Chapter 8 Erin
“Oh my God!” I yell as I move to grab a tea towel as fast as I can to mop up the coffee I just knocked all over the table and onto Chase’s lap. Chase just laughs. “I’m so sorry,” I stammer, as I hand it to him.
“It’s alright, Bookworm, it’s just coffee. It’ll come out.” His voice is neutral, relaxed—so different from the way my pulse hammers under my skin.
My flesh burns hot, betraying me in the most obvious way, and I force myself to breathe deeply before I can overthink myself into a mess.
“Can I grab a shower?” he asks.
“Yes, of course,” I say, staring at the stain on his clothes and moving for the stairs, leading him into the guest bathroom. And because I’m an idiot, I simply point at the shower stall and the towel cabinet and speak like a cave woman.
“Shower. Towels.”
His grin is boyish as he mimics my movements. He points to himself first and then me.
“Chase. Erin.”
God, why does he have to smile like that?
My stomach does a slow flip as I leave him to it before I can embarrass myself any further in front of this beautiful specimen of a man.
The melody of his smooth voice singing Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey,” mixed in with the gentle water sounds from the showerhead sends a shiver up my spine.
I grip the edge of the door. I shouldn’t be reacting this way. Not to a man I barely know. Not to anyone
As soon as I’m back downstairs in my kitchen, I throw the stained dish towel into the washing machine and pull out my phone.
Me: Bella Silver!
Bella: Erin Silver Callahan!
Me: Why did you send him over?
Bella: You had my bag with Brodie’s keys.
Me: And Chase just happened to bring my favorite coffee with him when he came for them?
Bella: He did? Woah. What a coincidence. Now stop texting me. You have a guest and don’t hog the cheese sauce!
Me: He’s not here right now.
Bella: I will kill you if you tell me you sent that hot-as-fuck man away!
Me: He’s in the shower.
Bella: OMG! Get it girl!
Multimedia message incoming.
I roll my eyes and open it. It’s a picture of Bella giving me a thumbs-up.
Me: You’re an idiot. You know full well I didn’t shower with him.
Bella: Shame.
Me: Is that a bird on your T-shirt?
Bella: I think so. It’s Brodie’s. I slept in it last night, and I’m definitely stealing it.
Me: I hope you were safe.
Bella: Yes, MOM! See you at the game!
I scoff at her last text message, shake my head, and distract myself with cleaning.
There’s a beautiful man in my shower.
I’ve never had a guy in my house before, let alone in my bathroom. He probably thinks my shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel collection surpasses obsession.
My hands busy themselves with soapy water as I soak the dish in the sink.
I wasn’t expecting to have breakfast with Chase—or anyone else, for that matter—and the next thing I know, he’s at my table enjoying a meal I didn’t prepare for him.
It was all going smoothly, too. For a moment, I was just a girl enjoying a guy’s company, but then he touched me. There was nothing sexual, flirty, or suggestive about it.
But I felt that zap.
Right down to my core.
Chase didn’t seem to notice the war raging inside my head as I chanted my mantras over and over again.
After he dropped me off last night, I took a shower, crawled into bed, turned off the light, and replayed everything about the evening. He’d been kind and sweet.
A perfect gentleman.
Those same butterflies I felt at Hendrick’s Bar came fluttering back the moment I saw his handsome face at my door with a coffee in his hand.
I pull open a kitchen drawer and place the cutlery in the slot, the silverware rattling softly.
Now, while he’s upstairs, all I can think about is why my mother’s piercing voice hasn’t come out to play games with me. I talked to Chase for most of the night, but there hasn’t been a peep from her. Not a single whisper.
The different mantras I use never silence her voice completely. Even when I say them like a broken record, she still sometimes finds a way to slip through.
I thought last night would be one of those times she’d break in.
I expected it.
I waited for it.
But her claws never came out.
And now, Chase is here. In my house. And still, nothing.
I wish I could be the type of girl who could take this as a win. I wish I could breathe and enjoy the peace and quiet.
It’s been three years since I heard her voice on a regular basis—apart from the Wess incident, that is. I told Roberta I’m doing well, and I am, but at the same time, I’m not naive enough to believe my mother just decided to take a vacation from taunting me.
I know better.
It’s like she’s waiting.
Lurking in the dark parts of my mind, biding her time for something bigger.
The sounds of footsteps on the stairs pull me out of the memories I wish I didn’t have. Chase’s hair is damp, and there’s a patch on his shirt from where he’s tried to blot the coffee stains, but it doesn’t look awful.
He tousles his wet hair with his right hand, droplets of water flicking out to the side. I can’t help but stare. Only two words come to mind as I do.
Hot damn.
I force myself to look away before he notices me looking. My fingers twist in the hem of my sweater, trying to find a piece to grip and anchor me.
He bends to put on his shoes, and I stare as though it’s the most remarkable thing on the planet. As he pulls on his laces, I wonder whether going anywhere with him is a wise idea.
He’s just a guy.
I can have a conversation.
It’s a Little League game.
I’m not my mother.
He looks up and frowns as if he recognizes and understands everything that’s going through my head.
“You’re wearing the same look you had at the bar. Like a thought is nagging at you in the back of your mind. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“You caught that?” I mumble.
“Hard to miss. I wasn’t watching anybody else but you that night.”
My pulse quickens but still no mother.
“I don’t… I—um.” I pause to breathe. “Bella is usually the only person I hang out with.”
I pull my cardigan over my hands. Chase clocks my movement. He doesn’t respond, but his lips twitch at my confession, a silent acknowledgment that he’s pleased I’m being honest with him.
“I don’t really know how to do this.” I sigh and wonder if I’ve been too honest.
He walks over to me.
Slow, cautious steps.
“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended if you choose to stay in and curl up with a book. But, if you do choose to come, you’ll be safe with me,” he says, with his hands in his pockets.
I stare at him, pleasantly surprised, as his deep chuckle sets off a traitorous flutter in me.
I am not my mother.
I am not my mother.
I am not my mother.
“Safe?” I repeat.
“I won’t let anything happen to you. Won’t make you uncomfortable or regret leaving your house. You’ll be safe,” he repeats.
The word hits me like a wave deep in my gut, causing an ache I don’t expect—kind, nurturing, unfamiliar. Safety isn’t a thing I associate with men.
“Spend the day with me, Bookworm.” He holds out his hand. I stare at it for a few seconds before looking up at his face. “Who knows, you might like it.”
His words buzz around me because the truth is, I think I will.
And that’s the problem.
Wanting is dangerous.