Chapter 27 #2
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, as close as I can be with my schedule. I don’t see her as much as I should. She keeps telling me I work too much, and she’s probably right.”
“Probably?” I cocked a brow.
“Fine. Definitely. Fuck. She’s my mom. She’s always right.” Finally, his smile reached his eyes. “She’d like you, I think. She’s always trying to set me up with people. Nice boys from church, her friends’ sons, the guy who bags groceries at Publix—”
I groaned. “Your mum pulled the grocery bagger setup on you, too?”
“Grocery boy love knows no borders.” Chase laughed.
“Clearly.”
Our crepes arrived. Dear God, Chase had been right. They were incredible.
We ate in comfortable silence before I asked, “So what made you want to go into law? You said you wanted to help people, but was that what drove you?”
“Yeah.” Chase set down his fork and got that distant look again.
“When I was seventeen, maybe eighteen, there was this case on the local news for weeks. It was a custody battle between the top cop in town and his wife, the mayor. High profile, and even higher emotions. A real mess. I remember watching them fight over their kid, using him as a weapon against each other. I was in high school and wouldn’t have even noticed if the local stations hadn’t turned it into a hometown version of The Real Housewives or something.
It was ugly and public, and the poor kid was just caught in the middle. No one seemed to care what he wanted.”
Chase was staring at his plate now, not quite meeting my gaze.
“I remember thinking, someone should stand up for that kid. Someone should make sure his voice is heard. The whole thing just felt so wrong.” Chase’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t understand how the system worked or what it all meant, but I knew I had to do something.
I might not be able to help that one kid, but I could go to law school, do family law, and help other kids who were stuck in the middle of their parents’ bullshit. ”
“That’s—that’s really admirable.”
“It was so naive.” He looked up. “Turns out most of family law is property division and alimony disputes. The cases with kids are rare, and even when you get them, you can’t always help.
Sometimes the system is broken. Sometimes both parents are terrible.
Sometimes—” He stopped and shook his head. “Sometimes you can’t save everyone.”
There was something raw in his voice now, something personal.
I wanted to ask about it.
Wanted to dig deeper into whatever had just crossed his face.
But then Chase straightened, picked up his coffee, and when he looked at me again, the walls were back up. I could still see warmth in his gaze, but that brief glimpse of vulnerability had evaporated.
“Anyway,” he said, his voice lighter now, though sounding a bit forced. “That’s why I’m drowning in paperwork and falling asleep in soup at Diego’s house. I’m living the dream.”
“Nightmares are dreams, too,” I said.
Chase nearly spit coffee. “That might be the truest thing you’ve ever said. But it has its moments. Enough serious talk. Tell me about the bar. You’ve been open, what, three weeks?”
“Yeah. It was slow at first, but the theme nights are working. We’re busy enough to need more staff.”
“The pink-haired chaos tornado?”
I chuckled. “Benji made you that drink last night. Give him credit. He’s a fucking bad-ass bartender, even if he’s . . . unique.”
“Fair.” Chase took a bite of his crepe. “What made you open a bar?”
I told him about my miserable job, then about Mark and his crazy ideas. I told him about finding Rod, how he'd left his fancy restaurant, and about the absolute terror of opening night and thinking we’d failed.
When I ran out of words, it was a surprise how much had happened in such a short time—and how much we’d accomplished.
“It’s only been a couple of weeks,” I said. “Sometimes I can’t believe we’re still open. Other times it feels like we’ve been doing this forever.”
“You love it though.”
“I do, even when it’s chaos—probably because it’s chaos. It’s mine, you know? Ours. Mark and I built this from nothing.”
“That’s incredible, Finn. Really.” Chase reached across the table and took my hand. “You should be proud.”
“I am. And I’m terrified. And excited. And exhausted. And a dozen other things I’ll realize in a week or month or year.”
We kept talking—about everything and nothing.
The Lightning’s chances at the playoffs.
Whether Horny Rivals was good television or just gay soft porn with a network budget.
Our worst jobs (his: telemarketing in college; mine: a stint at a chain restaurant that shall not be named).
Favorite movies.
Least favorite foods.
And a dozen other things.
But I kept thinking about one moment, that singular instant when Chase’s walls had cracked and something painful had flickered across his face.
There was more there. More story. More hurt. I could feel it.
I wanted to ask, to go back to that moment, to dig deeper and understand this man and what he’d been through, but he wasn’t ready to share it yet.
And that was okay.
I was mid-sentence—something about Benji’s pink hair being a legitimate business decision—when I glimpsed the clock on the wall.
10:04 a.m.
“Shit,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s after ten. I’m so sorry. You said you had work to do. Some mediation—”
“It’s tomorrow.” Chase followed my gaze to the clock. “But yeah, I should—” He sighed, looking reluctant. “I should get to the office. I’ve got a ton of prep work and files to review . . . the usual.”
“I’m sorry for keeping you.”
“Don’t be.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “I’m glad you stayed. This was—this is the best Sunday morning I’ve had in forever.”
“Even with the war crime breath?”
“Even with that.”
We rose and strode out into the growing Tampa heat, walking back toward Barbacks, where I’d left my car. The streets were busier now, with brunch crowds and tourists and the city waking up properly.
When we reached my car, Chase stopped and turned to face me, his hands shoving into his pockets and gaze flicking about the parking lot.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“I had a really good time.”
“Me, too.”
“Can I see you again? Like, officially? Not just me showing up at your bar?”
I smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He stepped closer, his hands escaping his pockets and finding my waist. “I’m going to kiss you now. In public. In broad daylight. Is that okay?”
“I’m Irish. We kiss everywhere.”
And so he did—soft, sweet, tasting of coffee and sausage and salty-bitter onions.
His lips felt like the promise of more to come.
When we broke apart, I was smiling like an idiot.
“Text me later?” Chase asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ooh, I like that. You can call me sir as much as you like.”
I covered my blushing face with a palm.
“Good luck with the watch party tonight.”
“Good luck with your files.”
He shoved my hand aside and kissed me once more—quick, almost shy—and then stepped back.
“See you soon, Finnigan O’Brien.”
My smile grew painful. “You, too, counselor.”
I watched him walk down the sidewalk toward his house. His hands had returned to his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched against the morning sun, looking like what he was—a lawyer heading to work on a Sunday morning.
When he got about thirty yards away, he stopped and turned back.
And found me still leaning against my car, watching him.
He stared a moment, then smiled—that genuine, unguarded smile I was becoming addicted to—and waved.
It wasn’t a cool wave.
Oh, no, it was a dorky, enthusiastic, slightly-too-much wave that belonged in a poorly attended Disney movie.
I raised one hand and wiggled my fingers.
Equally dorky.
Equally enthusiastic.
Something fluttered in my chest.
Something unfamiliar and terrifying and unexpected.
It wasn’t love. God, not that. It was far too soon for that.
But it was something.
Something that made me want to see him again.
And again.
Chase turned away and kept walking, disappearing around a corner.
I got in my car and sat there for a moment, my hands on the steering wheel, as I replayed the conversation we’d just had and tried to keep my goofy grin in check.
On the seat next to me, my phone buzzed.
Chase: You loved the crepe. Admit it. I am a breakfast god.
Me: A minor deity. Possibly.
Chase: All hail, the King of Crepes!
Me: I’m moving back to Ireland now. Thank you for your service . . . and your coffee.
I started the car and smiled all the way home.