Chapter 10
CHASE
They say time heals all wounds, but apparently, that only applies to physical injuries and not blows to the ego or damaged pride.
Still seated side by side at the dining room table, Pippa erects an invisible wall between us, much like the fortress of cereal boxes I’d construct so my sisters wouldn’t bother me during breakfast when growing up.
She completely ignores me as the meal continues.
When I request the basket of dinner rolls? I remain bunless, though the looks I occasionally receive from other dinner guests suggest they got an eyeful.
When I ask Pippa to pass the salt and pepper? My food remains bland and unseasoned.
When I drop my fork between us? She kicks it out of reach.
She remains the picture of poise but angles slightly away from me.
It’s not like I expected a warm reunion, but I’m little more than a ghost haunting her past.
I become painfully aware of my every move.
Should I scratch the itch on my temple or ignore it?
I need to pop my shoulder, but then I’d risk crossing into her territory.
I have the froggy feeling that tells me that if I’m going to speak anytime soon, I need to clear my throat.
But that will put Pizza’s attention on me and I’m not sure where we stand, er, sit, which is next to each other.
For the first time in memory, gone is smooth-talking, easy-going, charming Chase Collins. In his place, I’ve become an awkward teenager. Fortunately, I skipped that phase, or I’m experiencing an extremely belated case of being a late bloomer.
Pippa merely picks at her plate until her mother says, “Pippa, darling, are you feeling quite well? Why aren’t you eating?”
“No, Mum. I’m fine. I—” Instead of finishing the sentence, with her elbows locked tightly to her body, she takes a dainty bite of her braised asparagus.
“Aren’t you excited about Freddie’s upcoming nuptials? Just think, we’ll be adding to the family,” Mrs. Thompson says.
Pippa sets her fork down, politely wipes her mouth, and pushes her plate away as if that statement alone caused her to lose whatever remained of her appetite.
She’s so dismissive of my very presence, my confusion and dismay shift into a desire to get a reaction out of her. Yes, it’s immature, but I may as well try to thaw the ice a little.
“Maybe she’d rather have a slice of pizza.”
Before Pippa says a word, my mother comments, “Our Chase loves pizza. I dare say if he weren’t on the team, he’d have opened up his own pizza shop.
He loves thin crust, thick crust, like the Chicago style, and the wood-fired kind.
Remember, for your eighteenth birthday party, you asked for the wood-fired pizza truck to come to the house, then you started building one?
” Mom leans toward Mrs. Thompson. “That was the summer after he left Hinnifin and I think some adjusting was going on.”
“I do recall Freddie mentioning that Chase loves pizza,” Mr. Thompson says.
My cheeks slowly take on the tint of a couple of slices of pepperoni because they could easily replace pizza with Pippa.
Okay, it’s not fair to say I love her, past or present tense. But she was my first real crush. When I got a glimpse of what it would be like to do anything for a girl, to go anywhere, be anyone, her name was attached.
Instead, I fumbled. Choked. Clammed up. I should’ve been brave and explained everything senior year instead of succumbing to my fear of losing Freddie as a friend.
“Are you sure it’s not spaghetti and sauce that Chase loves? Oh, wait. My mistake. I recall now. He despises spaghetti with sauce.” Pippa doesn’t give me a sharp look, but daggers pierce the air between us.
What feels like a painfully long silence follows as if everyone at the table recognizes the weight of those words.
Our fathers talk among themselves. Meanwhile, Mrs. Thompson wears a look of concern. Pippa must’ve told her what happened—I take responsibility for the sponge cake, but cannot lay claim to the saucident.
All the same, my stomach drops and flaps around like a fish under the table. I have three sisters and have a legitimate reason to fear the fury of a woman scorned, sauced, sponged...or something like that.
Swallowing thickly, I say, “It’s true. I do love pizza, but I don’t hate spaghetti and sauce. Quite the contrary.”
“I was going to say, who could hate spaghetti and sauce?” Pippa’s mother adds.
“Certainly not Chase. Usually, he has the appetite of two men. He has to maintain the energy needed to keep up with his workouts.” I receive a motherly pat on the arm.
If the guys on the team were seated at the table instead of our parents, they’d be egging me on, prodding me to flirt with Pippa, or at the very least have a story to tell by the time the night is over.
True to Bruiser form, an idea takes shape.
I’m a large man with broad shoulders and fill up a fair amount of space.
Maybe it’s time I make it so Pippa can’t sit here and ignore me.
Letting out a bewildered sigh, I say, “The spur-of-the-moment travel must’ve thrown off my inner meal time clock.” Elbows out, I dig into the food on my plate.
The moms resume conversation while I gradually cross the invisible boundary and work my way into Pippa’s personal space. After a few more bites, my elbow brushes hers. A warm thrill rushes through me at the contact.
Pippa flinches and pins her arm to her side as though dangerously close to a hot stove.
Cha-ching! At last, I get a reaction.
I join the conversation with the moms and my gestures get larger and my feet, planted on the floor under the tablecloth, take on a wider stance, man spread style. With a laugh, my arm nonchalantly drapes over the back of her chair.
She sits bolt upright, back as flat as a board, like she balances a stack of books on top of her head.
When dessert comes, flaming crème flambé, I lean out of the way and toward her. Our arms brush and linger longer this time, heating me up and giving new meaning to the term rubbing elbows.
All the while, Pippa stares ahead, unflinchingly tight-lipped and not looking my way.
Mr. Thompson brings the conversation back to football and asks, “Can we expect another Super Bowl win this season?”
“We’ll do our best,” I answer.
“Dad, I didn’t know you were a football fan,” Pippa says, finally breaking her silence.
“What’s it like playing football? Rough sport, eh?” Mr. Thompson asks.
My father grunts. Long ago, he drew a hard line in the sand. I stand on the football side. He stands on the other. It’s been a point of contention for my entire life.
“What’s it like? Well, it seems like fun and games,” Rhett scoffs.
My mother shakes her head. “He’s sore over the little prank the boys pulled recently.” At a stage whisper, she adds, “Look up moon-gate.”
“The little prank? It was a scourge against the Collins name,” my father fires back.
He lays the guilt on thick, ironic since he’s been threatening to smear the Collins football legacy for months.
I want to prove to my father that football is a good thing. I’ll never understand why he is so against the game that’s literally in his blood. His father, my grandfather, is in the Hall of Fame and eventually owned the Miami Riptide.
However, there’s more to it than that. The most recent issue is the inheritance from Cap—the inheritance left to me instead of Rhett, his son.
The ladies lift the conversation back to neutral territory. It’s hard not to feel the hostility radiating off my father. And the contempt from Pippa.
After what can be considered an awkward meal, everyone gathers to mingle.
I’m ready to head back to the hotel. But as Marlow makes her way toward me, as though lying in wait for this exact moment, I opt to throw myself to the lion—that had been my grandfather’s nickname on the field and was passed down to me as a legacy player.
Well, at first, they called me Cub, but after the third championship win, I graduated to the leader of the pride.
Meanwhile, my father, Rhett Collins, son of the famous Cap Collins, never played football. But my father isn’t someone I want to meet in any sort of field, grassland, or ballroom because he’s ferocious in his own way.
Though I’d rather face him than Marlow. I change course and hightail it over to my parents, the Thompsons, and Pippa. Maybe I can get her alone for a moment and explain what happened all those years ago at Hinnifin.
From somewhere in the room, the music comes up, signaling it’s time to begin the post-dinner dance.
A tall, slim figure approaches Pippa. He wears tails and carries himself with the arrogant posture of the untouchable.
I recognize him from various gatherings I attended with Freddie over the years.
Whereas some might argue that I’m a rake, a lovable one at that, Benedict Moss is worse than a rogue.
He’s a libertine, a scoundrel dressed up in finery, addressed with a title, and with stupid amounts of money.
My sister Erica loves historical romance books and forced me to join her book club when I was fourteen. Let’s just say I took notes.
According to Freddie, Benedict uses his financial clout and perverse sense of morality to lure women into losing their virtue, and in some cases, their minds. Supposedly, his hinges aren’t screwed in too tightly and it rubs off.
His sharp eyes lock on Pippa. “What delicious morsel do we have here?” he asks with faux charm.
She steps back slightly as if wanting to maintain space between herself and a feral animal.
He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet this fine creature.”
She flinches and her eyes dart from left to right as if looking for an escape route.
“Hello, Benedict,” Mrs. Thompson says measuredly as if she, too has his number.
Mr. Thompson claps him on the back. “Pleasure to see you. How are things on the high street?” I gather this is a lead-in to discuss investments.
“Perfumy and I dare say this elegant minx smells divine.” Benedict runs his nose up Pippa’s neck, mere inches from her skin, taking a big whiff. I half expect him to lick her to see what she tastes like. His eyes practically swirl with crazy.
Mrs. Thompson looks scandalized.
Mr. Thompson guffaws like it’s a joke.
“My lady, may I request your hand...to take a turn around the dance floor?”
She nearly gasps, then wilts as he draws her close.
According to the stories, there is nothing funny about this man, even though he comes off as a flamboyantly passionate member of the gentry. If Freddie were here, he’d intervene—probably throw the guy out on the stoop.
I can’t tell because Pippa wears a long gown, but I’d wager she digs in her heels as he practically drags her toward the ballroom floor.
“Go ahead, darling. Benedict is known for making sound investments.” Mr. Thompson nods at his wife as if giving his approval for his future son-in-law.
Blood rushes in my ears. I’m Freddie’s best friend and if he let me get away with teasing Pippa as if she were also my little sister—if only to create a boundary I wouldn’t cross and break the bro code—that also means it’s my duty to protect her.
I’m by Pippa’s side in two short strides. “Actually, she promised me the first dance.”
I take her other hand and give it the subtlest of squeezes.
Benedict looks me over like I’m too common to bother with, or he wants to kill me in a duel, which one, I’m not sure.
I’ll take my chances either way. I don’t have anything to prove, and I could take the guy down one-handed. Then again, people like him are so arrogant that they don’t recognize when they’re outmatched.
Too bad for him.
Lucky for me.
“Is that so?” His voice is oily.
“Indeed.” Ignoring the subtle threat, I smile reassuringly at Pippa, hoping she is reading the situation accurately and not taken by his so-called charm like her father was.
“When I set my sights on something, there’s no stopping me. I always get what I want,” Benedict says.
I shift closer to Pippa, instinctually angling myself slightly in front of her. “If we’re talking about cars, toys, property. Then I completely understand. If we’re talking about anything else, anyone else, that’ll be a matter for us to take up privately.”
“Is that so?”
“A promise is a promise and I always keep mine.” My tone reflexively lowers dangerously, possessively on the last part.
We’re squared off and I exercise restraint, because I’d like to do everyone a favor, pick up this lout by his tux tails and toss him on the lawn.
My fists clench.
His eyes darken.
My jaw ticks.
“What’s this ballyhoo? Let’s all remember that we’re gentlemen,” Mr. Thompson says, waddling over.
Mrs. Thompson clears her throat and then whispers, “Dear, I believe Chase here is defending our daughter’s honor.”
I nod. “Freddie would’ve done the same.”
“My son is no stranger to brush-ups and brawls,” my father mutters.
Benedict seems to snap closer to reality than the privileged fantasyland he lives in and sees that I’m more than a formidable opponent.
Straightening to my full height, I nod if only to confirm whatever thoughts are creeping through his depraved mind.
“Pippa?” I ask, gesturing to the dance floor. My gaze locks on hers, offering gentle assurance. I’m caught in their big, brown depths before I drop my eyes to her bow-shaped lips, waiting for her to argue. When it doesn’t come, I add, “May I have the pleasure of the first dance?”
As if torn between running away because likely she’s also heard Freddie’s stories about Benedict and dancing with the guy she did her level best to avoid throughout dinner, she shuffles toward me and doesn’t look back as we step onto the dance floor.
Freddie’s wedding isn’t for a while, but he already named me his best man and I’m certain Pippa will be in the bridal party. Wearing my charmingest smile, I say, “Just think, it’ll be good practice for the wedding.”
Pippa blanches. Her big, beautiful eyes bulge cartoon-like.
A moment too late, I realize she wasn’t privy to my thoughts about Freddie’s wedding, meaning it wasn’t clear that I was referring to his and Aimme’s special day...not ours.
Although I did hear her comment about having a crush on me when we were in high school, so you never know what the future may hold. But I won’t let Benedict Moss be part of it.