Chapter Seven Evie
Chapter Seven
Evie
“Dammit,” I groan. I’m so annoyed as I try and multitask, shooting off a text to the set designer while putting in the fifty-thousand-digit-long numerical sequence that Noah coded for the door.
I hope nobody ever has to pee when they get home because that’s a disaster waiting to happen. But truthfully, I’m less annoyed with the door than I am with the conversation I’m having with this set designer.
Even though it’s not her fault the director is eccentric or that someone moved my damn fish.
I hold my phone to my mouth as I leave a voice note.
“Listen, I’m super excited he’s had a werewolf epiphany, but creating a spring-loaded system for a car takes more time than a day .
. . especially when it’s for a moon doggie to drive through a human bat.
He’s going to have to wait, or his stunt double will be collecting workers’ comp.
As well as whoever took my fish, when I find them. ”
I know she’s fine. It’s just annoying. I need my baby.
I finally get the door open while pocketing my phone before I stop inside and look down at the tile.
“Goodbye, day,” I exhale, letting all the shit in my hands slide down my arms to the floor, falling into a messy pile before I just leave it there and walk toward the modern Spanish-style great room.
But the further in I walk, the more I realize something’s different. My eyebrows draw together.
Music’s playing faintly in the background. Not just any music—Fleetwood Mac. And the gas fireplace is on. Only in California can you run that at night in the middle of what already feels like summer and have it feel appropriate.
I swear I look like a shifty-eyed villain in a cartoon as I look around, because this vibe is different. A lot like I’ve walked in on someone’s date.
Does Chase have a girl here?
The thought makes me stand straighter until I’m suddenly enveloped by the most delicious aroma, making the thought fade away and my shoulders sag. Like an animal, my head lifts as I take a deep breath, enjoying whatever is cooking.
I turn my head just as the kitchen comes into view.
If I was worried that being nice would put rose-tinted glasses on me, then I was stupid. Because I should’ve been more worried that Chase, under the amber glow of dimly lit lamps and cooking in a kitchen, would make my toes tingle.
Good god.
Or maybe my nervous system is shutting down, like fully tapping out because it’s done with me too. I mean, there’s always room to hope.
Fuck. He’s standing behind the island, chopping something . . . onion, maybe, before he adds it to a pan behind him. I walk closer, feeling like I shouldn’t, as it sizzles in the butter. He wraps a cloth around the pan’s handle, lifting it from the fire to swirl the contents.
Oh god, not a veiny forearm.
Why, God? Do you hate me just because I have questions about your validity? Because this seems petty. Even for someone who invented periods.
Although, no more petty than the fact that Chase is wearing a white T-shirt that says Tip Your Waiter and a loose pair of jeans.
And he’s barefoot . . . actually . . . that’s a con. I take the drool back. Men shouldn’t have feet. They’re either gross, smelly, or hairy—usually all three.
I nod to myself as I think, This is good. I just need to remind myself that what I’m seeing is smoke and mirrors . . . a sexy illusion. He’s just smelly athlete’s foot and an endless string of jackassery.
Yeah, that’ll break the spell.
Chase puts the pan back on the stove, turning down the heat before running his hand through his damp hair. I swear he’s practiced that move, because it was smooth. Too smooth. What kind of whack job has practiced moves other than Elle Woods?
The bend and snap is the exception, not the rule.
Wait, did he just get out of the shower?
Oh god, I do not want to think about him right out of the shower . . . again.
My tongue darts out over my bottom lip the moment he turns around, so I cough.
Not on purpose, but that’s what happens when the person who’s getting sexualized without their knowledge locks their moldy eyes on you. My body literally rebuked the thought.
“Honey, you’re home,” he says, surprised to see me.
I scowl.
He chuckles and adds, “Too soon? My bad. I thought we were gonna be friends.”
My sister . . . She’s quickly becoming insufferable, kind of like my PTS over his D. I’d like to say something snarky, but the lingering sound of sizzling reminds me to be nice so I stay out of hell.
“Mmm” is all I can manage, making him grin as he scratches the scruff on his face.
Facial hair is for men who live off the grid. I’ve never loved it . . . always hated it . . . so much. And I will live in that truth until it actually becomes the truth.
I let out an empty laugh, trying again. “I guess it’s good to see we’ve both been in contact with the parentals and know the rules.”
That was still meaner than I meant it. Shit.
I don’t know how to play this. I promised to try and be friends but gave zero thought as to what that looked like when I got home.
I am way too unprepared for this. I need to, like, meditate (I’ve never done that), do a shot (I’ve absolutely done that), and maybe even pay someone on Cameo for a motivational video.
There’s nothing like D-list celebrities telling you to hang in there for fifty bucks.
Alas, there is no time, so I just dive into deep waters with Chase and hope I don’t drown in annoyance from this decision.
But what else am I supposed to do?
I made a promise.
He gives me a smirk like he can hear my internal battle before sliding an empty wineglass toward the edge of the counter, all the way until it can’t go any further.
“This might make me more tolerable,” he offers teasingly.
Something tells me I may need the bottle. On second thought . . .
I’m waiting for him to interject a comment about the wedding because that’s where my head just went, but much to my surprise, he doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he picks up a bottle of red and pours me a glass, never looking at me once before he turns back to stir what’s in the pan.
I hesitate, staring at the wineglass, chewing my bottom lip.
This is a peace offering.
But then why does it feel like I’m losing the battle? Like he has the upper hand? It’s because he clearly prepared for his ethics and morality test, and I just showed up with my heart as black as those truffles.
Ooo, truffles.
Jesus, focus.
I squeeze my eyes closed the way I would if I were jumping out of an airplane, before I open them and step forward, taking the glass and immediately sipping.
I can do hard things.
“Did Goldie tell you they’re country hopping the day after tomorrow?” he says over his shoulder.
How bad could it be? I’m being dramatic. It’s not like I’m going to jump back into bed with him . . . though, technically, we were against a wall the first time.
I hold the rim of the glass to my lips as I fix my eyes on his back. I mean to give it a dirty look for good measure, but instead, I think, Has it always been that broad?
“They’re headed to Italy. It’s what inspired our meal,” he adds over my thought, but I’m still lost in it.
Why . . . why can’t I stop doing that? Sexualizing him has become my sickness.
He does not deserve this kind of attention. My body is acting like Jason Momoa is cooking for me. No . . . the meal is a Momoa, the man is an Adam Sandler. Well, maybe he’s a little hotter.
Chase kind of looks like that one actor from that movie remade into a television show—the one that accomplished multigenerational trauma: One Day, I think to myself. He’s a Leo Wood-whatever-his-last-name-is look-alike.
Chase motions to the long strip of rolled-out pasta on the counter. “Funny story—I was gonna text you and invite you to a peace talk, but that felt too presumptuous. Even after you talked to your sister—”
Presumptuous must be your word of the day.
Good job, me. Way to use my inside voice.
“—and telling by the look on your face, tonight may be more of a last supper.”
Shit, note to self: Fix my face.
I grin, hoping it bleeds into my words, before taking another sip of my wine, then say, “Don’t worry, Chase. I may contemplate stabbing you in the hand, but I doubt I’ll nail you to a cross.”
“Phew,” he breathes out dramatically, making the smallest dimple in his cheek expose itself as he holds my gaze. “But look on the bright side. There’s always time to work on your upper-body strength.”
Dammit. I laugh. He got me.
He motions with his head to the woven natural-seagrass barstool in front of the island, and for some unknown reason, I walk there and sit.
I’m not even going to analyze that.
Although I think he does because he smirks, but to his credit, it’s aimed at the marble counter. He scoops out some filling from a bowl and places it on the rolled-out sheet of pasta before he starts speaking like he’s hosting a cooking show.
It’s cute . . .
No, no, it’s a little attention-whorey, but sacrifices must be made, so I should just pretend. His deep voice holds my attention.
“On today’s menu, we are having ravioli. But not just any kind.” His eyes tick up, locking to mine for a quick second. “Truffle and burrata . . . which I think makes the regular four cheese look like the amateur hour it is.”
My stomach growls as if on command. In my defense, all I had today was two craft services cookies and a bag of stale BBQ chips.
He raises his brows. “Glad you approve.”
I take another sip of wine, watching as he works the filling into perfect mounds, over and over. It’s kind of mesmerizing. Neither of us speaks as he smooths and rounds the savory dollops.
They’re so messy, but he’s still so precise as he runs his fingertip around the pasta, cleaning it off and leaving none of the good stuff behind.
Whoo, I think I’m getting wine flush—it feels hot in here. But I still bring the glass to my lips again, only contemplating getting water before I take a bigger sip.