THIRTEEN
SERENA
ELLE: Obsessed with seeing you and Chase all over my feed!
ELLE: You look so hot!
SERENA: You remember it’s fake, right?
ELLE: Do you? I still remember your acting skills from the school play, don’t forget! You were so terrible, everyone thought you were doing it on purpose for comical effect.
SERENA: You’re starting to sound like Liv. Everything is going according to plan!
ELLE: Liv is worried about you? Now I definitely am!
Something is different. The thought nudges and pesters until finally I’m pulled from sleep. I keep my eyes closed but stretch out my arm. It’s lying on something solid and warm. The same solid warmth that my body is pressed to and my leg hooked around.
It almost feels like I’m?—
Reality hits with a jolt as I realize what that something is.
Chase.
My pulse stutters. My eyes fly open. The bedroom is cast in a muted gray light creeping through the slats of the blinds. It’s overcast outside; the sky is heavy with cloud cover. But still giving enough light for me to see Chase clearly. His face is relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted. That chiseled jaw with the shadow of unshaved stubble. He’s still only wearing loose basketball shorts. His torso bare. My eyes skim down the hard lines of his chest and arms, the sculpted definition of his abs.
Not for the first time, I wonder how much easier life would be if my best friend looked like a normal human instead of a Calvin Klein model crossed with a golden retriever superhero, looking one step away from causing mischief or running into a burning building to rescue kittens. An ugly best friend would’ve been so much easier. Or even a female one. Anyone but this man I’m currently wrapped around. But every time I think that, I remember how the world seems to quiet down when we’re talking. How we just… fit. And somehow, that makes everything harder.
I should move.
I need to move!
If I’m careful I can do it without waking Chase. Pretend I didn’t fall asleep in his bed, that I didn’t find my way into his arms while we slept. Except, it isn’t just my body pressed against Chase; my leg is hooked possessively—traitorously—over the solid muscle of his thigh, and Chase’s strong arms are wrapped around me, anchoring me in place.
I draw in a slow breath, catching the lingering scent of sandalwood and vanilla and something manly underneath. Something all Chase that reminds me of my teen years and late nights on the ranch, lying on a blanket in an empty paddock, staring up at the stars, making plans and dreaming big. Chase talked of being the best quarterback in the NFL. I talked of leading the cheer team onto the field, secretly dreaming of that star quarterback seeing me as more than a friend one day.
And here I am in his bed. Heat spreads through my body. A want that leaves my mouth dry and my core aching. Last night’s conversation rushes back. My confession about mediocre sex, about never feeling that mythical fire. Over the years, I’ve convinced myself that kind of passion doesn’t exist. It’s easier to pretend that the films and books exaggerate and lie, than face the reality: I’ve never had a real connection with anyone I’ve dated. Sexual or otherwise.
I’m twenty-eight and have never had an orgasm courtesy of anyone but myself. Never been in love with someone who’s loved me back the same way. Never even come close to finding my happy-ever-after. And I’m terrified to admit that the reason for my pitiful track record might have something—everything—to do with the man sleeping beside me right now. That maybe, no matter how much I’ve shoved all those feelings I once had into a box, buried it so deep it no longer exists, I’ve still been measuring every man I meet, not just against my own standards, but against my best friend. And no one has ever measured up to him.
Chase’s breathing changes from quiet breaths to a long sigh. His hand moves down my back, and for a moment I think he’s going to cup my ass, but then he freezes like he’s realizing that it’s me. I shut my eyes, pretending I’m still asleep. Like I haven’t been lying here admiring every inch of his body. But my cheeks are burning and it’s useless to pretend, because I’m certain he can feel the rapid thud of my heart drumming in my chest.
“Morning,” I murmur.
“Morning, princess.” Chase’s voice is rough with sleep, and I can feel the rumble of it in his chest where my hand is still pressed.
“We’re still doing ‘princess,’ are we?” My laugh sounds all wrong as I pull my leg back from where it’s draped over his thigh. “Sorry. Must have gotten cold in the night.”
He chuckles, but it’s awkward, too. His arm tightens around me for a second before he seems to realize what he’s doing and lets go. “Yeah, me too. Sorry if I crushed you.”
Sorry if I was humping your leg in the night. I keep the thought to myself and shift away from him. His smile is lopsided, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes when he looks at me. I look down and realize my tee has twisted and is pulling against my breasts, showing the clear points of my nipples.
“If you need to warm up some more,” he quips, flashing me a wolfish grin and opening his arms.
I force a laugh, swatting at his chest. “Shut up.” I’m half dying inside, but grateful he thinks my nipples are pebbled because of the cold and not because of how hot I am for him.
“Hey, no judgment. I mean, who wouldn’t want to cuddle with this for warmth?” He gestures dramatically at himself, and I can’t help but laugh again.
“Come on,” I say, standing up and padding to the door. “You promised me a shopping spree.”
He groans, deep and long, and I swear the sound does something feral to my body because suddenly I’m squeezing my legs together. “Or we could watch a movie and eat junk food?”
“No way. You promised candles and throw pillows,” I reply, waving a hand around the bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s bare. A bed, a nightstand. A closet and drawers. No pictures, no chair, no lamp even.
“I’ll let you choose the movie,” he says, voice sugary-sweet.
“No way.” I shake my head. “I’m taking a shower. You make the coffee.” I’m halfway back to the spare room where I left my clothes—where I should’ve slept last night—when I call back. “And remember I like?—”
“Caramel syrup in your first cup of the day,” he cuts in before I get the chance. “I remember.”
“And yet you still can’t remember that I hate it when you put ketchup on my fries for me.”
“Oh, I remember,” Chase calls from his bedroom. “I just like watching you freak out about the ketchup touching your fries.” The deep boom of his laugh follows me into the bathroom.
The room is large with gray slate tiles, a rainfall shower, and a mirror over the sink. I strip out of my clothes and let the steam envelop me as I step under the spray. The hot water prickles over my skin, pebbling my nipples again. And suddenly I’m not thinking about coffee or Chase’s teasing. I’m thinking of the heat I swear I saw in his eyes when he noticed my nipples pushing through my tee. I’m thinking of how it felt to press my body against his. The feel of his hand trailing down my back.
I close my eyes. Allowing my hands to roam over my body, slick with soap now. I linger on the swell of my breasts, my stomach, then down to the ache between my legs. I bite back a groan as I imagine the door opening. Chase stepping in. Naked. Joining me under the water, his hands on my hips, his mouth claiming mine. Fire pools low in my belly. I tip my head back, imagining his mouth?—
A knock on the door jerks me out of the fantasy.
“Coffee’s ready,” Chase calls.
“OK,” I manage, voice breathy. “Thanks. Be out in a minute.”
My skin tingles, my cheeks burn, as I shut off the water. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t believe I almost… thinking about my best friend… in his bathroom. I dress fast, twisting my hair into a bun. A swipe of mascara, a dab of moisturizer. I don’t need anything more. I can do full makeup—shadowed eyes and lipstick—and hair glossy when I want to, but it’s not really me.
Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent half my life trying to be that version of myself. At sixteen, I was captain of the high school cheer squad, and that title came with expectations—on and off the field. Always poised. Always polished. Then two years later came the Stormhawks. While Chase, Harper, and Mia went to college, I jumped straight into pro cheer. The pressure doubled. Bigger stage, brighter lights, and a wider smile even when every muscle ached and I was so tired I could barely remember what day of the week it was. Now I’m on the coaching side, the only person I need to please is myself.
When I pad into the kitchen in jeans and a fitted sweater, Chase is already there in basketball shorts, barefoot and bare-chested, handing me a coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like we didn’t wake up wrapped in each other’s arms.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for the mug. Our fingers brush. My eyes shoot to Chase’s face. He’s smiling back, oblivious to the electricity zinging up my arm.
I clear my throat, holding up my phone. “Are you OK if I record my weather report now?”
He smiles, deliberately flexing. “Let’s put this Chasing Love thing to rest once and for all.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I set my phone against the coffee machine and angle it toward the windows, where the morning light pours in over the Denver skyline. “Honestly, at this point, my viewers don’t care about pressure systems. They’re tuning in for updates on us.”
“Correction,” Chase says, leaning against the counter. “They might show up for the gossip, but they’ll stay for the weather. You’re too awesome for them not to become as obsessed with your updates as I am. You wait and see.”
It’s ridiculous how warm his words make me feel. My biggest champion, even when I’m joking about people only clicking for him.
I’m still smiling as I tap record. “Morning, Denver. We’ve got a cold front pushing down from the northwest this afternoon. Temperatures are gonna drop to the late forties so it’s the perfect excuse to pull out your cozy sweaters, but don’t put those sunglasses away just yet because it’s still going to be bright out.”
As I continue with my report, Chase strolls casually past the frame, sipping his coffee like he’s oblivious to the next tabloid headline he’s just created.
The Denver Fall Fair is less than two weeks away, and this whole fake dating thing will be over. I should be happy. Chase said last night that he’s getting less DMs, and I’ve hardly seen any memes about him. And I’m pretty sure we’ve convinced Ryan. Another few weeks and it will be mission accomplished.
So why does the thought of stopping feel like a gut punch?
The department store in downtown Denver is sprawling and bright, a maze of cozy faux living rooms with curated throws and artfully arranged bookshelves. Bedrooms in dainty prints or bold stripes. Chase and I meander through the aisles, bickering and messing around like we’re ten years old again, being dragged to the grocery store by my mom with the promise of an ice cream afterward.
“What about this one?” I hold up a soft, navy throw pillow with tiny, embroidered stars.
He makes a face. “I mean, sure. If I was eight years old and into space themes.”
“It’s cute.”
“It’s hideous.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m discerning,” he counters. “There’s a difference.”
“OK, Mr. Discerning, how about these bookends?” I lift two sleek marble pieces shaped like mountains that would look gorgeous in the den at his house on the ranch.
“I don’t read enough books to need ends,” he deadpans before his face lights up and he’s reaching for a tacky sign that reads:
Man Cave Rules: No Rules.
“Now this speaks to me.”
“At this stage, I’m not gonna say no if it means you’ll actually agree to buy something.”
Chase sticks out his bottom lip like I’ve spoiled his game. He places the sign back. “Nah. It’s not me.”
I pause near a display of chunky candlesticks, but Chase is shaking his head before I’ve even opened my mouth.
The lightness to our steps fades at the same time as the humor.
“We’ve already walked around this entire store twice,” I say.
“Tell me about it.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “You’ve pointed out everything.”
“And you’ve said no to everything,” I reply.
He shrugs. “I just don’t know what any of this stuff is for. As long as I’ve got a bed and somewhere to sit and watch TV, what else matters?”
“This stuff is the difference between a house and a home.” I turn to face him, arching my brows.
“What?”
“Maybe it isn’t the furnishings that’s the problem. Maybe it’s you,” I say carefully. “You don’t know where your home is.” I watch Chase for a reaction. I love the fun we have, keeping things light most of the time, but I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t push him to open up sometimes too, and Chase refusing to buy anything for either his apartment or his place at the ranch is about way more than his “discerning” taste.
He shakes his head. “That’s not the reason I don’t want this stuff. I have two homes. That’s not it,” he says, the words coming a little too fast as Chase starts to turn away. His sign he wants to move on. Not just from candlesticks, but from this conversation. Except I’ve known Chase long enough to know when a nerve has been hit. When to back away. When to push.
“No,” I continue. “You have two places where you live. It’s not the same thing.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he replies. “Oakwood Ranch is my home.”
“So why haven’t you bought anything for it then? It’s like you think it’s temporary.”
Chase sighs and drops onto a showroom couch in a dark velvet green, the same color as the spruce trees around the lake. It would look perfect in his den. “You really should have a conversation with the sports psychologist I talked to a few years back. You two could compare notes.”
I drop down beside him. “What do you mean?”
“She said the same thing: I can’t commit.”
“Because of your biological mom?” I ask gently, angling my body to face him.
He rubs his shoulder. “I know I should want this stuff, but it’s like there’s a block.” He sighs again. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time this morning.”
I slip my hand into his. Not because we’re fake dating, or to put on a show, but because I want him to know I’m here for him. “Being with you is never wasting my time,” I reply, meaning every word.
Chase leans forward, elbows on knees. “Maybe this is just who I am. I’m not good at commitment. Jen was the longest relationship I’ve had since college and it was still only three months, and I think we both knew it was over before then.” He turns his head to look at me. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve been fake dating my entire life.”
His deep brown eyes soften as he continues to hold my gaze. “It feels like everyone wants the same thing—love, marriage, family. I know I joke around about being the fun uncle, but I seriously don’t think I’m built for anything more, especially the family part.”
An ache hits my chest. It’s not the pulse of want or desire, but something deeper I don’t want to think about. I ignore it and be the friend he needs instead. “Have you thought any more about trying to find your mom?”
He leans back and when he talks again, his voice is distant. “I just don’t know if she wants me to find her. If she wanted to be in touch, she could’ve found me, right? I’m on TV every week, still living at Oakwood Ranch. I’m not exactly hard to find. But she hasn’t, so what does that tell you?”
“Ignore what you think she wants. What do you want? What’s right for you?”
He exhales slowly. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like there’s something missing, like I’m not who I’m meant to be.”
“You’re one of the best quarterbacks in the NFL,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but I can feel this weight on my shoulders and in my chest—” He shrugs. “It’s hard to explain, and sometimes I’m fine and think I’m being dumb because everything is sweet, right?”
“On the surface, sure,” I say carefully. This is the most Chase has ever said about his past, and I want to give him the space to keep going.
“Surface level is what I’m good at.” He squeezes my hand before turning it over and tracing the line of my palm, reminding me of the time when Elle was twelve and we were ten and she convinced us both she could read fortunes. She told us we’d be married one day with four children. Chase and I had howled with laughter at how ridiculous that sounded.
Beside me, I can feel Chase closing off again, and my heart aches for him and what he’s told me. I wish I could make him see how deeply he’s loved. But deep down I know that nothing can fix the wound left behind by Leanna walking away. Only Chase can do that. If he’s ready.
His phone buzzes, and he checks the screen. “It’s Dylan.” He turns his phone to show me the message on the brothers’ message group.
DYLAN: Come to the ranch. Stormhawks business. Bring Serena if she’s with you!
“Stormhawks business? What do you think?—”
“Let’s go find out,” he says, pulling me up from the couch.
Back in Chase’s truck, I stare out the window, watching the city fall away into open road and vast plains. The horizon stretches endlessly, a soft patchwork of leaves turning from green to orange and gold. The clouds are shifting, leaving the sun to streak through the gaps. It’s the kind of view that makes you ache with how beautiful it is, but I hardly notice. Because I’m starting to realize that the box I shoved all my feelings for Chase into six years ago didn’t disappear after all. It’s just been locked up tight. And now the cracks are showing, and feelings I swore I didn’t have anymore are slipping out. And that’s a problem.
Chase might be thoughtful and protective and sexy in a way that makes me feel near feral anytime he touches me, but he’s just admitted he doesn’t want a family and doesn’t know what his life is supposed to look like. This thing between us might be feeling less fake by the day but falling for a man who doesn’t see me as anything but a friend who doesn’t want the same things is a shortcut to another broken heart.
Suddenly the Denver Fall Fair and the end to fake dating can’t come soon enough. Because if I let those feelings out of the box and my heart ends up broken again, I know this time I won’t survive it.