Chapter Nine Chase #2
I can’t help but squeal, bouncing inside the grandiose glass doors before I’m immediately hit with boisterous laughter and what sounds like a passionate conversation about duck fat wafting from the kitchen.
The smile on my face is immediate as Chase moves in behind me, whispering down to my ear.
“Welcome to my home,” he whispers.
Home?
I blink. Taking it all in at once.
While he may have said his “friends” were here, I think he meant family, because it reminds me of mine—loud, boisterous, and full of joy.
Home is that kind of perfect place that makes you feel cozy and the most yourself you’ll ever be. I grin, realizing this is a place where he’s himself.
Someone yells from the back in French, and I see white napkins fly, so I turn and look at Chase over my shoulder with a smile still on my face.
But he just grins. “Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in. They’ll love you. Just bring your A game. The sarcasm is top tier here.”
I blink too quickly as he takes the lead, walking quickly, so I follow. And while I’m less worried about my appearance, I’m somehow more nervous.
Wait, why am I nervous? If they’re anything like him, I’ll deserve severance for the good acting job I’ll be forced to do before I quit this dinner and run.
We weave through the front room, filled with unsullied tables topped with expensive linens and tiny gold lamps. He glances back at me as the noise from the kitchen grows louder.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, because pride is written all over his face.
He should be proud. Even the gold-leaf wallpaper-banked walls are gorgeous and elegant. And yet, it feels cozy like his restaurant in Boston. There’s a distinct comfort while still feeling elevated.
He’s good at this . . . Nothing else, just this.
“Yeah.” He winks. “You should come back when it’s open . . . say, two and a half weeks?”
Goldie told me about the opening, but I’d planned to have other plans.
I shrug. “Put me at Goldie and Noah’s table.” I reach out, touching a sage green menu with gold lettering that’s stacked on a table. “This place looks expensive. They can pay.”
He laughs, opening one side of a set of black double doors with his back, letting me walk in first.
But as I do, the kitchen goes silent. Only the sound of the doors swinging closed can be heard as I come to stand next to Chase.
Well, this is awkward. There are too many sets of eyes on us and quiet swallows of wine happening along the family-style table.
I tug the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands while lifting my face to Chase’s.
Without any form or formality, he says, “Fellas—Evie. Evie—fellas.”
I give him an empty laugh before I turn my face back to theirs, raising a hand and waving hi. But I immediately start laughing because, like an explosion, cheers erupt, along with whistles, before suddenly everyone’s up on their feet, coming to greet me.
What is happening?
Chase steps away, throwing me to the adorable wolves as I’m pulled into handshakes and hugs. So many people are introducing themselves and kissing me on both cheeks. And although I’m good with names, it’s a little overwhelming . . . but in the best way.
I find his eyes, watching him watch me before he walks to the other side of the table smirking. Maybe because I’m asked a slew of questions that sound more like statements.
“Have the lamb . . . Do you love lamb? Have the lamb.” . . . “Red wine . . . not white. Yes?” . . . “Why it take you so long to finally come here? It was too long.”
The last question is said with an accent. Chase’s voice interjects casually, “Lasciatela stare. è qui ora.” (Leave her alone. She’s here now.)
Hot. Wait, was that Italian?
Because his friends are what I imagine a bunch of Italian grandmas would be like. The man who spoke last laughs, waving his hands in the air before giving me a wink.
This is wild. Oh my god.
Out of nowhere, a chair is produced, and a plate of food appears. One of the guys, who introduces himself as Felix, whips a napkin in his hand, dusting off the seat, before another someone takes my hand and I’m seated, the aforementioned napkin placed in my lap.
I laugh and say thank you, but I barely get it out before a glass of wine is poured and placed in front of me, with too many voices saying, “Eat, eat.”
Chase stands at the other end of the table, handing the wine bottles off one by one while staring at me. I smile as a cork pops and his glass is filled.
He lifts it, quieting the table. “This has been a helluva journey. It’s been blood, sweat, and tears—”
“Most of them from Gage,” someone jokes, and they all laugh.
Who’s Gage? I have no idea, but I laugh too.
But Chase just smiles. “Here’s to our first supper . . . and to all the people who understand that food is more than restaurants and money—”
“But we like that too,” another guy bellows to more hoots and hollers.
Chase raises his glass higher. “It’s about old friends”—he looks at me—“and new ones. But most importantly, it’s about family.”
Everyone raises their glasses high, cheering, but I’m silent because Chase Beckett is really starting to get under my skin. And not in the way I’m used to.
Maybe real friends aren’t the worst idea after all.
The night moves slowly, but it’s still over too fast.
God, I wish I had two stomachs. We dined on the whole menu.
It was a final tasting, and damn, was it tasty.
Between the caviar-topped scallops and the poached cod in the most insane orange sauce that felt like I was eating a creamsicle, I was in heaven. But the pièce de résistance was slices of wagyu with potatoes that are three hundred dollars a pound called la bonnotte.
I’m ruined for life. He’s literally made it impossible for me to put anything in my mouth other than him . . .
What the hell did I just think? Other than his food. Jesus.
I slide a hand over my tummy because it’s so full it almost hurts. Or maybe it’s that I’ve laughed so hard tonight between Felix the Frenchman and Leo the Italian Stallion, as he calls himself, that I decreased my capacity for food.
But they had so many stories to tell me about Chase. And it’s weird because it was like they were talking about someone I’d never met.
Who he is here, in this place, is so different from the dumbass Noah Adler sidekick in the outside world.
Or maybe that’s just the box I put him in.
As I think it, I hear a familiar conversation coming from his side of the table, but it’s hard to make out because dishes are clanking as everyone begins to clear.
“Leo, Leo, get in on this. Chase is defending his love of women born in the sixties.”
Leo hums like it’s vibrating his chest, but I roll my eyes, remembering back to the first time I heard this nonsense. I could’ve done with missing out on this for the second time.
“No,” Chase bellows, his dimple flirting with me as he holds up a finger, staring directly at me as if he knows I’m judging him.
I am. “Put that look away. Let me make my point. I am not saying women in the sixties. All women are beautiful, from every era. I just happen to think that the bar was set by one . . . and she was born in 1967.”
He leans back in his seat as I lift a brow, waiting for the reveal. Because he’s so full of shit with whatever buxom playmate he self-cared to because he found a dirty magazine somewhere.
I’m folding my napkin on to the table, about to go off about how men have no place in a conversation about women’s looks. How their standard isn’t about beauty but sex, when his voice cracks my feminist rage.
“Lisa Bonet,” he levels.
Oh. I mean . . .
My eyes narrow the way they always do when I feel like he’s one-upped me. And he smirks the way he always does when he knows he has.
There’s respectful agreement from around the room as I stare at him.
But I’d be a liar if I said my stomach wasn’t doing that weird flutter thing.
Because while we’re locked on each other from over the table, noise happening all around, I’m in a bubble, remembering that night at the wedding when he leaned in and said, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Lisa Bonet?”
Our gaze breaks because I’m too chicken to let it be held. Because while I don’t like him . . . I did like that.
I glance at my wineglass, hoping I can blame the Cab for my thoughts, but I only had a sip since I have to drive home.
“You look like her,” Felix offers, like some kind of op trying to kill my resolve.
I laugh and hold up my glass, determined to change the subject. “To the best dinner I’ve ever had. And to whoever’s doing the dishes. Because, not it.”
Laughter abounds as they all jump on board, saying Not it, until it reaches Chase, who says “Fuck you, guys,” making us all laugh harder.
I take another sip of my red wine and place the glass down, looking between my new European besties.
“Maybe we should help clear, too, so he has all the dishes in one spot when he pulls his weight?”
They laugh and agree. So I make my way around, gathering plates and glasses, sometimes handing them off to others and other times walking back to the sinks to place them myself.
And while I don’t avoid Chase’s eyes on purpose as I chat with everyone else, I don’t search for them either. Conveniently, he’s deep in conversation with someone I haven’t met yet.
“My angel,” Leo seduces with that damn accent as he points to where Chase is standing. “The plates there . . .”
I make my way over, trying not to think about the Lisa Bonet of it all as I reach for his friend’s plate, saying, “Let me just grab—”
But Chase is doing the same, and our fingers brush. I gasp because you’d think we’d been hit by lightning the way both of our hands jump back, and we immediately lock eyes.
“Sorry,” I rush out, but he’s already shaking his head.
“No, it was all me. I . . .”
His voice trails off as his friend laughs and picks up his own plate. I turn and greet him, trying to ignore the moment. But before I can say anything, he beats me to the punch.
“Wow. Evie Monroe, in the flesh.”