Chapter 12
CHASE
Icannot figure Pippa out and I like it. I don’t know what to expect out of her mouth and I don’t mind.
I’ve enjoyed what she calls rambling. Her pink nail polish is sweet. Her British accent is alluring—like she speaks in secrets.
But I know hers and it’s that she had a crush on me in high school. The feeling was mutual, but I worked so hard to create distance between us because of Freddie, I’m not sure how to close it now.
Then again, we are pretty close. Her hand is in mine. Her other one clutches my shoulder. Mine on her waist. Our bodies occasionally brush. A warm sensation grows between us.
“You were different in high school,” I say.
“I should hope so. That was over ten years ago. It wouldn’t be right if I still acted like a silly teenager with hearts in my eyes. I had stars too. Sometimes I still do.”
Everything she says makes me smile.
“Please don’t laugh at me,” she says quietly.
“I wasn’t laughing at you. I meant that you were quieter.”
“Did we attend the same Hinnifin Hall? If I’m not mistaken, every student in our graduating class had a Pippa story. Marlow created a thread in the alumni chat group for this express purpose.”
“She didn’t.”
“You can go look for yourself. I’m sure you’ll have a laugh.”
“Not at your expense.”
“Then it would seem you’ve changed, too.”
“For sure. I’m glad we reconnected. You look—” Before I can say beautiful, she interrupts.
“Phoebe said I had a major glow-up and improved with age like cheese—I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or if I should be concerned that my sister compared me to a dairy product.”
“Definitely a compliment.”
We pass the moms again, who watch us like a pair of scouts assessing draft picks.
“Do you remember Mrs. Sharma’s Shakespeare class?” I ask.
“Yes, Romeo. I most certainly do. And it seems Marlow never let go of her role as Juliet.”
“There’s no mistaking the way she stares daggers in our direction,” I say, uncomfortably aware.
“Rest assured, those are aimed at me. Oh, and look. You have a fan club.”
Several women watch us dance as if hoping for a turn.
“I’ve conditioned myself to ignore the demanding gaze of women on the sidelines. It’s not a look of interest or love. No, they want something from me and it doesn’t feel right. It’s another arrow altogether.”
“But can you blame them?” Pippa squeezes her eyes shut. “I mean, it seems part of the gig, being a famous football player and all.”
“I guess,” I answer, still, after all these years, not used to it.
“And when I was talking to Abigail and her friends—”
“About me,” I hint, wanting her to define the timeline of the crush. Past, present, future?
“We’d been discussing our respective boarding schools. Hinnifin Hall came up and naturally, you did too as the pride of the Hinnifin Hornets.”
“We did have a good rugby year,” I say, reflecting.
Pippa clears her throat. “They also discussed a certain bum.”
“Like a beggar?”
“No, like a backside.”
While with Pippa, I almost completely forgot what brought me across the Atlantic in the first place, which reminds me that whatever sizzles between us is about to take a thirty-day plunge when I go to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia.
“Oh, that bum. Regrettably, #BruiserButt is making the rounds. That was an unfortunate error in judgment.”
“It captivated the world.”
I chuckle. “I guess you could say we’re even.”
She goes still.
I stumble slightly. “I’m sorry. That was dumb. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” No doubt, she’s thinking of the chocolate thing and the saucident. Her cheeks turn the color to match and she tries to pull away.
“The song isn’t over,” I say.
“I need to leave.” Sweat beads along her hairline. “Our mothers may be enjoying this, but I know better than to—”
“Wait.” Traces of desperation fill my otherwise flirtatious voice. My fingers tighten around hers. Seeing our hands together is my seventeen-year-old self’s dream come true. Then I glance over my shoulder, afraid I’m going to see Freddie charging toward us.
“I’d like to keep dancing,” I say simply.
“Be careful, I don’t want to cause you to break an ankle or crash into the piano. Your job requires the use of your limbs.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“So you don’t disappoint your mom?”
“No, so I can—”
“Chase, I’ve embarrassed myself so many times in front of you, I imagine you’d understand why I’d rather not have to endure it again. Please show some compassion and just let me crawl under a rock.”
“The entire world has seen my bum, so I know what embarrassment is like. Pippa, you have not done a thing to embarrass yourself.” There I go with the flirty tone.
I’m balancing on the thin edge of honoring my friendship with Freddie and flirting with his sister.
But we’re dancing, just like I wanted to do at prom.
I don’t have to try to avoid thoughts of Pizza because she’s right here.
But where will that leave me tomorrow? Where will I stand with my best friend?
I go back and forth in my mind, but when on the field, I’m known for making snap decisions.
As if the guys on the team chant my name from the bleachers, I go for it, hoping for a touchdown.
“No, Pippa. You’re adorable.”
Her head tips from one side to the other like she didn’t hear me right. Like she’s trying to list what other words sound like adorable.
“Horrible? Incorrigible? Deplorable? Restorable?”
“I said adorable,” I repeat.
Looking around with suspicion, she asks, “Who put you up to this? I’m not adorable.
I’m plain, regular, and average. Normal?
Ah, that must have been it. You said I’m normable.
Is that American slang?” She bites her lip and leans in.
“I’d like that to be true. I tell myself to be normal every day.
I’m not. For instance, I once crashed a wedding by literally crashing through the garden hedge.
Thankfully, no one was injured, but I did pop out of the cake, so that was something.
No, Chase. There is nothing normal about me or my weird luck. ”
“Sounds delicious. What kind of cake?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I’m not interested in normal.” All those years ago, I had a crush on this girl not only because of the way she made me feel but because of who she was, is—herself. There’s nothing fake or contrived about Pippa Thompson. What you see is what you get...and I want it.
“Maybe you’re getting me mixed up with someone else. I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself and I’d like it to stop.” Her voice lifts a few octaves as the music goes quiet between songs. “See? I cannot imagine tonight being more awkward.”
Mr. and Mrs. Thompson and my mom meet us on the edge of the dance floor. My father trails behind as if he’d rather be mucking pig slop than be here.
“You two look lovely together,” Mrs. Thomson says.
“A handsome couple,” her dad chimes.
“Almost like it was meant to be,” Mom adds.
Dad looks like he wants to snap something in half. Likely my neck.
Pippa goes very still like a bunny in a field that heard a rumble in the distance. She opens her mouth as if to speak when her mother cuts across her.
“Ruth and I have been conspiring.” Mrs. Thompson rubs her hands together.
“Just a little proposal,” Mom says pointedly while eying my father.
The two women exchange a glance and exclaim, “We think you should get married.”
Ruddy-cheeked and with a glass in one hand, Mr. Thompson pats his belly with the other. “I think it’s a jolly good idea.”
“You can just start with a dinner date. But we know you’re perfect for each other.
You went to the same school and are both educated.
Chase, Pippa doesn’t have to worry because you’re a successful athlete and come from a top-notch background.
She has a great career and wants a family. It’s perfect.”
At the word athlete, I sense my father stiffen.
Pippa’s eyes are just as big and brown and beautiful as I remember, as I dream about.
She has a dark ring around the iris and inside, lighter flecks sparkle like gems. My breath gets lost somewhere in my chest. Warmth radiates from where my palms touch her soft skin.
The chatter and clinking of glasses in the background take on a muted hum.
My gaze drops to Pippa’s lips as if I’m waiting for her to say something...or do something.
Instead, her mother’s voice breaks through the fog. “Our Pippa here has been single for far too long,” Mrs. Thompson declares as if it’s a travesty.
If that’s the case, I agree.
“Mum,” she hisses.
My mom giggles. “Remember when we fell in love?” she asks my father.
The closest Rhett Collins can come to a smile looks more like a sneer.
I cannot fathom the courtship between them. Did Mom decode his grunts and stony disapproval for interest? The man doesn’t have a romantic—or personable—bone in his body. At least that I’ve ever seen. He has two settings. Serious and scornful.
“It’s time you carry on the family name, Chase.
” Mom elbows Dad. When he gives as much of a response as Pippa gave me at dinner, she stifles her sigh.
“Since your father is being unusually tight-lipped tonight, let me remind you that your grandfather wanted you to settle down as well.” Her eyebrow arches with meaning.
I stop myself before a grunt escapes. I’m a modern man, but have old-school values thanks to my grandparents.
I was close to them while my parents traveled—my father for business and my mother dutifully by his side.
Nana and Cap Collins played the primary roles in raising me with values that I hold dear.
My grandmother passed away the year before I started high school and I lost Cap earlier this very year.
His passing was devastating, but so was the surprise that came along with it.
As the two sets of parents, well, minus my father, who may as well be a statue among the Smythe’s art collection, continue to chatter about marriage, Pippa interrupts.
Hands clasped and eyes anywhere but on me, she says, “I’m still relatively new at my job and don’t have time for dating.”
Not sure where to put my hands, I add, “And I have this thing coming up—” I break off, not wanting to give Dad an excuse to jump all over me about being sent to etiquette school.
Even though going on a date with Pippa sounds like the best thing since sliced bread—one of Cap’s favorite sayings—she obviously feels about me the opposite way I do about pizza. Plus, there’s the past and the matter of a certain best friend and twin brother.
That’s a line I can’t cross. Shouldn’t cross. As a team, the Bruisers say, It ain’t over until we’ve won, but there’s no winning in this situation for a variety of reasons, Freddie being one. Pippa resents me for two. Three, I’ll be unavailable for the next thirty days, so there’s that.
I don’t want to give my father a reason to comment on my delinquency, so I simply add, “I’ll be busy.”
Pippa brushes her hands together as if wiping them clean of this situation. “See? Problem solved.”
“Dear, we don’t see this as a problem. More of an opportunity,” my mom says, strangely giddy like she and Mrs. Thompson just solved a global crisis.
“We’re thinking about your futures,” Mrs. Thompson says, then, in a whisper to her daughter, she adds, “It’s time to forget about the past.”
I don’t like the sinking, dismal feeling inside at the confirmation that she knows about the sponge cake incident.
With a slight shake of her head, Pippa starts edging away. “I appreciate you thinking of me, but—”
Two motherly sets of eyes flash in my direction as though begging for me to make the pass and win the game before the clock times out.
My mouth opens and closes because what I’m about to say could get me into a lot of trouble—with Pippa and her brother.
But I do it because I don’t want Pippa to leave.
At the very least, I owe her an explanation and a proper apology.
“One date probably couldn’t hurt. We could grab a slice of pizza. ”
Ice glasses over her features. “I don’t like pizza.”
“Pippa, that’s an outright lie. We had pizza last time you visited,” Mrs. Thompson admits in a hush as though that’s not their typical fare.
I’d almost forgotten that this love connection attempt is being made in the Smythe’s home, where propriety and appearances are of utmost importance.
But Pippa isn’t done because she steps closer to me. “I’m not a fan of football, nor do I like playing juvenile—”
Both mothers cock their heads as though not hearing correctly.
Just then, an older woman with streaks of white in her dark hair comes over, asking after Phoebe, Pippa’s sister.
“Hello, Mildred. So lovely seeing you and thank you for asking after our Phoebe. She’s doing famously,” Mrs. Thompson says.
She asks about Freddie as well.
“Engaged. Can you believe it?”
I can’t. Freddie had always been a favorite among the ladies. No doubt, he broke a lot of hearts. He probably thought I was like him and would dump his sister—not a chance.
“Now, it’s Pippa’s turn,” her mother says.
“Is this your fiancé?” Mildred asks, scanning me approvingly.
“We hope so,” Mrs. Thompson and my mother chorus, then chat with Mildred.
Pippa starts to shrink away like that meme where the yellow cartoon guy vanishes into the bushes.
I don’t want to see her go. “This was fun—”
“No need for a but, Chase. And I don’t mean a bum.
The other kind. The conjunction. This was fun, but I don’t want to hear something like, Wow, you’re a handful.
I don’t like playing juvenile games, especially when they’re at my expense.
My wedding day is an accident waiting to happen.
It’ll be much worse than me crashing through a cake and wearing the frosting with the bride and groom topping figures on my head like an edible fascinator hat. ”
I want to laugh at the picture she painted, but she bustles away through the crowd.
“Wait,” I call, following her.
Pippa doesn’t stop until she reaches the front door, where rain splashes down, drenching her hair and gown.
Before she careens down the slippery marble steps, I lasso her around the waist, drawing her back inside.
She spins to face me and we’re chest to chest, much like the slow dance position earlier.
“Thanks for not running off during our dance, but—”
“Truly. I understand. You don’t have to explain—”
“I do.” Those words carry a new meaning, considering our mothers’ proposal that we get married.
Before I can explain and apologize for everything that happened in high school, Benedict approaches from one direction, Marlow from the other. They bookend us like a moldy old sandwich.