Chapter Four Chase
Chapter Four
Chase
“Where are the towels?” I whisper to myself, looking around the spacious en suite for any hint. Shit.
I walk over to the sink and open the cabinet while dripping water over the fancy Moroccan tiles. Goldie and Noah’s house in LA is a definite upgrade from their last place.
I open another cabinet, finding nothing. “Seriously . . . no towels, guys. What am I supposed to do . . . air-dry?”
When I look up, I spot a standing armoire. I walk over, raking my hand through my hair and shaking off the water, but when I open it, I chuckle.
“One fucking hand towel. You’ve got to be kidding me?”
Beggars can’t be choosers, though. Had I known my friends had nothing, I would’ve brought my own. Then again, all my shit is sitting in garbage bags in their laundry room. A pipe bursting was an understatement.
There was a tsunami in my apartment. When I went by before coming here, I had to make my way through at least an inch of water still on the ground.
I snatch up the towel and start at my shoulders, thinking, God, she’s gonna be so pissed when she sees me here.
I’d hoped Evie would be home when I arrived. She wasn’t. But I know moviemaking can go long into the night, and that’s probably better because it gives me time to strategize.
First off, I need to rectify my misstep.
I jumped the gun at the theater when I kissed her.
I should’ve waited for a better moment. But she was just looking at me with those pretty amber eyes that make me feel like I’d be willing to do terrible things to keep her attention. And I was looking at her.
And it was a moment.
Until it wasn’t.
Dammit. I have to be smarter this time. Bring out the big guns.
First thing in the morning, I’m going to start with food.
Mainly because it’s my love language, my version of Shakespeare, and like Eddie said, I have to show her how I feel. Plus, everyone knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach—I figure it might work on her since she wears the pants in this hopeful relationship.
I just want her to know that I like her. That I like when she mean-flirts and rolls her eyes. And I especially like when she turns feisty and acts like she’s a foot taller than she is.
I’m mid-swipe over my junk when I pull from my Evie thoughts, realizing I should’ve dried off in a different order. Whatever. I bring the towel to the back of my neck, then over my hair, as I head out of the bathroom to change into a pair of Noah’s sweats I stole.
I wonder how she reacted when they texted her. There’s no way that Goldie hasn’t shot off a text to her sister by now.
Shit, maybe I should sleep with one eye open.
I grin to myself as I pass through the doorway before I’m immediately assaulted by the loudest fucking shriek I’ve ever heard. It’s like there’s a pack of fucking coyotes in the room.
My hands fly up, towel sailing through the air before I’m gut-checked. My stomach caves in as I fold over with a grunt.
“What the fuck!”
I let out a winded exhale as I hear, “Chase?”
Evie.
My eyes spring open as I shoot to standing and see her holding a fancy iron lamp. It’s still aimed at me like she’s going to try and impale me again.
“Oh my god,” she screams again. “Put it away.” She dramatically covers her eyes, dropping the lamp and muttering, “My eyes. My eyes.”
I cup both my hands over myself, even though she isn’t looking, as I frantically look for the towel, internally cursing Noah even further for not having actual towels. Although it’s not like she hasn’t seen me in flagrante delicto before.
My head’s swinging around before I spot my tiny towel and swipe it off the floor, holding it in front of me like a ridiculous salmon-colored loincloth.
“Are you decent yet?” she presses, peeking through her fingers. Before I can say anything, she answers for me. “Stupid question. You’ve never been decent.”
I narrow my eyes. “Calm down, Virgin . . . ia Woolf. It’s not like you haven’t seen the goods.”
She crosses her arms, her eyes locked to mine. “Beer goggles are a cruel bitch. I’ve had enough disappointment this year.”
Oh, she thinks she’s funny . . . I chuckle, but more like I might wring her neck as I raise my brows.
“Yeah,” I toss back, “you sure you don’t want to do a little comparison?”
I pretend I’m going to move the towel, so she shoots her hand out.
“Okay, okay. I take it back. That was too low. Keep it covered.”
I suck my top teeth before I give her a small nod as an acceptance of her insinuated apology.
Evie blows out a breath, swinging her braids over her shoulder. “Why are you in my shower? Because what the hell, Chase? Did you actually think because my sister offered you her house that it included me?”
I frown. “What?”
She ignores my question. “This is so like you. God. We had one moment that lasted seventeen minutes and thirty-four seconds. Why would I ever want to repeat that?”
I scoff. Not once, not twice, but four times, then stab my finger toward the bed.
“Number one, I know you knew I was coming, so this is premeditated assault. Number two, I thought this was the guest room. Come on, what kind of psycho makes the bed like that?”
Her lips part to talk trash, then press together as her eyes shift to the bed. Uh-oh, Evie’s at a loss for words. The only thing I can think about is that Oprah interview with Harry and Meghan where she said, Were you silent or silenced?
Ooo, silenced Evie.
It’s like she can hear me celebrate in my head because her eyes meet mine before they roll again.
“You’re such a cretin. Crazy people don’t make beds; polite ones do. But by all means, keep living like the Peter Pan frat boy you are. I bet you wipe your ass with your hand.”
“Wanna check?” She scowls as I add, “Then go on, Miss Manners. Turn around, unless you want a full shot of my ass—”
Dammit. Why is she so good at this? Sarcasm is like her superpower. Still, I keep trying to hang and do a little spin motion with my finger for her to turn around.
She does as I continue my tirade.
“Polite isn’t in your wheelhouse . . . Plus, girls always have shit all over the counter. Where’s your shit? Regardless, let me assure you, my choice had nothing to do with getting in your pants . . .”
I’m about to say I’ve already done that when I’m arrested by a repeat thought: I’ve already done that . . . In fact, I was a fucking Olympian that night.
A grin begins to grow over my face as I stare at Evie’s back, her hands on her hips.
You counted the minutes and seconds . . .
Little miss mean girl said seventeen minutes and thirty-four seconds.
I stare at her, keeping all my thoughts on the inside. How do you know the time? Why were you counting, bae?
Did you think I didn’t count too?
I’m giddy as I blink and stand there, quietly debating how to play this. Because the one thing I’m positive about is that she knows because it mattered.
She liked it. Just like I did.
If I out her, she’ll say it’s a reach. But you knew down to the seconds.
“Are you glitching?” she snarks over her shoulder, but I chuckle.
New plan. Kill her with kindness until she kills me.
“Listen, I’m sorry I used your shower.” I can feel the what the fuck on her face. “And I’m sorry I scared you. Just give me a minute, and I’ll head out to my room . . . unless you’re hungry. Then I’ll feed you if you’ll let me.”
“Pass.” She says it with way less venom. And the way she twists her shoulders tells me I’m making it hard for her to be mean. It’s like her body is trying to physically reject my niceties.
It reminds me of that part in The Exorcist when they throw holy water on the demon.
I walk to the bed, my eyes still on her. I can’t believe you counted. I grab my boxers before I drop the towel, then tug them on, followed by the sweats I stole.
“You can turn around now.”
She turns slowly, like a cat examining where to strike, her eyes narrow.
“You’re still shirtless.”
I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip, feeling a tad more arrogant, humming, “Mmhmm, we do live in LA.”
Evie’s pretty eyes are locked on mine as we stare at each other in some kind of standoff. What are you thinking?
God, she’s the embodiment of tiny terror, but I wonder if she feels what I feel—that crackling. The fucking buzz.
In answer to my thought, her eyes dip to my chest before locking with mine again. I can’t help myself. I smirk when she swallows, like in the theater when I caught her drifting, dirty thoughts written all over her face.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I tease quietly, rubbing a hand over my chest.
Or keep doing it.
“I’m not looking at you like anything,” she bites back.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I gather my things, swiping my phone off the bed and pocketing it before I genuinely smile.
“Yeah, you were.” I keep my voice quiet, not giving her an inch to take a mile. “But if you’re not careful, I might think dad bods are your type.”
She clears her throat. Did I hit a nerve?
“Shut up. I’m looking at you like, ‘I wonder why he hasn’t left yet?’”
I point to the door as I walk toward it. She blinks a few times, her brows drawing together before she adds, “PS, I don’t care what my sister said. This arrangement is temporary at best. I expect you to get a hotel tomorrow.”
The way she says it with the utmost confidence, as if I’m going to cave, is remarkable. But it’s never happening.
“No,” I level, not turning around. “But I’m happy to set one up for you if you’d like.”
I’m out the door and halfway down the hall as her voice follows me.
“I am absolutely not getting a hotel.”
I stop in front of my door, turning my head, our eyes locking. “Then that makes two of us. Text me if you get hungry.”
When people say looks could kill, they’re describing Evie staring back at me right now. She’s like facing a bear; the only way to survive is to be scarier so it’ll just maim you rather than kill you.
Evie looks me up and down with one glance before she says, “Sure. Hold your breath until I do.”
Yep, there’s a solid chance I’m waking up to a pillow over my face.
“Or maybe I’ll just count the minutes.”
Her eyes grow wide before she slams the door behind her. And that makes me smile.
Round one wasn’t a total success, but it wasn’t a massacre either. And in battle, it’s important to celebrate the small victories.
I walk inside the room meant to be mine, looking down as I notice I’ve been joined by Noah and Goldie’s cat, Princess Peach.
“Are you scared of the mean lady? Come on, you’re safe with me.”
She purrs, letting out those cute crackly cat meows as I toss my shit on the bed and pull out my phone, shooting off a text to Noah.
Me: If I don’t make it through the night, I want you to know that dying by the hand of the woman you could love is poetic. Just promise me I’ll get the last word—make her give my eulogy.