He smiles another playful grin that makes my steely, cold heart melt a little. “Used to. Don’t anymore.” Mr. Short and Sweet is never far away. His short, choppy sentences are something I expect fall under “the norm” for him. “My turn. What type of artist are you?”
“Sculptor. I don’t work anymore. I wasn’t successful to begin with, so it’s no loss. I live off savings and the insurance money that I got after Jake died. What do you do?”
“Retired.” His answer doesn’t go beyond that.
Retired? Retired from what? I study him closely, watching how he has tensed up and keeps his eyes on his plate instead of me. This is obviously not a subject he wants to discuss over a playful game of twenty questions. I can understand that. I don’t want to talk about any of the heavy stuff either. I have no way of knowing what his hot button topics are, but I know what mine are and Jake’s death is one of them. I don’t want to talk about the details. I don’t want to recall the events of that night in our living room. I’m sure Zander has enough sense to avoid all of those questions just like I have enough sense to read his reaction to the question about his work. He doesn’t want to discuss it and that’s fine. I can’t help but wonder what he retired from that has him living so comfortably. He has a massive house on some private stretch of beach on Tybee Island.
Must have been a cushy job.
Our meal has been eaten and cleared from the table, seemingly unbeknownst to us. Zander and I are watching each other curiously and any further conversation seems unnecessary. I’m content with just breathing the air that we share at this table and I could venture as far as saying that I think he must feel the same. Jake’s heart is just right there. So close. The thick vein in Zander’s neck is visibly pulsing and I watch it, completely enamored with the fact that my husband’s heart is in there driving the blood that courses through this man’s veins. His blue eyes watch me watching him and a minute, an hour, an eternity passes with us like this. Watching. Studying. Being.
“Want to watch a movie or something?” Zander breaks the silence with his offer and almost reflexively I find myself wanting to accept. He could offer to go walking across a bed of hot coals and I imagine I would still want to join him. I’m more enraptured with being near him than I ever could have anticipated.
Or something.
My inner self screams loudly in an estrogen-fueled episode of sexual desire. Zander’s invitation has me lifting my brows as I inwardly run wild through the recesses of my mind, imagining all things Alexander McBride. I still hate him for it, but I hate me more.
He’s so forward. He gets right to things and it’s a bit disarming. He never hesitated on the beach, he didn’t hesitate when he practically dragged me to his house to dry off, he didn’t hesitate to show up at my room uninvited to drop off my key, and he isn’t hesitating now. Maybe he was a lawyer before he retired.
Zander arches his brows, waiting for my answer.
“I guess we could watch a movie,” I concede with a shrug.
“Okay, Slim. We’ll watch a movie then.”
He lifts his hand discretely, motioning to the waitress for the check. I lean back in my seat and watch him. He seems so measured and calculated in every move that he makes, every word he speaks, and every glance he makes in my direction. I’ve never seen a man so together.
***
Zander’s Jeep is more fun to ride in than I had assumed. The sea breeze tangles around us, my hair whipping around my face. I lean back and rest my head, closing my eyes and relaxing into every turn and acceleration. Even with my eyes shut, I can feel sapphire orbs piercing right through me. I don’t have to open my eyes to confirm it. I just know.
The brakes squeak lightly and the vehicle comes to a stop. My eyes open lazily and I’m looking at the front…or the back, I guess, of Zander’s beach house. It’s so damn difficult to tell which is the front or the back of these fancy houses. There is no “front door,” just an open concrete patio beneath the house, then the wide white staircase leading to the wraparound balcony.
My door swings open and I slip out of the Jeep.
“C’mon,” Zander says softly, jerking his head towards his house.