line my eyelids with a pencil. My compact of blush is cracked, but I make it work anyway. The only makeup I have for my lips is a half empty tube of clear lip gloss. I smear it on and pat my finger across my lips to get rid of any excess gloss.
“Okay, then,” I whisper to myself as I click open the lock on the door and walk out of the bathroom. “Okay,” I say simply, looking to Zander, who is sitting by the window at the small table.
His attention turns to me and something indiscernible flashes in his blue eyes. He stands and makes his way to the door, opening it for me. “After you.”
I nod, snagging my room key and cell phone before walking out the door. I rapid fire a text to Mom and Dad letting know that I’m fine and that I’ll call soon. I shove my phone into my purse and focus on sharing the space of Zander’s Jeep and Jake’s heart.
Chapter Eight
Slim
Sadie
One round of oysters on the half shell later, we’re watching the waitress place our entrees in front of us. Gumbo for me and a huge platter of just about everything the sea has to offer for Zander.
“You’re too skinny. You should eat more than soup,” he suggests bluntly while unrolling his dinner utensils from his napkin.
“I am not. And gumbo is hardly soup. It’s more in the “stew” category,” I blurt out entirely too defensively to be discussing food. I may be fifteen pounds skinnier since Jake died, but Zander doesn’t need to know that. I’ve survived on coffee, wine, and whatever happens to be around to eat when I happen to be hungry. A broken heart has a way of ruining a person’s appetite.
“You are indeed pretty skinny, Slim.” Zander punctuates his observation by shoving a forkful of blackened fish into his delectable mouth.
“Slim?” I question with one cocked brow.