Chapter 23 Before Me
Before Me
Dinner was perfect. Maybe too perfect.
The steak was cooked to absolute perfection—juicy, tender, seared to just the right temperature. The wine flowed freely, loosening their inhibitions but never crossing into excess. The conversation was effortless, filled with easy laughter and teasing banter.
And yet, Savannah Monroe could barely focus on a damn thing.
Because every few minutes, Chase’s fingers would graze hers when he reached for his glass, each touch sending a delicious shiver up her spine.
His voice would dip just a little lower whenever he leaned in close, like he knew what it did to her.
And then there was the way he watched her—like she was the only person in the room, like he was committing her every reaction to memory, like he was waiting for something.
Like he was waiting for her.
Meanwhile, Mallory and Nate were deep in their own world, their banter so charged it might as well have been foreplay at this point.
“I’m sorry,” Mallory argued, leaning back in her chair, waving her wine glass dramatically. “But pineapple on pizza is a crime. You might as well dump sugar on spaghetti.”
Nate scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re so wrong, it actually hurts. The sweet with the salty? It’s god-tier.”
Mallory made a face. “I should have known you were one of those people.”
Nate smirked, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “What? You can’t handle a little risk in your life?”
Mallory arched a brow. “I love risk, but I don’t go around committing war crimes against pizza.”
Chase chuckled, cutting into his steak. “I hate to agree with him, but he’s got a point.”
Mallory gasped, looking personally offended. “Not you too! Savannah, back me up here.”
Savannah blinked, dragging herself out of her thoughts. “Huh?”
And that’s when she felt it—Chase’s knee brushing against hers under the table.
A simple touch. Barely there. But her skin burned from it.
She had been distracted—not by the conversation, not even by the delicious meal, but by Mallory’s comment earlier.
How many women have been in his bed?
Savannah had laughed it off at the time, but now, as she sat in his home, drank his wine, felt his leg pressed against hers, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
How many?
How many women had he carried upstairs, tangled in his sheets, made soundless with pleasure?
The thought made her stomach twist.
She hated that it bothered her.
Because she wasn’t that girl. The insecure one. The one who asked about numbers.
But fuck if she didn’t care.
She snuck a glance at Chase, who was leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly against his glass.
If he noticed how quiet she’d gotten, he didn’t say anything.
But he felt it.
She could tell.