His words are so sarcastic, so scathing, I want to flinch away. Instead, I do the opposite — I move closer, flattening my palm against his chest, directly above his heart. I feel it racing beneath my hand, an undeniable window into the anguish he’s feeling, no matter how composed he looks on the surface.
“I’m sorry, Chase,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, love.”
He doesn’t speak; I don’t know if he can, right now.
“I know how it feels, to learn your life is a lie. I remember…” I shake my head, consumed with memories of my teenage self, crying on a bedroom floor with letters in my hands. Totally destroyed by the truth. “It’s like losing your identity. And it’s almost enough to kill you.”
“It did kill them.” His hand presses tighter against my back — the only show of emotion he’ll allow himself. “My parents… the night their car went over that bridge, into the water. That was the night my father finally learned the truth – that his wife was a cheater. And… that I wasn’t his son.”
“Oh, Chase…”
“I don’t know if it was an accident or if he was just so mad, he couldn’t take it anymore… if he chose to… if…”
He can’t get the words out.
I choke back tears when I see his eyes, still locked on the ceiling, are glassy. Moving closer, I force myself to speak, trying to keep my voice from cracking.
“I wish I could make this better for you. All I can say is, the people who created you don’t define the person you become. You can read a thousand studies about nature over nurture, about genes determining destiny… but I’ll tell you one thing: they’re bullshit.” I lift my hand to cup his cheek, my thumb stroking slow circles against the faint stubble there. “You could have Charles Manson as a father and end up a saint; you could have Mother Theresa as a mother and end up a serial killer. At the end of the day, you define the person you become. Not a strand of DNA. Not the parents you didn’t get to choose. You.” I pull in a deep breath. “And, Chase Croft… the person you’ve chosen to be… he’s pretty freaking amazing. So amazing… it takes my breath away, just being near you.”
He looks at me then, his eyes dark with the demons of his past and something else, something deeper, something I can’t quite define.
“Of all the people in the world who could’ve won the seat next to mine at that playoff game… it was you, Gemma.” His voice cracks on the last word. “You. The one person on the planet who might just understand me.”
My breath catches as he pulls me closer, his arm a steel band across my back. His mouth presses hard against my hair, so his words are slightly muffled.
“I don’t put much stock in luck. I don’t really believe what goes around comes around, or that everything balances out in the end. But if I’ve earned any karma at all — it’s you,” he says simply. “You’re my karma, sunshine. And I’m pretty sure you were made for me.”
***
Saturday passes in a blur of laughter and love-making. Chase and I turn off our phones and spend the whole day naked in his bed — not to mention in his hot tub, in his shower, on the kitchen floor, and even once on the pool table. By the time night falls, we’re both so exhausted from a marathon day of sex, we can barely lift our heads from the pillow.
“Hungry?” Chase asks, his voice softer than the beams of the setting sun, filtering through his windows.
“Starving.”
“Me too.”
Neither of us moves. Sprawled in his bed, the sheets tangled around our limbs, my head rests on his stomach and his arm is thrown across my torso, just beneath my breasts, anchoring me against him.
“I’ll get up,” he says. “Get us some food.”
“Mhm,” I murmur, my eyes drifting shut.
“Really, I’m getting up now,” he says, still not moving. “Any second.”
“Mmm.”
“If I wasn’t so goddamned worn out…”
“Chase.”
“Yeah, sunshine?”
Using the final reserves of my strength, I drag my body parallel to his and collapse against his chest, so I’m lying half on top of him. “Shhhh.”
“I thought you were hungry,” he says, his voice amused.
“Nap now. Food later.”
The sound of his chuckle reaches my ears, though I’m already nearly asleep. “Whatever you say, sunshine.”
The last thing I feel, before I slip out of consciousness, are his arms tightening around me in a warm embrace.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Diabolical
My eyes snap open in the middle of the night.
I’m wide awake — the unfortunate side effect of falling asleep at 6 p.m., I suppose — but Chase is still asleep next to me, his breaths deep and regular. Knowing I won’t be able to fall back asleep any time soon, I do my best not to jostle him as I slide out of his hold and off the bed. In the dark, I find one of his t-shirts on the floor, tug it over my head, and pad barefoot into the kitchen.
God, I’m hungry.
I flip on the row of pendant lights hanging above the counter, dimming them as low as possible, and beeline for the pantry. Rooting through his cabinets, it doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for. I grab the box off the shelf, cross to the refrigerator, and pull out everything I need.
Twenty minutes later, waiting for the pancakes to brown on the griddle, I retrieve my cellphone from my clutch purse and power it on. It doesn’t even faze me to see I’ve got another half-dozen voicemails and texts from Chrissy, but I wince when I realize I’ve missed another call from my landlord. I’ll have to call him back, as soon as it’s a reasonable hour.
There’s a text from my mother — Everything okay, honey? — probably because I’ve been ignoring her texts since the gala. Frankly, I don’t know what to say to her. Or, maybe, I’m afraid of what she’ll say to me, when I ask the questions Phoebe’s necklace-revelation prompted.
Maybe a little of both.
Chrissy’s messages range from forwarded Google alerts — Chase Croft Makes His Societal Debut with New Girlfriend! — to text messages threatening my life, if I don’t call her back with details sometime soon. Nothing unusual.
Which, I take it, means Brett hasn’t leaked the story to Phoebe and the media, yet.
A relieved breath escapes, just as two arms wrap around me from behind and a warm body presses against my back.
“Those are going to burn,” Chase whispers against the nape of my neck, his voice scratchy with sleep.
I turn in his arms, to face him. “Did I wake you?”
His forehead drops to rest against mine. “Felt you gone.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be, sunshine.” His arms tighten in a quick hug, then drop away as he turns, picks up the spatula, and starts flipping the pancakes. For a few minutes, I watch him moving around the stove with ease, his muscular forearms flexing as he wields kitchen utensils, pulls a platter from the cabinet on his left, and starts loading it up with perfect, golden-brown pancakes. There’s something sexy about watching a man cook — especially when he’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs — and I swear, if I hadn’t already had all the sex my vagina could handle in the past eighteen hours, I’d be jumping his bones on the kitchen floor.
Again.
Chase grins as he slides a plate across the counter toward me, his eyes still a little drowsy, his hair still a little mussed. “Eat up, sunshine.”
“Thanks.”
He pushes the butter and a bottle of maple syrup toward me. “Here.”
“Yuck.” I wince, eyeing the brown bottle. “I hate syrup.”
“How is that even possible? Everyone likes syrup. It’s the best part.”
“Said the man who doesn’t like waffles.”
“Touché.” He grins. “You know, you still haven’t told me your middle name.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Come on.”
“Nope.”
“It can’t be that bad, sunshine.
”
“Trust me, it can.”
“You’ll tell me someday.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He sighs and lets it go.
For now.
I slather my pancakes in butter as he shuts off the stove and settles in on the stool beside me. Cutting off a giant slice, I shove it in my mouth. I moan with satisfaction when the first bite hits my tongue, so hungry I barely bother to chew as I devour the stack on my plate.
Chase chuckles, but doesn’t tease me — he’s too busy shoving his own pancakes in his mouth.
“That was the best ever,” I breathe after I’ve cleared my plate, my hands resting on my stomach.
Chase snorts as he pushes his empty plate away. “Oh, really? Better than sex?”
“Definitely,” I tease, elbowing him in the side.
His eyes narrow, the look in them making my stomach flip. “Is that so?”
“What can I say? They were really good panca— hey!”
My squeal of protest is lost as Chase jumps off his barstool, so fast I barely see him move, plants his shoulder against my stomach, and throws me over his shoulder. I don’t even have time to form words, because before I know what’s happening, he’s marched us back into his room and tossed me down on the bed.
“Chase—”
He’s silent as he reaches for me, and the look on his face makes all the thoughts in my head flee. The t-shirt goes up over my head and disappears, Chase’s underwear vanishes like magic, and then, faster than I can blink, he’s on me, in me, grinding his body against mine in a slow, torturous pace that makes me forget about breakfast foods.
***
“Better than pancakes?” he asks, after we’ve both cooled down.
“I was just teasing, you know.” I press a kiss to his chest. “You didn’t have to go all caveman.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining.”
I grin against his skin. “True enough.”
His hands slide through the hair at the nape of my neck, massaging with rough fingers. We’re quiet, for a while.
“You’re not wearing your necklace.” His words, spoken in a soft voice, still send a jolt through me. “I’ve never seen you take it off, before.”
I don’t say a word, but I can feel my body radiating tension.
“Gemma?”
I swallow. “It’s… something Phoebe said.”
He waits.
“She said she has one just like it,” I whisper. “A gift from her father.”
“Sunshine…”
“Which means… There’s a pretty good chance my mother has been lying to me about him for years.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Actually, I do.” I push up to look at him. “She said he never tried to contact me. Never sent a card, never sent a letter. Nothing. Only a check, in the beginning, before he realized she wasn’t going to take his money and get rid of me.” I clear my throat, hoping it’ll dislodge the emotion forming a lump there. “But if that’s true, why would he give me a necklace? The same one he gave his own daughter, years ago? Why would he do that, unless…”
The lump expands, blocking my airway and cutting off my words.
“Unless he wanted to be a part of your life.” Chase finishes for me, when he sees I’m too choked up to form words. I drop my head back to his chest and let him stroke my hair, let him murmur quiet assurances that it’ll be okay, that we’ll figure it out, against the crown of my head. And, for a little while, I let myself believe him.
“Have you considered getting in contact with him?” he asks, some time later.
My body goes tight at just the thought.
“I could get in touch easily,” Chase continues. “We’ve done business with West Tech in the past. It wouldn’t take more than a phone call, if you’re open to—”
“No.” My voice is flat. “I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to talk to him. Not now… not ever.”
Chase pauses, processing the chill in my words, the rigidity of my frame.
“Okay, sunshine,” he whispers, kissing the top of my head. “Okay.”
It takes a while, but eventually I fall asleep in the circle of his arms.
***
The sound of loud, booted footsteps clomping against hardwood stirs me awake. My eyes blink open and I see it’s midmorning, maybe near noon, if the bright sunlight pouring through the balcony windows is any indication. I’m alone in bed and this time there’s no note on Chase’s empty pillow.
Hearing hushed, unfamiliar voices drifting from the main room, I reach over the edge of the bed and grab his rumpled t-shirt off the floor. I glance around for the shopping bags Shelby delivered before the gala, but they aren’t on the armchair, where I left them. A squirmy feeling stirs in my stomach as I follow my instincts across the room, into the walk-in closet where Chase keeps his clothes.
Sure enough, folded neatly on the shelves to my left, are four pairs of jeans. My gala dress is hanging neatly in a garment bag, next to a colorful array of blouses and tops that Shelby purchased. Grumbling under my breath about bossy, presumptuous billionaires, who charge ahead into new territory without even thinking about asking for permission, I snatch a pair of jeans off the top of the stack and stuff my legs into them. As I pull on a bra and do up the buttons of what I must admit is a very pretty top, I think of the many, many things I’m going to say to Chase when I find him. Big things. Possibly loud things, at the top of my lungs.
At which point, he’d better explain it was all an accident, that his housekeeper put my things in his closet without checking with him.
Because, seriously, if he moved me into his apartment without so much as a conversation…
I’ll have to kill him.
When I’m dressed, I pop into the bathroom to take care of business, shriek at the scary state of my waves — hello, sex hair — and brush my teeth as fast as possible. Rubbing at my bleary eyes, I head into the kitchen, fully expecting to find Chase talking to Evan or Knox — or even Shelby, if she’s in a particularly persistent mood.
I do not expect to find three hulking men in GALIZIA MOVING CO. shirts lugging boxes out of the elevator and depositing them along the wall on the far side of the loft.
My wide eyes meet the steady brown gaze of a tall, muscular, bald man who looks a little like Bruce Willis.
“We’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes, ma’am.” He nods courteously and continues stacking boxes. “Just a couple more of these to unload.”
“Okay?” My eyes drift around the apartment, searching for Chase, but he’s nowhere to be found. Instead, they catch on one of the boxes. Because peeking out the top, I see something I recognize. Something I thought I’d never see again.
A square throw pillow, with a red and blue peacock-feather design.
The same one that used to sit on top of my bed.
But that’s impossible.
Unless…
I force myself to stay calm as I take slow steps across the room, my eyes locked on the boxes like they contain something hazardous, that’ll kill me if I get too close. Like nuclear waste. Or a biochemical weapon.
Unfortunately, it’s much, much worse than that.
Because, when I get close enough, I see it is my peacock pillow. And it’s sitting on a stack of books I recognize from my destroyed shelves, their covers tattered but still in place. I barely breathe as my hands tear through box after box, unearthing more of my belongings — a set of knives, my blender, a paint-splattered pair of jeans, some underwear, my makeup bag, a jewelry box, some candles, a vase.
The only scraps that escaped Ralph’s ransacking.
I whirl to face the mover-men, hands planted on my hips. The bald man catches my eyes, startling at the scary expression on my face. The other two get one look at me and wisely board the elevator to escape my wrath.
“What are you doing?” I snap at the bald man, as the elevator slides closed.
“Just…” He looks nervous. “
Just my job, ma’am.”
I sigh and try to make my voice less shrill. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I just need to know who told you to bring these boxes here?”
“Well… Mr. Croft.” He swallows. “His instructions were real clear — package up whatever was salvageable at a crappy little apartment over in Cambridge, trash the rest. Then, he said to bring the boxes here, wait for a scary looking fella named Knox to let us in through the service entrance, and unload ‘em here, in the penthouse.”
“Yes, that was my crappy apartment, you were at.”
He has the grace to blush. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” I sigh. “But this is my stuff! Why on earth would he have you bring it here?”
“Don’t know anything ‘bout that.” He scratches his beard. “People pay me to move things, I move ‘em. Not my job to ask a lot of questions.”
I sigh again. “Well, there’s been a mix-up. Can you please bring all this back to my apartment? I’ll make sure you’re paid for your time.”
He starts to shift from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “Don’t think that’ll be possible.”
“Why not?” My eyes narrow. “I assure you, this is my stuff.”
“I’m sure it is, ma’am.” He eyes the elevator, as though he’d like nothing better than to make a quick exit. “It’s just…”
“What?”
“Well, the landlord was there, when we were clearing out your place, and he was real insistent we had to be finished by the end of the day. Said the lease was ending, and he had to get the renovators in ASAP, seeing as he has a new tenant moving in, and all.”
“He said what?!”
“Look, I have to be going.” He starts to edge toward the elevator. “I’m real sorry for any inconvenience, but I hope you’ll find everything in order. And next time you’re moving, please think of us.”
“Wait!” I call, as he crosses to the elevator and pushes the call button. “Don’t I have to sign anything?”
The doors slide open and he steps inside. “That Knox fella signed on delivery, ma’am. Have a nice day, now!”
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