Chapter 49
Harrison
No greeting in human history has ever sounded more punchable than three little words.
“Hello, New York.”
Fuck.
I take a slow sip of bourbon as Chase Cartwright strolls into Mick’s bar, knowing with every fiber of my being that I’m going to kill Zac.
Mick wipes down the seat beside me. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have what he’s having.” Chase jerks his chin toward my glass before dropping onto the stool beside me like we’re old friends.
We are not old friends.
Not even remotely.
And if by what he’s having he means Pix, we’re about three seconds from tonight making the evening news.
If he means the bourbon, fine.
Whatever.
Why the hell did I agree to this?
Probably because Zac cornered me with one of his infamous therapy speeches. Some bullshit about me using the missing ring as one more excuse not to fully give Ava my heart.
Which he said right before starting his bedtime moisturizing ritual and crying over The Notebook.
I’m not entirely sure how the underwear model in the black henley and ball cap factors into that plan, but he’s apparently captivated every woman in Mick’s bar.
Jeez, even the two nanas in the corner are staring.
“Don’t you have underwear to model somewhere?” I ask.
Mick sets down Chase’s bourbon, squints at him, then suddenly snaps his fingers. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”
Chase gives a sheepish smile and nods.
“Billboard guy.” Mick snaps his fingers. “You’re the abs dude over on Forty-Second.”
I hate him even more.
Mick wanders off as Chase lifts the bourbon to his mouth.
We stare at each other over the rims of our glasses.
Silence stretches tight as a tripwire.
Just two grown men having a semi-hostile staring contest.
Instantly exhausted, I break.
I just want this over with.
“You helped me find my kids,” I say flatly. “And I owe you. Doesn’t mean I like you.”
Chase nods once. “The feeling’s mutual.”
“Fantastic. Glad we cleared that up.”
I throw back the rest of my bourbon and stand so fast the stool shrieks across the hardwood floor.
I’m almost at the door when he says, “What the hell are you doing here?”
I blink at him. “I was here first.”
“I don’t mean the bar.” He motions vaguely around us. “I mean here. New York. Ava’s in Iceland while you’re sitting in Manhattan drinking like a divorced longshoreman. Why?”
“Maybe I like bourbon.”
“Or maybe you don’t give a shit about Ava, and you’d rather lose her than fight for her.”
That’s it.
My fist knots the front of his henley before my brain catches up.
Conversations around us die instantly.
Half the bar starts migrating toward the exit.
Except the nanas in the corner.
They’re digging through their purses for reading glasses and whipping out their phones like this is the greatest thing to happen to Manhattan since Sinatra.
Behind the bar, Mick barely looks up from drying a glass.
“Try not to bleed on the floor,” Mick says casually, topping off my bourbon like it’s any other Tuesday.
Slowly, the tension drains from the bar as conversations quietly resume around us.
Chase peels my fist from his shirt and sits back down.
And for whatever reason, so do I.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say quietly.
“Then explain it to me.”
My jaw flexes hard enough to ache.
“Pix is my heart,” I say finally. “My soul. My life.”
Chase nods slowly. “Says the guy who married her under false pretenses, disappeared every time things got hard, then blew up your marriage because she took a job. One she’s contractually obligated to keep, by the way.”
Guilt threads through me like barbed wire.
I swallow hard and do what I do best.
Deflect.
“You, Mr. Underwear, have been undermining my relationship since day one.”
“First of all, it’s Captain Underwear. And when the hell did I undermine your relationship?”
“When you showed up at the hotel.”
He blinks, confused.
“You said, and I quote, what the hell is he doing here?”
Chase smirks into his bourbon. “I wasn’t talking about you.”
“The hell you weren’t.”
“No, New York, I was talking about Freddie Long.”
“The butler?”
Chase’s expression hardens. “Long Con Freddie used to work for my family. Until he got caught selling us out to the press.”
Ice settles hard in my gut.
“I’d bet money he tipped off paparazzi about you and Ava that day,” he continues. “Especially if somebody handed him your itinerary.”
Fuck.
I wince. “I had him make the arrangements.”
He shakes his head, appalled.
“How the hell was I supposed to know?” Fired up, I keep going. “And you’re not exactly innocent here either, Mr. I-Have-A-Key-To-Her-Apartment.”
Chase rolls his eyes. “I was bringing her luggage.”
“Maybe you were scouting the competition.”
He barks out a laugh.
I glare harder.
“Ava and I aren’t like that,” he says.
“You lived together.”
Chase sighs. “If something was going to happen between me and Ava, it would’ve happened years ago.”
I look away, annoyed that he has a point.
Because that’s not actually the part eating me alive.
“She’s halfway across the world,” I mutter. “Surrounded by actors, producers, stunt guys. Guys like you…”
Chase goes quiet for a second.
Then he points at me with his glass. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
He leans back against the stool.
“Fear.”
“Fear?” I scoff. “And what exactly am I afraid of?”
“Losing her.”
The bourbon turns bitter in my mouth.
I’ve already lost one wife.
I won’t survive losing another.
“Do you know how many guys hit on her every single week?” Chase asks.
I don’t answer.
“All of them,” he says dryly. “Literally all of them. Baristas. Actors. Producers. Stunt coordinators. Valets. Guys at Trader Joe’s.” He gestures vaguely with the glass. “My point is, you can’t exactly lock her in a tower.”
“She might like a tower.”
“Either you trust her or you don’t.” Chase swirls the bourbon in his glass. “And being pawed over constantly? News flash. It’s exhausting.”
“You poor underwear model.”
I stare down into my drink.
“You know why I never made a move?” he asks.
I ignore him.
“I mean, come on. She looks incredible when she sleeps.”
My fist tightens automatically.
Chase laughs under his breath. “Easy, big guy. I’m kidding. She’s a disaster sleeper. Total drool factory.”
Killing Chase would be unbelievably easy…
He takes another sip before his expression settles again.
“I never made a move because she was never mine.” He takes another sip of bourbon. “And I’m not convinced she’s yours either.”
I gape at him.
“Are you trying to piss me off or fix me?”
“Both.” He takes another sip. “So back to my original question.”
His eyes lock on mine.
“Why are you here?”
And not with Pix.
The bar suddenly feels too loud.
Too hot.
Like I can’t breathe right.
Something twists hard in my gut.
“You were right,” I finally say. “Our marriage was… an accident.”
The admission tastes like broken glass.
Chase huffs softly. “Knowing Ava, she’d probably call it a happy accident.”
“Yes.” I look down into the bourbon. “The luckiest accident of my life.”
Silence settles between us.
“It’s real,” I say quietly. “I love her. And I love everything about her.”
A rough laugh slips out.
“Because for somebody who lights up every room she walks into, her favorite thing in the world is to be curled into a chair sewing while I read to the kids.”
Something warm loosens in my chest just at the thought of Pix like that.
“The kids adore her.”
Chase snorts softly. “They really do.”
“And she loves them like they’re hers.”
My throat tightens around the words.
“But somewhere along the way…” I stare down into the bourbon. “I started wondering if losing the ring meant something.”
Chase’s brows pull together slightly. “Like what?”
I shrug, not sure how to even explain this.
“What if I’m not enough for her?” I admit quietly. “I couldn’t even give her a real proposal. Or a real wedding. Family. Friends. A ring she actually deserved…”
Chase goes quiet for a long moment.
Long enough to bug the shit out of me.
He rolls the bourbon around the glass. “If you love her, the ring will come.”
I stare at him. “You can’t handle your liquor if this is turning into a Field of Dreams speech.”
“New York.” His mouth twitches slightly. “That woman flew halfway across the world wearing your flannel shirt to bed.”
My pulse stutters.
She does?
Wait… how the fuck does he know that?
“If that’s not love,” he adds, “I don’t know what is.”
Silence settles heavy between us.
I trace the rim of the glass with my thumb.
“I sent flowers,” I admit.
“Meh.”
“A luxury spa package,” I add.
Chase closes his eyes briefly like he’s praying for strength.
“New York, she’s heartbroken. Not celebrating Mother’s Day.”
Why not lay it all on the line. I face him.
“Even if I showed up with the ring tomorrow, what if…” I puff air in my cheeks. “What if she doesn’t want me?”
“Wouldn’t rule it out.”
Chase drains the rest of his bourbon and tosses cash onto the counter as a smug, annoying grin works its way across his face.
“I know how to solve both our problems.”
“What problems?”
“You’re scared Ava’s eventually going to realize she deserves better.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Chase gives me a look.
Fine. Whatever.
His fingers tap the counter. “And I’m trying to figure out if she does too.”
My jaw tightens. “You said that with your outside voice.”
Chase shrugs. “Truth hurts.”
“I didn’t ask for the truth.”
“You absolutely did.” He points at me. “Your eyes are practically screaming for it.”
I scream with my eyes harder.
“What’s your solution?” I bark, already regretting this.
“We find out where she stands. No holding back. All or nothing.”
Every instinct I have tells me to run.
“How?”
He leans close enough, I actually back up.
“All you have to do is trust me.”
Right.
Trust Chase Cartwright.
Absolutely fucking not.