Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
HARPER
Chase and I stood side by side, going over countertop samples for the new pool bar as if we hadn’t been tearing each other’s clothes off every chance we got for a month now.
I acted like the heat from the renovation wasn’t making the same daydream all too real.
Like his teasing smile and those intense, flashing eyes weren’t adding to my already sweaty mess of an afternoon.
“The speckled one goes with the cabanas, don’t you think?” I tried to focus, wiping construction dust off my arm as we stood under the partial shade of an umbrella.
Chase ran his fingers across the granite sample. His nails were clipped short, practical, and his tan was from actually working outside. God, his hands were beautiful.
“It has character.”
I snorted. “You always say that when you mean ‘it’s not my favorite, but it’ll work.’”
Chase pointed to a darker block of quartz. “I think this one brings out the tones in the cabanas better. Plus, this quartz is impervious to weather. Great for outdoor settings.”
I studied the piece in his hand, nodding slowly. “Good point. You might be onto something. It does have a nice contrast with the wood. You win this round.”
His lips curled into that grin again, the one that made me think things I wasn’t supposed to think when I was focusing on the job. “Glad we agree.”
I shifted the umbrella with my foot to block the afternoon sun. The construction was less chaotic today—framing for the cabanas was already well underway with my Coastal Blend wood of choice, and the sounds of saws and nail guns filled the air.
I took a drink from my ever-present thermal water bottle. “Good thing you’re finally convinced. Otherwise, I might have changed my mind about the stools again.”
Chase rubbed the back of his neck. “Only once?”
I remembered the last meeting, how we’d gotten stuck on decisions that were more complicated than I’d thought they would be.
Not as complicated as kissing him in a half-finished closet, then trying to pretend it hadn’t happened, but still.
I smiled, mostly at myself. “Fine. More than once. But I like the light blue for the pop of color, even if it was a last-minute change.”
“You made the right call.” Chase picked up a catalog. “Worst case, they don’t get delivered on time, and everyone has to stand at the new pool bar. It’ll be fine.”
“I want more than fine—” A loud noise caught me off guard.
It was his stomach.
“You need to feed that thing.” I frowned. “It’s louder than Eli’s dive boat.”
Chase laughed. “Guess I should’ve stopped for lunch.”
“You didn’t eat anything?”
“I was running late,” he said with a casual shrug. “Didn’t have time.”
“You know, there are very professional, well-trained kitchen staff at Driftwood Grill right over there. You should’ve said something. How are you going to make it through the rest of the afternoon?”
“Depends. I’ve had a craving all day.” He leaned close. “And not just for you. You know anyone who’s good at making a grilled cheese?”
I had to laugh. “I’m practically a professional.”
“Oh yeah?” Chase crossed his arms, the movement drawing my attention to his biceps. “The kids’ menu at Driftwood?”
“Hardly.” I straightened my spine, trying to look serious. “It’s all about technique.”
“Really? Let me guess. Classic cheddar?”
“Yes. On sourdough,” I replied firmly. “It’s all in the toasting.”
He gave me an exaggerated nod, clearly skeptical. “You don’t get bored using basic ingredients like that?”
“Are you calling me basic?”
“I’m saying I have taste buds.”
I shoved his shoulder with mine. “Nothing wrong with a classic, you know.”
“Pretty sure I can beat it. What do you think? Gruyère?”
“You would like that,” I said with a teasing grin. “Or maybe something unnecessarily complex, like raclette or aged goat milk or whatever, just to make sure I know you put more thought into it than I do.”
Chase grinned. “Don’t forget the artisanal bread.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t tell me you actually think you can make a better grilled cheese than me.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” He shifted closer, making the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I caught my breath, ignoring the pleasant flutter in my chest. “Are you up for it?”
“I don’t know.” I dragged the words out as long as I could. “You’re not scared I’ll win?”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You should know. I’m not above playing dirty.”
Chase raised his eyebrows, looking amused. “I like the sound of that.”
“You’re on. Don’t cry when I beat you.”
He smiled. “I won’t if you won’t.”
“We’ll see.” I shot him an answering grin. “Since you’re about to fall over from hunger, let’s have this cook-off tonight.”
“Just tell me where. Think Finn would like to referee?”
“He’d love to.” I pictured Finn holding up scorecards, drawing cartoons in the corner of the table. “But Mom’s got him for the night.”
“That’s convenient,” Chase said. I pretended not to notice the slightly hopeful look he gave me. “So?”
“So your place. You’ve got that fancy, modern kitchen. It’s like an architect designed it for you or something.”
“Harder to burn grilled cheese with a proper stove.” Chase put his hand between my shoulder blades as we moved from under the umbrella. “When can you be there?”
I checked my watch, surprised how late it was. “After I hit the grocery store. Can’t win a challenge without the right ingredients.”
“Think you can find anything fancy on Dove Key?”
“If I can’t”—I slung my tote over my shoulder—“I’ll improvise. Don’t worry. I’ll find you some fancy cheese.”
“I’ll be ready.” He glanced at his watch. “Say five?”
I nodded, pushing my hair out of my face. “Better not be a sore loser.”
“Pretty sure that’s my line. Should we place bets?”
“Nah, I’d feel bad taking your money. See you soon?”
He grinned. “Can’t wait.”
I was still thinking about that last smile, still half in work mode, half out, when I drove to Island Market.
A pang of guilt hit me, knowing the only reason we could do this was because Finn was with Mom.
I still hadn’t told her about me and Chase, and now it felt like an overdue bill. I promised myself I’d talk to her soon.
Until then, I had a grilled cheese battle to win.
The front door was unlocked, and I let myself in with the groceries.
Clean lines and expensive furniture. So different from my own cluttered, cozy cottage.
There wasn’t a crayon mark in sight, no stuffed animals peeking out from the couch cushions.
The main room flowed seamlessly into the kitchen, and the walls were painted the kind of neutral gray you found in the contemporary style section of a paint store.
Yet the shade also held a touch of the gentle blue of deep Gulf waters.
Everything felt deliberate. Perfectly placed, perfectly organized.
I was already starting to wonder how Chase and I ever fit together.
But somehow we did.
Chase’s kitchen was as architecturally impressive as his office.
Gleaming stainless-steel appliances reflected the recessed lighting, set against beautiful white quartz countertops veined with subtle gray.
The state-of-the-art efficiency of it all, the sheer flawlessness, should have felt intimidating.
This whole house was like that—the kind of meticulous, award-winning restoration people talked about, the one featured in Keys Style last spring.
Everyone knew Chase Ashworth didn’t just design beautiful spaces.
He lived in one. And I had no doubt the place was worth a small fortune.
It should have made me feel hopelessly out of place, a splash of chaotic color in his exactly curated world.
But strangely, standing here with bags of cheese and bread, I didn’t feel like an intruder.
That was true of all his designs I’d seen.
He made spaces that were modern and functional yet still retained the essence of what they were meant to be.
Maybe it was the man, not just the house.
He came in from the back deck as I unpacked the groceries. “Look at that. You found the fancy stuff.”
“It wasn’t easy.” I held up the small, imported package. “I think the people at Island Market have started taking bets on my buying habits.”
Chase laughed. “If you’re buying gruyère now, they’ll be thinking you’re moving up in the world.”
“Maybe I am.” I took out a loaf of something called pain de campagne, wrapped in a paper bag. “This was the most ostentatious bread I could find. Knock yourself out.”
“Nice job.” He moved closer and brushed a kiss over my lips. “Finn keeping Helen on her toes?”
Lips tingling, I lined up my sourdough and block of aged cheddar. “They get along famously, and both look forward to his sleepovers there.”
He eyed the spread on the counter. “You’ve got this all planned out, don’t you?”
“I like a competitive edge. Don’t want to give you too much of a head start.”
Chase opened his fridge and removed a carton of butter. “What makes you think I need it?”
“Let’s see,” I said. “Artisan bread? Fancy imported cheese? From your shopping list, I’m betting you’ve got a game plan.”
“I do. What do you call that?” He nodded toward my plain, grocery-store sourdough.
“A classic. Only thing left to figure out is how badly I’m going to beat you.”
“Keep dreaming, Coleridge.”
He turned on two burners, and I let the smell of melting butter and browning bread do the talking for me.
My whole body was in anticipation mode, half-focused on the food, half-focused on him.
We cooked side by side, navigating the commercial cooktop like a kitchen choreography—bumping shoulders, reaching past each other, easy and fluid.
Chase measured precisely, using his recipes like a road map to the immaculate sandwich.
I went by taste, sneaking bites of cheese and pretending not to notice him watching.
“Shouldn’t you have bought more of this?” I popped a chunk of gruyère in my mouth. “For practice?”