Chapter Eight Chase #4
“Read your text,” I blurt out, immediately wishing I could put the words back inside my mouth. But I can’t, so I add, “In the language . . .”
His eyes lock with mine as he stares at me for the longest minute, and then the side of his lip quirks up.
“Tes yeux sont couleur champagne et étoiles. Et je veux m’y noyer en te regardant sous moi.” (Your eyes are the color of champagne and stars. And I want to drown in them while I look at you beneath me.)
Jesus Christ.
Our hot dogs are ready, so he turns to get them, letting me grab the drinks. But I feel as if I’ve been dipped in that hot batter because Chase speaks French . . . like really sexy French. Not that there’s any other version.
I swallow, quietly watching him before I try and squeak out “What did you say?” nonchalantly.
He shrugs, teasing me. “I can’t tell you because it’s none of your business.”
My brows draw together as I blow on my hot dog, following him over to a bench, and we trade a beverage for a dog. “Oh, come on. Make it my business. I just need to know.”
“Why?”
I’m caught. There’s no answer for that question that doesn’t out me as thinking he sounded sexy. And to make matters worse, he’s looking at me like he wants me to take that bait.
I can’t stop smiling out of embarrassment. I’m positive my cheeks are red.
“Fine. Don’t tell me,” I toss back, needing to stop looking at him. I take a bite of my food but immediately hashahasha as I chew.
He chuckles. “Want me to say something else?”
I’m not answering that because the only thing I’ll say is Yes, please.
He relaxes back onto the bench, his leg crossed and his arm extended across the back as he eats, still staring at my profile. I will not look at you.
But I can’t help but glance over. He smiles. I take another bite of my food.
Chase leans in close to my ear, stopping my chewing.
“Voglio essere il tuo ragazzo, quindi la prossima volta che sarò così vicino, mi lascerai baciarti.” (I want to be your boyfriend, so next time I’m this close, you’ll let me kiss you.)
My eyes grow wide before I turn my face to his, blinking too close to him.
“You said three languages,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. “I just started learning Korean. Those Netflix dramas really got me in a chokehold.”
I can feel a light breeze glide over my arm as our eyes stay locked. Oh, we are way too close, but I don’t move away either. Heartbeats count as seconds before my thoughts begin to bleed through.
Are we having a moment? Oh yeah, this is a moment . . . Wait, no. We can’t have any moments. Shit.
I quickly look away, hearing him exhale softly before he goes back to his figurative corner.
“Are you going to tell me what that meant?”
He huffs a laugh. “It was my answer to Noah’s text earlier.”
It feels safer to look at him, so I chance it, seeing he’s enjoying whatever’s about to come out of his mouth next.
“I told him to bring back the good olive oil. Said he’ll know it because it’s slicker than lube.”
And ladies and gentlemen, he’s back. Foreign-language crush, crushed.
“If you ever wondered why you’re single . . .” I hand him the stick from my food before I take the last sip of my drink, holding that out, too, so he can throw it away with his. “What you just said is why.”
He stands, and so do I as he throws away our stuff before we start walking again.
“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Girls do have a hard time with exceptional humor. You know, ’cause they’re not funny.
” He laughs and jumps away from me, wincing because I instantly shoot daggers from my eyes.
“Kidding.” His voice is boisterous and filled with humor.
“I swear . . . but since you’re a love expert, when’s the last time you were in something other than a situationship? ”
He motions his head toward a row of tents with stacks and stacks of fruit as I answer, “Don’t you know? I’m in a permanent relationship with my independence.”
“You don’t think you’d live out a poly relationship with your independence and a dude? I hear you can have both nowadays. Shit, you’re even allowed to vote, in case you haven’t heard.”
I laugh. Like truly unguarded. Every once in a while, he’s actually kind of funny.
But still, it’s not a question I want to answer, because the only answer is that I’m a little fucked up. There’s too much baggage coming along with this ride.
I not so slyly change the subject.
“So almost four languages, huh? Was that the consequence of boarding school?”
He shakes his head, so onto me, and raises his voice. “Hell has frozen over. She wants to talk about me, everyone.”
“Shut up,” I rush out, reaching up to cover his mouth, but he grabs my wrist, lowering my arm gently.
“Sue me. I’m fascinated. I kind of always thought you were a rich-boy douchebag whose only saving grace was that he wasn’t an elitist. But it turns out you’re a nonelitist rich-boy douchebag who speaks three, almost four languages and saved your grandma from a fire . . . that you started.”
The way he laughs is like an explosion. It’s loud and intrusive, but if he was a wine, he’d be a really expensive bottle with a bold flavor.
And I can’t help myself—I pull out my phone and take his picture. When he looks at me, I shrug and say, “Proof of life . . . for our guardians.”
But really, it’s proof that I don’t completely despise hanging out with Chase Beckett. No matter how problematic that feels.