Without another word, Zander pushes past me, going right to my purse. He scoops it up and holds it out to me. He looks frustrated and I scrunch up my brows, eyeing him cautiously.
“What’s wrong?” I turn in the doorway to face him where he stands by the bed with my purse in his big hand.
“Nothing’s wrong, Sadie, but if I don’t get us out of here I’m going to lose all restraint with you. I don’t think it’s a secret that I want nothing more than to kiss you, touch you, feel you. You’re all I think about…” he trails off, shaking his head and looking purely aggravated.
I’m rendered speechless by his confession. I release the door, stepping back into my room. The weighted door forces itself shut and suddenly I’m alone in my room with Alexander McBride, the man who has taken my fragile world and tilted it even further off kilter than it already was simply by our meeting.
Zander’s eyes look beyond me to the door that has just given us a dangerous amount of privacy. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m not thinking. I’m only doing what he told me to do.
I’m just being.
I take one step closer to him and he does the same. We’re toe to toe. He drops my purse to the floor at our feet, freeing both his hands. He brings them to my face, holding his warm hands against my cheeks. I feel like I could melt right here on the spot.
“You’re beautiful, Sadie.”
“I’m not beautiful, Zander. I’m the worst version of myself. I have been for two years.”
“You’re beautiful, Sadie,” he repeats, brushing his thumbs across my cheeks.
He’s so close. God, he’s so close I can feel his warmth filling the space between us. His breath is laced with mint and an intoxicating blend of everything I want most right now. He licks his lips and watches me closely, like he has since I met him on the beach. My heart pounds, my mind is spinning, and I’m scared. I can’t do this. I can’t be this close to him. It’s wrong but it’s perfect.
“I can’t,” I mutter as I pull away from him and claim a little more space for myself.
Zander inhales deeply and nods knowingly. Instead of that awkward silence that I expected, he reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “When you’re ready, I’ll be here. Just hope that you’ll still be here too. Atlanta’s close, but it’s not close enough.” Zander’s probing gaze lingers, locked in a sort of duel, my brown eyes enduring the sweet torture of his sapphire gaze.
The only response I can manage is a weak nod. I want to tell him so badly that I want him. I want this. Whatever this is. I want to be here in this moment with him and allow it to just be whatever it is. I want to tell him that I’m scared, but I’m even more scared of the regret I may feel if I don’t dive in headfirst with him. I want to tell him but I’m a pathetic waif with a serious lack of courage.
Zander smiles weakly and reaches down, picking up my purse. He hands it to me then takes my hand in his and leads me from my room. “Pregame drinks?” he asks, smiling sweetly.
“Sure!”
“Good. Gotta swing by the store. Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
***
We enter a small shop that has what appears to be a hand-painted sign reading “Bill’s Beer and Bait.” There isn’t much to the place. It’s exactly as the sign says. Mostly beer and other drinks on one side of the store with assorted fishing supplies on the other. Behind the counter is an older man with a look on his face that tells me the deep wrinkles marring his cheeks and forehead are likely from a lifelong shitty disposition versus laughing. He’s balding and has a hefty gut rubbing against the counter. He looks none too pleased to see us.
Zander quickly makes a few selections, moving from shelf to shelf, and then heads to the counter with me in tow. “How’s it going, Bill?” he asks curtly, fishing his wallet from the back pocket of his tattered jeans.
Bill huffs sarcastically while he loads the items into a bag. “I’d be better if that daddy of yours would actually do his job,” Bill mutters in his southern drawl from behind the cash register, punching keys forcefully with his fat index finger.
Zander waits patiently to pay, saying nothing to the man who is clearly insulting him.
“37.26.” Bill taps a key and looks to Zander for payment without an ounce of customer courtesy. I’m unsure of what the tiff is between these two, but whatever it is, it clearly doesn’t rile Zander much, and if it does, he’s really good at hiding it.
Zander pays, then grabs the paper sack off the counter and stuffs the receipt in his pocket. I watch as he and the storeowner share a less than friendly silent exchange. Even through his passive appearance, Zander has this, this energy or something radiating from him. It screams “don’t fuck with me” to everyone else and purrs “come closer” to me. He doesn’t have to say a word and yet, somehow, I can tell what he’s thinking. I imagine Bill feels it too. I can’t imagine anyone could be in his presence and not pick up on whatever this silent brooding thing is.