Chapter 26 #2
When we arrive at the hotel, Pippa seems to crawl back to wherever she goes when her energy runs low. “We have dinner with our parents this evening. Until then, I think I’ll, um, rest and get ready for later.”
I check my watch. “We don’t meet them until seven. Want to do something while we’re here?”
She clears her throat. “It’s been a long day. I should freshen up.”
I think of all the fun we could have—museums and galleries, theater, Big Ben, the Palace. Then again, this is her hometown, so she’s probably been there and done that. And as romantic as people say it is, I’ll skip the London Eye Ferris wheel.
I’m not in my hotel for more than five minutes when Rhiannon calls. I groan. My mother must be reporting my location.
“Hello, and the answer is still no,” I say.
“I have a meeting in five minutes, so meet me in my office at four. See you soon.” She hangs up.
I twine my fingers at the back of my neck and mutter, “Rhiannon.” I could skip it. Stick to my guns. Pretend we didn’t have that obnoxious non-conversation or just go and get it over with, which I know is what I’ll end up doing because I’m Chase, people pleaser extraordinaire.
Too bad my father isn’t ever pleased.
About an hour later, I’m walking up to a swank office with a modern interior that’s a veritable playground for worker bees—lounge areas, soft neon, and pod things that remind me of hamster wheels.
I find Rhiannon’s office where she’s on a call. Practically speaking, I understand why people with offices face the door and have their backs to the window—hers is half of another building and half of the city with the river in the distance.
However, I already feel jumpy being in here. Reminds me too much of my father’s station in life, up high in a building where all his minions go about their business below his lofty office.
Rhiannon’s desk doesn’t have any corners and is made of Lucite or some modern material.
Kryptonite? There’s a sleek vase with a single flower in it, her computer screen, and a keyboard—no wires or clutter, nothing personal—I half expect her to tap the air and have tea appear from an invisible portal.
She gives the caller a stern command to, “Get it done,” hangs up, takes a deep breath, and then looks up at me.
“Chase!” She hops to her feet and hugs me. “I’m so glad you’re here. Hang on. I have a surprise.”
My sister hurries from the room, leaving me next to the desk.
I’d think she’d have an assistant fetch the surprise.
I stroll to the window and survey the city.
On my way back to my chair, a piece of paper with pink cursive across the top catches my eye.
I was mistaken, there is one item on my sister’s ultra-modern, cold, dead desktop.
Yeah, I’m going to give her crap later. I tilt my head to read the girly writing.
It says, The Crush List. The items include:
Is helpful without being asked
Looks at me a moment longer than necessary
His eyes are like heaven
Great listener (there’s something scratched out)
Masculine and athletic, but funny and relatable
Stands up for the little guy (crossed out words)
He smells really, really good
Shows interest and asks questions
His smile is dreamy (can’t read what else it says)
The hair, because he has a mane!
His shoulder looks like the perfect place to rest my head
Let’s just be real, he makes me swoon!
I have zero interest in Rhiannon’s Crush or Cupid show, but this crush list gives me an idea. If the items on this list are what women like, I already check off half the boxes. But maybe if I do the rest of them, I’ll show Pippa that I’m the guy for her and not the jokester from high school.
Footsteps approach, so I snap a quick picture with my phone, then sit back down in the chair like I’ve been casually scrolling sports stats all along.
Rhiannon carries a tray topped with two glasses. “Your favorite. Well, Cap’s favorite. Root beer floats.”
“You’re trying to butter me up.”
“No, I’m welcoming my brother like a distinguished guest.” She passes me one of the glasses and I won’t deny it, this is my favorite. “Okay, so down to business.”
“I told you, I’m not doing the show.”
We bicker back and forth while we eat our floats. She gives me details about Crush or Cupid until the ice cream is gone and I’m almost late to meet Pippa for our dinner reservation with the parents.
“Thanks for the ice cream in your cold, lifeless office, but it’s still a pass on the Crush or Cupid thing. Byeeeee,” I say, stepping into the role of annoying brother as I wave goodbye.
The walk back to the hotel is long enough for me to brush off my sister’s insistence she gets the face of American football to endorse her show.
If it was anything else, I’d do it. But I draw the line at fake dating.
Then again, I did suggest Pippa and me pretend to be engaged to appease the parents. I was joking, but maybe that upset her.
Perhaps I should do a full confessional, DTR, state of the union talk with her, or write a letter.
..or just show her who I am, and I’ll start with being her perfect guy and do the things on the list. If anyone knows what women want, it’s Rhiannon.
She’s a premier dating coach hired to make shows about dating.
I got this.
After meeting Pippa, we step into the golden late day in London. It’s at odds with the heavy confusion I carry inside. I fight with myself about whether to hold hands as we’ve done before. But she keeps a solid two feet of space between us.
I feel like an awkward teenager, which may it be known, I never felt when I was a teenager. But this is what I imagine it’s like.
Yeah, golden boy, alright. Despite what Wolf said about my level of experience, I’ve dated enough not to be a total idiot when it comes to women.
How to break the ice?
“The guys think I should become a monk.”
I catch the edge of her smile as though she fights off a giggle. Whether it’s from the lingering sun or a stroke of good luck, her mood seems to lighten. “A monk? Monkey is more like it. A cheeky monkey.”
A grin grows on my lips.
Pippa says, “You know that monks have to renounce many things in the name of devotion and service.”
“I could manage.” Not likely, but I’ve got her talking and it’s not about etiquette lessons, so that’s promising.
“They live a very simple life and spend loads of time in solitude in drafty monasteries.”
The way she froze me out in the last few days is chilly enough.
I shrug. “Doesn’t sound too different from my current status.”
She slows her pace. “I don’t buy it. You’ve probably dated a lot.”
“Not especially. I’ve been waiting.” I hope she picks up on my meaning.
She scoffs. “I find that hard to believe, given your track record. You’ve done plenty of publicity stunts, gotten in brawls, participated in pranks—”
“I thought we’d moved past #BruiserButt.”
I catch her glance down as if checking out the goods.
She lets out a shaky breath. “I’m just saying, you’re an eligible bachelor and coming into plenty of money, so I have no doubt the women have formed a queue, waiting to say I do.”
Coming into plenty of money... I go as still as a stone—another one of my grandfather’s sayings.
She continues walking...away from me. Clouds of worry kick up like dust in a storm. She must know. How did she find out about the inheritance? And there I thought it had been kept quiet—you can pay big money to have things removed from the internet.
Across the street stands a beautiful cathedral. I say a prayer. I’m reminded that I’m not in control of the outcome, but can only do my best each day. I grasp at threads of peace as I catch up to Pippa in front of the restaurant.
The place is popular and bustling. Pippa’s posture stiffens as if bracing for a wreck as Mrs. Thompson waves us over.
I repeatedly try to catch Pippa’s eye as we take our places.
I want to make a joke about the last time we all ate together at the Smythe’s, but there’s a fuss about who’s sitting where.
A seventh seat remains empty beside my father.
We place our orders and all the while, Mrs. Thompson bounces slightly like she’s going to burst from excitement. At last, she says, “Okay, I’ve been thinking, why not do the proposal here while you’re in London?”
Her excitement must be contagious because my pulse hammers inside me. Earlier, Pippa asked, am I ready? My heart says yes.
My father sits up straighter and casts a glare at everyone at the table. “No, actually, this match is off. It’s over. I’ve found someone more suitable for Chase to marry. She should be along at any moment.”
A wedge forms between my mother’s eyebrows. “Rhett, we already discussed this.”
My father ignores her.
Mr. Thompson coughs as if he’s about to blurt something, but has second thoughts.
Liquid pools in Mrs. Thompson’s eyes.
Pippa sits there, pink lips parted as though stunned, or maybe relieved.
“Is this about the inheritance, Rhett, because if so—” my mother asks so softly the Thompsons can’t hear.
“No,” my father barks, cutting her off. “This is about my son’s future.”
My fist comes down on the table, clattering the flatware. “What do you care about my future?”
“I want you to be set up with the best opportunities possible. No more of this moonshine, moon-gate, football nonsense. It’s time for you to grow up.” He tugs at the tie around his neck.
I get to my feet, ready to leave at the same time as a familiar woman with angular features strides toward the table.
“Oh, hello, Chase. Such a gentleman, getting up to pull out my chair.” She cuts Pippa a simpering smile. “You’re training him well, I see, Poo-pa.” She leans in to kiss me on each cheek.
I recoil while trying to maintain my composure.
“Meet Marlow Dwight. Her father is Warner Dwight, owner of Dwight Drilling out of Texas,” my father says. “Meet my wife, Ruth.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Marlow says, wearing a plastic smile meant to be charming. I can see right through her.
“You look familiar and you can call me Mrs. Collins.” Maybe Mom does too.
“I’ve been told I’m a true beauty, maybe that’s why,” Marlow says. “The perfect match for Chase.”
Forget a reality dating show. This has become a soap opera. A sour taste rises in my throat. I turn to Pippa, hoping to exchange a look of amusement, of something, anything to deny that this is happening.
“Where’s your Texas accent?” my mom asks, all pretense of politeness gone. She must be just as shocked as me.
“I grew up in London.” Marlow squeezes my arm with hers, drawing me near.
“We went to high school together—we were practically sweethearts.” She coos.
“That’s probably where you know me from.
I remember Poo-pa, I mean, Pippa, too. Always so clumsy.
Remember that time you had that melted chocolate in your pocket?
” She covers her mouth as though to keep from laughing.
Mom looks from Marlow to Pippa as though questioning identities and events.
“But I thought—” Of course, she knows all about Pippa.
I’d been crestfallen when she rushed off after the sponge cake mishap and had told her everything.
She encouraged me to talk to her, but because of Freddie, I’d been dumb and afraid.
Then I left Hinnifin abruptly, so there was no chance anyway.
But my father is wrong. I have grown up. I’m no longer afraid—not of him or Freddie. Tearing my arm from Marlow’s claws, I say, “No. I won’t. Not doing this. Sorry, not sorry.”
“You won’t what, Chase?” my father asks.
“I won’t get married. Not like this.”
“Then you forfeit your inheritance.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I don’t want to see your grandfather’s hard work go to waste.”
A dark, but hearty laugh peels from my lips.
Did I hear him correctly? “That’s interesting, considering Cap was the one who taught me how to play football and spent countless, tireless hours training me to be as good as he was.
Then you tore me from my high school, sent me across the ocean to Hinnifin, and forbade me to play the game my grandfather loved so much—the gifts he gave me, the investment.
He believed in me. Despite all that, I now play for the best team in the league. Nothing has gone to waste.”
“It’s not the future you want.”
“It’s my future and yes, it is what I want.” I give Pippa a pleading look, wishing for her to understand what I’m saying without words.
I want her.
“Chase, you know what’s at stake.” My father’s voice grates in a low warning.
Fuming, I throw down my napkin and storm away.