by S. R. Grey
I don’t want the upbeat mood we have going to dampen, so I quickly suggest, “Hey, let’s not talk about any of that, okay?”
Chase nods slowly, and I nudge him, trying to get him to smile again. It works. Thankfully he morphs rather swiftly back to carefree.
“Okay, surprise time,” Chase announces, sending a dazzling smile that could melt hearts my way. It certainly melts mine.
Chase covers my eyes with one hand, and, with his other hand at my waist, he steers me toward the base of the staircase. Walking behind me, he guides me up the stairs, down the hall, and into what I assume is his bedroom. My eyes are still covered, but I know from the warm breeze coming in that we’re standing in front of a window.
My boy lowers his hand from my eyes and tells me I can open them. I do.
The window we climbed out the other night is in front of me, we are indeed in Chase’s bedroom. But before I can turn around to where I feel my boy’s warm body behind mine, he puts his hands on my shoulders and makes me promise to remain where I am.
“Part of your surprise is on the dresser,” he explains. “If you turn around now you’ll see it, and I’m saving that part for later. Okay?”
I am insanely curious to see what Chase has put together, but I murmur an assent and do as he asks. I keep my eyes averted. He steps beside me and takes out the screen, then climbs out onto the roof. With one long leg in and one out, my boy helps me over the sill, just like he did the other night.
When we’re standing out on the flat rooftop, I notice a big, plaid blanket stretched out close to the little ledge up against the house, where we sat the other night and watched the sunset. There are four votive candles on the blanket, one at each corner, keeping the checkered material in place. The flames flicker in the breeze against the backdrop of a setting sun that is streaking this particular evening sky in indigos and violets.
“Is it always this beautiful up here?” I ask, marveling at the second amazing rooftop sunset I’ve been lucky enough to see.
Chase leads me over to the blanket. When a warm gust of air blows a strand of my hair across my face, my attentive boy brushes it back. “It’s usually pretty nice up here, but you make it positively stunning.”
“Chase…” From any other man, Chase’s words might sound cheesy, but his voice holds such sincerity there’s no doubt these words, these consonants and vowels, come only from his heart. And that leaves me speechless, my own consonants and vowels trailing off into air around us.
Chase kneels down on the blanket and reaches for my hand. I place my fingers in his palm and lower myself down next to him. I tuck my legs to one side so I don’t give Chase a show. Well, not yet anyway.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, a smirk playing at his lips.
That smug expression tells me that, despite my attempt to be discreet when I sat down, my boy still caught a peek of the cute pink lace panties I chose for tonight.
“A little,” I reply, getting back to his question.
Chase reaches to under the ledge. There’s a shopping bag tucked underneath and I can’t imagine why. But when my full-of-surprises guy pulls a baguette out of the bag—then a round of brie—my eyes widen.
“Wow,” I say as he places both items on the blanket. “This is a surprise!”
He catches my eye and smiles. “There’s more.”
I am already beyond impressed, but Chase isn’t done yet. He pulls two wine glasses out of the bag and places them on the blanket, next to the baguette and brie. With the setting sun as a background, Chase pours white wine into each of the glasses. The candles flicker, making the gold-toned liquid shimmer. My boy begins to add something from a bottle labeled crème de cassis, and I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s a liqueur,” he explains. “You add just a small amount to the wine.”
When he sees I’m a little baffled, he elaborates, “I found the recipe on the Internet earlier today. The liqueur added to the wine creates a drink called Kir. The article next to the recipe said it’s popular in France. You can buy it at almost any restaurant or café. And it’s supposedly very good.” He finishes pouring and proffers me a glass. “Guess we’ll find out.”
As the sun drips and melts into the horizon, and the beautiful man sitting next to me picks up his own glass filled with this supposedly popular French drink, I feel a little overwhelmed, a little choked up, but in the best way possible. Whether it’s his intention or not, Chase is giving me more than a romantic, French-themed rooftop picnic, he’s giving me a memory, one I can hold on to, when things inevitably get tough. I see now what my sweet, sweet boy has done. This surprise is perfection. It’s tangible, yet not. Truly, it’s boundless.
“What do you think?” Chase asks.
I take a sip of the blush-tinged Kir…and wow! “Mmm, this is delicious,” I gush.
Chase tears a small piece from the baguette and spreads a little brie on top. He places the bread at my lips, and I take a bite. “Better than chips and pretzels?” he asks, referring to our impromptu lunch in the gymnasium.
I laugh and nod. And then I admire.
Chase Gartner is so unaware of how gorgeous he really, truly is. He’s always handsome, but he looks especially so right now. He’s all tousled tawny hair, pale blue eyes, and perfect features, the waning daylight muting everything to soft focus. My boy also has a touch of a tan from the days he works outside in the sun, so his skin is slightly darker than usual. He’s sun-kissed and stunning before me.
Chase asks me if I like the brie-on-baguette, and I nod enthusiastically, partially because I do, but mostly because the guy feeding it to me looks so damn amazing. “It’s fantastic, Chase. I love it.”
As the sun sets, we eat and drink. We savor our rooftop Parisian picnic. When we’re just about done, Chase reaches into the shopping bag once more and presents dessert.
“Do you like chocolate mousse?” he asks as he spoons a portion and feeds me a creamy bite.
“Yes, absolutely,” I say before I swallow the fluffy bit of heaven.
My boy takes a bite of his own, and I ask, “So, Chase, all of this is so decadent and romantic.” I gesture around. “I love everything, very much, but I’m curious as to how you came up with this idea.”
My boy smiles and looks down as he swirls the spoon in his chocolate mousse. “You gave me the idea, sweet girl, that day in the gym, our pretending with the chips and pretzels.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. That day was so good, and you seemed so happy. I thought maybe if I gave you the real thing I might make you even happier.”
I touch his arm. “I am happy, Chase. I was then, and I am now. This is wonderful. You always make me happy.”
“You said you wished we could go to Paris, remember?” Gunmetal blues hold my gaze and I nod once. “I wish I could take you there, Kay, I do. I would in a heartbeat, I promise. But since I can’t, I decided I’d try to bring Paris to you.”
My heart skips a beat. “This is better than Paris, Chase. Really, it is.”
And it is. Nothing could top where I am right now, up here on this rooftop, drinking Kir, and being fed bits of brie-covered baguette and chocolate mousse by a beautiful, complex, thoughtful man. A man I’ve fallen head over heels for, a man I fall for a little more each day.
I lean forward and kiss his cheek. “I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too,” he says back, his hand reaching out, his thumb grazing my bottom lip. He finds a smidge of mousse and swipes it away.
As the sky darkens, we lie back on the blanket. For the longest while, we talk and cuddle, all while millions of stars twinkle above our prone bodies.
“Those are the same stars we’d see if we were in Paris, baby,” Chase tells me at one point.
“I know, but I like these stars better,” I reply.
Chase sits up and blows out the candles. The countless pins of light blanketing the velvet-black sky glow even more brightly.
“There always seems to be so many more stars out here in the country,”
I say as I sit up and settle back into Chase’s chest. He wraps his strong arms around me.
My boy looks down at me and smiles. “Those stars are always there, baby. We just see them more clearly out here is all.”
Maybe there’s deeper meaning in what Chase is saying. Maybe everything is clearer out here. I know my mind feels free and unburdened at the moment. As if to illuminate that fact, I immediately come to the conclusion that, for once in my life, I have not a care in the world. It’s just me and my guy. And everything is perfect, just as Chase promised it would be. This man has brought me Paris. And in doing so, in doing something so thoughtful and caring, he’s taken away all my worry, all my fear. In a way, it’s like we’re not even in Harmony Creek right now. Sure, we’re physically here, but Chase has ensured that tonight we exist in a world of love and friendship, one we’ve built together for the past several weeks. But this love feels like something much bigger. I know in my heart destiny and fate rule our love; they have from the moment I crashed into his arms that Sunday in the church parking lot. I smile to myself, I wanted a man to sweep me off my feet, and that sure has happened.
The air eventually grows cooler, and I shiver in response. Chase, taking notice, suggests we go back inside. “I still have to show you the rest of your surprise anyway,” he reminds me in a voice as whisper-soft as the velvety black night.
Chase takes my hand and helps me up. What could possibly top a romantic sunset picnic on the roof? What could be better than lying beneath the stars, feeling so very much in love?
I’m about to find out…
It’s dark when we step back over the window sill and into Chase’s bedroom. I can’t see much until he switches the lamp on by his bed.
Then, my breath catches in my throat.
I step closer to the dresser, my hand reaching out. I am speechless. My artist boy really has brought Paris to me. First, out on the roof, through taste, touch, and smell. But now, in his lamp-lit bedroom, it’s through sight.
A set of sketches, done in richly hued oil pastels, rest propped up on the dresser. A café in Montmartre, a tree-lined view of the Champs Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe in a base-to-top angle. And that is just the start.
I stand before the sketches—these pieces of art—brought to life by Chase’s unbelievably talented hands. A bakery that reads boulangerie on the awning, where baguettes—like the one we just ate—are displayed in a basket in the window, next to chocolate éclairs and croissants, steam rising from their golden tops.
I touch the edges of each drawing, one-by-one, tentatively. Every sketch is as beautiful as the next. The colors are stunning, rich and dark, the detail is pristine. Chase’s ability to recreate these lifelike scenes blows me away. So much so that words temporarily elude me.
Two of the pieces at the edge of the dresser my boy has framed. They rest all set to display. The first framed sketch is of Notre Dame Cathedral, and the other framed piece depicts arguably the most recognizable landmark in Paris—the Eiffel Tower. Both are springtime scenes, pink-blossoming trees pepper the landscape, along with daffodils and tulips that are in full bloom.
I turn to my insanely talented artist boy, who never ceases to amaze me, and who is currently leaned up against the frame of the door, as nonchalant as ever, savoring my reactions.
I find my words, at last, and, in a reverent voice, say, “My God, Chase, these are incredible.” I shake my head. “No, that’s not good enough. I don’t think there’s even a word to describe how beautiful these sketches are.” I glance back at the sketches, then to the artist himself. “You should draw professionally, Chase, you’re certainly good enough.”
My boy blushes as he peers down at the floor. So shy sometimes, I think. “I don’t know about that,” he replies quietly.
“It’s true,” I insist. “You’re a real artist.”
Chase, still leaning against the doorframe, crosses his arms. Blue-gray cotton pulls taut at his biceps and wide shoulders. “I’m glad you like the sketches, baby girl,” he begins, smiling and catching my gaze, “’Cause they’re all yours now. I drew them for you. It’s the rest of your surprise. I finished the one of the bakery just before you got here. On the first try I fucked up the word ‘boulangerie.’” He chuckles. “So I had to start that one over.”
I turn back to the art, still in awe. “So you’re saying you drew all of these today?”
“Yeah, I got started after I got back from the store. I only had time to frame two of them though. I’ll fix the others for you tomorrow and we can hang them up in your apartment.” He shoots me a knowing glance. “That should take care of that blank-wall problem, yeah?”
“No more blank walls,” I muse.
That’s why Chase looked so smug when I said something about the walls this morning. He was already planning this surprise then.
“No more blank walls,” he echoes back.
I am so thrilled and excited with this part of my surprise that I start to tell Chase all the places I plan to place his artwork—the boulangerie will go in the kitchen, Notre Dame and the Arc de Triomphe I plan to place side-by-side on the wall above the dark blue sofa, and the Montmartre café and Champs Élysées pieces just feel like they belong in the bedroom.
“What about the Eiffel Tower?” Chase asks.
“Hmm…” I consider.
The Eiffel Tower sketch is one of the best. It’s stunning enough to brighten any room all by itself.
I suddenly have an idea. “Wait.”
I pick the framed Eiffel Tower sketch up, and turn so I’m facing Chase. I give him a look that hopefully conveys: you are going to love this.
“What?” he asks as he watches curiously.
“Just a minute,” I huff as I turn back around, kick off my sandals, and start to climb up onto his bed. I steady myself using the pine headboard, then straighten. “You shouldn’t have blank walls, either, artist boy.”
I glance back and Chase shakes his head, but in a way that says he likes where I’m going with this.
I hold the Eiffel Tower up so it’s centered above his bed. There’s a nail in the wall and I position the frame on it. “I think this one belongs right here.” I secure and straighten Chase’s artwork. “What do you think?”
I step down from the bed, and my boy comes up from behind me. He toys with one of the thin straps of my dress. It slips down and he kisses my exposed shoulder. “I love your idea. I think it looks great up there. Every time we’re in this room we can pretend like we’re right in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.”
“Why did you do all this, Chase?” I whisper, leaning back into his powerful chest.
Strong arms surround me, and I suddenly want this man around me even more. I want him on me, in me, all over me. I want his strength, his talent, his love.
My boy trails his nose up my neck and whispers in my ear, “I did this because you deserve perfect, Kay. I meant it when I said that last night.”
“This is perfect,” I say quietly, though I mean so much more. “It’s better than perfect actually.”
Chase knows what I’m saying, I am telling him the time is right, there will never be a more perfect moment than right now for what we’re about to do. With gentle hands, he turns me so I’m facing him. His blues are heavy-lidded, hungry with lust…and love.
“I love you, baby girl,” he tells me. “Let me show you how much.”
Before I can respond, my boy is on his knees before me, sliding his hands up my bare legs, lifting my dress, and hooking his fingers into the edges of the lace panties I tried earlier to keep from his view. Not now—they’re fully on display. Chase holds my dress aloft and kisses the little pink bow he discovers at one hip. He moves to the other pink bow at the other hip and does the same. Then, he’s slipping all the bows and all the lace down my legs. I’m weak-kneed and breathless, trembling with love. But love holds me up with all his strength. I place my hands on his shoulders and lift one leg, then the other, and pink lace is discarded to the floor.
Chase delivers soft, wet kisses—to my hips, to my thighs—then he lifts me easily and lays me back on the bed. He drags me down to the edge slowly, my hair fanning out on the covers behind me. Chase, kneeling between my shaky, weak legs, showers the insides of my thighs with more scorching little kisses that burn straight up to my center.
I hike my dress up higher on my own, making my boy chuckle. At my haste, I suppose. But then he hisses in a breath of air. “You’re beautiful,” he tells me when I fully expose myself to him.
Chase stands and starts to unbutton his shirt. He undoes a few, then says, “Fuck it,” and just pulls the material over his head, revealing all his flexing muscles and beautiful tattoos. Blue-gray drops to the floor while I admire and ogle the body it was just covering. Chase takes no notice of my wandering eyes, my boy’s too busy leaning over me, putting his knees on the bed, pushing me up farther as he gets to work on undoing all the tiny buttons at the front of my dress. It doesn’t take long before loosened and gaping fabric is slid over my breasts and pushed down until it gathers at my waist. Chase unhooks my bra, and pink lace is pushed aside and discarded as his hot mouth descends to my breasts.
He uses one hand to cup a breast, plumping it into his mouth, while his other hand raises the lower part of my dress up over my hips, allowing the fabric to join the rest of my dress gathered at my waist. Chase leaves me barely clothed like this as he parts my folds with his long, adept fingers. When he finds me wet and wanting, he groans around my nipple. His fingers make a pass at my entrance, spreading my wetness and circling my clitoris. I suck in a ragged breath and bury my own fingers in his hair.
My boy releases the breast he’s been concentrating on and moves over to the other, licking, sucking, and driving me wild as he works my body with his mouth and his hands. I feel so close to release, but Chase releases my breast with an audible pop and removes his fingers from my sex. He scoots me back a little more and hovers over me. His knees are on either side of me, still clad in faded denim, but the top button of his jeans is undone. His arms straighten, caging me in as he holds his body up above me, feral and dominating. I am small beneath him, and I like it…a lot.