Chapter Eight Chase #3
I smile as he continues.
“—then we need to start off on the right foot.”
He holds up two Britney Spears records.
“Britney circa 2001, where not only was she a slave for you but also poignantly not a girl and not yet a woman. Or . . . the 2003 version of Britney Jean Spears, where we all learned it was not just her against the music and that we all loved her a little bit toxic?”
My jaw is almost on the ground. I want to ask why he knows so much about Britney Spears, but to be honest, this might be one of the hottest conversations a man has ever had with me. He’s so weird.
But that dimple.
He raises his brows. “Come on . . . Which era reigns supreme? And there is a correct answer.”
I give him a deadpan look. “Yeah, there is . . . and it’s 2000 ‘Oops! . . . I Did It Again’ when she had vocal fry, a red jumpsuit, and a headset mic.” I raise my hand, looking away. “Fight with yourself.”
He drops one of the records back into its slot, grabbing my attention again, revealing the album I just named secretly held in his hand, and says, “Correct.”
I laugh.
All right. Maybe friends.
We meander to some trinkets, looking at them quietly, only glancing at each other before he points to the pathway, so I nod and follow him.
This is so strange because it’s not uncomfortable. Chase is kind of easy to be around as long as he’s on his best behavior. Actually, that’s not true . . . he was easy at the wedding too. And he was definitely on his worst.
I’m fidgeting with my fingers before looking up at him. “I have a question.”
“Shoot,” he says, reading a sign for some food truck.
“When we were texting . . .”
He cuts in. “When I was texting, and you were just reacting.”
I giggle, stopping at some sunglasses and pulling a pair out to try on. “Semantics. Come clean—were those stories true?”
He grins and puts on a pair of blue glasses with hearts over the lenses before flicking the lever on the side of them, making the hearts flap open and closed quickly.
I shove his immovable arm. “You’re ridiculous. Answer my question.”
He grins. “Yeah, they were all true.”
I draw my head back, surprised, as I look over the top of my aviators. “So you knew you wanted to be a chef at sixteen?”
His brows rise. “You’re just gonna pass over that I saved an old woman and her kitten. Cool.”
Chase puts his heart eyes back before he starts walking again, making me rush to do the same and keep up.
“Wait . . .” I rush out. “No . . . How did that happen?”
A group of people laughing and talking walk by, so he touches my waist, guiding me out of their way as he speaks.
“Well, my grandmother lived in a small village in Denmark. I used to go there every summer and stay with her. That year, she made it my mission to learn how to cook. Really cook. She showed me everything. I remember being awed by edible flowers—”
The way he’s talking about his grandma keeps making me smile. It’s sweet. And unexpected. I mean, it’s Chase . . . I know he has a family, but I’d also believe he was spawned and found in a cave like a troll.
He lets out a breath, looking down at the ground momentarily, and it makes me frown until he starts back up.
“It was the best summer of my life. Until I accidentally set a grease fire in her kitchen and the house went up.”
I freeze, shocked. “What?”
He stops walking, too, turning to look back at me.
“Hold on . . .” I say, my eyes wide. “Are you telling me the old woman you saved was your grandma . . . and the fire was arson?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles and wags his brows before rubbing his always-stubbled jaw.
“So you’re not so much a hero as you are a felon.”
“I mean, it wasn’t on purpose, Judge Judy. But since she was well respected, she made a big deal about what a hero I was, so they put my face in the paper, and I became a local legend.”
We’re standing there staring at each other before I shake my head. “This is so on brand for you.”
He shrugs, continuing our walk, but I smile, looking ahead at the crowd.
“I bet she’s really proud of how you turned out. At least it paid off, right?”
He doesn’t say anything, so I look up at him. For the first time ever, there’s no bullshit on Chase’s face. His smile is so gentle, wistful, even.
He tips his head in a single nod before he says, “I hope so. She passed the next year, but I think she’d be really happy that I’m not starting any more grease fires, for sure.”
My words catch in the back of my throat because I feel embarrassed I didn’t know. But before I can say anything, he changes the subject, pointing toward some other food carts. “Hungry?”
I follow his lead and nod, even though I’m not.
We’re quiet for a bit as we make our way to a food truck, but then all my unsaid thoughts begin gnawing at me.
“I’m sorry,” I awkwardly blurt out. “I didn’t know . . . I . . . I wouldn’t have brought it up if I had.”
“It’s all good.” He lifts his hand to the back of my neck, gently squeezing once before letting go. But goose bumps explode over my skin. “I like talking about her.”
I swallow, trying to ignore the feel of his hand still imprinted on my skin.
“Were you close?”
I can’t believe I’m even thinking this, but I want to know more about him. Goldie was right—I almost bristle at the thought—he is different than what I expected.
“Yeah, we were really close. I always looked forward to seeing her. My sisters never wanted to go for more than a week, so it was just me the rest of the time.” We fall in line for food, but I’m not paying attention to anyone but him.
“My family’s cool, don’t get me wrong. I am loved.
But growing up was always boarding schools, galas, holidays, trips.
We didn’t do, like, family dinners on a Sunday or binge-watch television together.
That was summer with my grandma. We laughed for hours on end, gossiped about all her friends, and played countless hands of poker.
She taught me so much of what I know about food and life. ”
I stare at his face, and for the first time, I have nothing snarky to say. In fact, I have nothing to say at all. I’m just happy listening.
He smiles down to me. “She kind of reminds me of your family. It’s probably why I like your mom and Goldie so much.”
I beam. “That’s a really great compliment, because Grandma sounds pretty awesome.”
We move up in line, and I’m still staring at his profile when he flips the script. “Your turn. You know enough about me for now . . . Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“Oof,” I breathe out, dropping my face to my hands.
“How about when you fell in love with horror?”
I narrow my eyes and say something more honest than I expect from myself. “Since I can remember . . . I was a weird kid. I literally hid in my room and watched The Exorcist at, like, ten, and then tried for months to re-create the pea soup—”
He laughs, but I roll my eyes, amused too.
“—but now, my lifelong romance feels more like it’s heading toward an impending divorce. I’m just not . . .”
He cuts in. “It’s too real.”
Not a question. A statement. As if what I feel is the obvious correct conclusion. He’s not trying to pry or fix me; he just gets it.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I mean, I knew that art imitated life, but I never thought like this . . . and it sucks because I loved what I do.”
“Is that why you asked G to get you the spot on the FX team on our movie? It was like your version of exposure therapy.”
I giggle. “Yeah, kind of. I thought I could, I don’t know, put it back in its right compartment or something?”
It’s so surreal talking about this shit out loud because I haven’t said this to anyone else. Not even my sister. But I guess if I think about it, it makes sense. I don’t want my sister to worry about me, and I don’t have that fear with Chase.
“How’d that work for ya?”
The people in front of us leave with their food, making us next up.
“Well, I’m scared of the dark, and I sleep like shit still, soo . . .” I level but smile as he motions for me to look ahead.
I lift my eyes, seeing a menu, and the first thing on it says: Gamja Hot Dog.
He remembered our shared love of them.
A sweet Korean woman speaks in Korean to a teenage boy behind her before facing us at the counter.
“How can I help you?”
Before I can order, Chase rattles off an order . . . in Korean. My head snaps to his profile, shocked.
“What! Who are you?”
He laughs. “What are you talking about? Did you want one with cheese? I assumed because of your allergy . . .”
Smart-ass. I push his chest. He doesn’t budge.
“You know what I’m talking about. Since when do you speak Korean?”
“His accent is pretty good,” the lady offers before turning to make our order. “You’ve been studying hard.”
“Thank you,” he says to her before grinning at me. “I speak three languages, actually.”
Three? Do I even really know this guy?
“This is a bit.” I smile with my mouth wide open. “This isn’t real. You’re pulling my leg. You don’t speak three languages.”
“I do.”
I cross my arms as I turn my whole body to face him. “Prove it.”
He runs his hand through his hair, amused by me. “Well, there’s English. I’m speaking to you in it.”
“But you said three,” I press.
“What is the big deal?” He grins, grabbing some napkins. “You don’t speak anything else?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m one of those Americans who feels dumb in Europe because our mother was a terrible teacher and never taught me or Goldie Spanish.”
“You don’t even know a few lines or curse words?”
His phone dings in his back pocket, making him pull it out as my eyes pop open.
“Oh my god. Wait, I remember. It’s Spanish . . . that’s three. You spoke it to my mom.”
He laughs and shakes his head as he checks the message. “No, I just know a few things here and there.”
“Then tell me what the third language is.”
His phone dings again, and this time, he smirks, reading the text.
Who’s texting you this early in the day? That’s dumb.