Chapter 52 Miscalculated
Miscalculated
Mallory had planned for chaos.
Not total disaster, not a train wreck, not an emotional meltdown of epic proportions—just enough chaos to shake Savannah loose from her spiral and get her back in the same room with Chase.
It had taken weeks of listening to her best friend overanalyze, dissect, and ultimately self-sabotage every thought about Chase Montgomery.
Weeks of witnessing Savannah build an entire mythology around the man, complete with tragic backstories and imagined regrets.
Weeks of nodding along as Savannah convinced herself that the Chase she left behind was still nursing his wounds, stuck in the past, missing her the way she missed him.
So Mallory did what any rational, slightly meddlesome best friend would do—she manufactured the moment. She arranged the setting, nudged the right people, laid the groundwork for an inevitable, albeit mildly controlled, reunion. A foolproof plan.
Or at least, it had been.
Because there was one glaring flaw in all of it.
Chase Fucking Montgomery.
She should have accounted for this. She should have known. The man had always had a gravitational pull, a way of shifting the energy of a room to revolve around him, but somehow, even knowing that, she had underestimated just how effortlessly he could command a space.
And tonight, at The Hollow, Chase wasn’t just in his element—he was thriving.
Mallory sat at the bar, fingers curled around the base of her drink, watching in a mix of horror and reluctant admiration as Chase did exactly what he had always done: walked into a room and owned it.
She had thought The Hollow might shake him, just a little.
That the bar’s unique brand of organized chaos—the neon lights buzzing just a touch too bright, the scent of old wood and spilled whiskey, the unpredictable crowd of regulars ranging from hipsters to bikers to maybe-sorcerers—would throw him off.
Instead, it was the opposite.
The Hollow didn’t swallow Chase whole. It elevated him.
She watched as Gus, the all-knowing bartender, took one long, scrutinizing look at Chase when he ordered bourbon and attempted to dissect him, as he did with every new face that crossed the threshold.
“Alright, stranger,” Gus said, rubbing his beard. “Let’s try this again. You ordered bourbon. So that means—strong exterior. Carries old wounds. Little broody. Probably—”
Chase took a slow sip, tilting his head with lazy amusement. “Go on.”
Gus narrowed his eyes. “Wait. No. You’re—comfortable in it. You’re not running from anything. You carry it, but you don’t let it weigh you down.”
Mallory almost choked on her drink. "Oh, shit." Gus was second-guessing himself. Gus never second-guessed himself.
Chase gave a slow, knowing grin, the kind that made it clear he was enjoying every second of the analysis. “Having a hard time with this one?”
Gus scowled. “Don’t get cocky, son. I’m recalibrating.”
But Chase just chuckled, shaking his head, and damn it, Mallory had to admit—he was stupidly attractive.
Savannah had spent months picturing a man wrecked by heartbreak, weighed down by regret, still mourning the way things had ended.
But this Chase?
This Chase was thriving.
His black button-up was fitted but effortless, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal tattoos that were both intricate and devastatingly attractive.
His jeans were worn in the way only well-loved denim could be, and his boots carried the scuffs of a man who actually used them for something other than aesthetics.
The ball cap was pulled low enough to add an extra layer of mystery to his already ridiculous blue eyes, catching the dim bar lighting in ways that were downright unfair.
And worst of all?
He was fun.
Earl—the local cryptid, as the regulars affectionately referred to him—had already set his sights on Chase, issuing a challenge in the form of a cryptic riddle:
"The traveler seeks, but what he finds is written in the air. Take the aim, loose the flight, and tell me what is fair."
Mallory had barely finished rolling her eyes before Chase grinned, threw back the rest of his bourbon, and said, “Alright, Earl. Let’s do this.”
And just like that, Chase had won over The Hollow.
Earl was cackling between throws, Gus was refilling Chase’s drink like he was some kind of honored guest, and even the usual barflies had stopped mid-conversation, drawn to the effortless charisma Chase exuded.
Mallory had to admit—she was impressed.
The man was seamless. He adapted, fit himself into the unpredictable energy of the bar like he had always belonged here. Where most outsiders would have stumbled, he moved with precision.
Earl fired off another riddle mid-game.
"What is strong but bends, light yet heavy, speaks yet makes no sound?"
Without hesitation, Chase threw his dart, nailed a bullseye, and deadpanned, “A book.”
Earl howled with laughter. “A good answer! A clever man!”
Gus leaned over the counter, shaking his head. “This son of a bitch might actually belong here.”
And Mallory?
Mallory was having too much fun.
Savannah had been so sure this place would throw Chase off his game, shake him, rattle him, maybe even humble him a little.
Instead, Chase became the game.
The Hollow wasn’t a test for Chase. It was a stage. And he was absolutely owning it.
Mallory sat at the bar, drink in hand, amused and—against her better judgment—impressed.
And then—The Song Came On.
A familiar melody hummed through the bar, something low and smooth, the kind of song that made people want to move before they even realized it.
Mallory barely noticed at first. But then—
She saw it.
Chase froze.
Not in a bad way. Not like he was thrown off his game. But like something deep inside him recognized it. Like it unlocked a memory of some younger version of himself, probably standing in a crowded house party, beer in hand, dancing like he owned the place.
And then—he turned to her.
Slow. Purposeful. His bourbon still in hand, his smirk just a little softer now, just a little too knowing.
And then he held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
Mallory blinked. Then let out a sharp laugh. “Excuse me?”
Chase cocked his head, waiting, damn near amused by her reaction. “You heard me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Do I look like the type of woman who gets up and slow dances in a bar?”
Chase shrugged. “You look like the type of woman who pretends that she’s above it but actually loves it.”
Mallory snorted. “Bold assumption.”
He grinned. “Prove me wrong.”
Damn it—She should say no. She should roll her eyes and tell him to take his charm elsewhere. But instead—she put her hand in his.
And just like that, Chase pulled her in effortlessly. And Mallory felt it immediately. His hand settled against her lower back, firm, warm, effortless, guiding her like he’d done this a hundred times before. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t one of those showy spins or exaggerated dips. It was just easy.
That was the fucking problem with Chase Montgomery—He made it look easy. Made it feel like something that you wanted to sink into.
Mallory exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus on the moment and not the fact that he smelled ridiculously good.
She looked up at him. “Alright, points for confidence. But is this just part of the Chase Montgomery experience? Winning over bartenders, old men with riddles, and now charming unsuspecting women into dancing?”
Chase’s thumb brushed the back of her hand absently, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “First of all, I don’t need to win over anyone. It just happens. Second of all, I don’t just dance with anyone. You should feel special.”
Mallory smirked. “Oh, should I?” She teasesd.
Chase spun her once, smooth as hell, then pulled her back against him. “Yeah. You should.”
She barely caught herself from reacting—from letting out that breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Damn him. Damn this.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Chase grinned, low and lazy. “I really am.”
Mallory shook her head, trying to regain some ground. “You know, I expected you to be a little more cocky about all of this.”
Chase hummed. “That’s the mistake people make. They assume I need to be cocky.” His fingers flexed slightly against her back, a subtle movement, barely there, but she noticed it.
And now she was in trouble. Because, dammit, she got it now. She heard the stories. She understood why people talked about him the way they did. Because Chase wasn’t about being the loudest guy in the room. He was about making you feel like you were the only one there.
And it fucking worked. Too fucking well.
The song began to fade, but Chase didn’t move right away. He didn’t let go. Not until Mallory finally exhaled, shaking her head with a smirk.
“Okay, Montgomery. I get it now.” She said.
Chase laughed, slow and satisfied. “Took you long enough.”
Mallory patted his chest, stepping back before she did something ridiculous, like admit this had been way too much fun. “Not bad, cowboy.”
Chase took a slow sip of his bourbon, watching her with that same damnable ease.
She reached for her phone and asked if they could take a picture.
Chase laughed, but he didn’t hesitate. He shifted closer, angling himself toward her as Mallory lifted her phone. The camera snapped, capturing him in all his heart-stopping, unfairly attractive glory.
The black button-up. Sleeves rolled, tattoos on full display. Worn jeans, perfectly broken in. Boots. Ball cap pulled low—just enough to cast shadows over those stupid, stupidly blue eyes.
Mallory barely resisted fanning herself. She pulled up Savannah’s text thread and fired off a message.
Mallory: I’ll let you know when to come in.
Mallory: And holy shit, he is looking so fucking fine.
She attached the picture and hit send.
A second later, three little dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then reappeared.
Mallory grinned.
Savannah was losing her damn mind.
And honestly?
Fair.