Chapter 28
PIPPA
After arriving in Boston, a sleek black BMW waits for us in an exclusive part of the airport I doubt even my parents know exists.
Chase is quiet like he’s regaining his bearings until we arrive on a street lined with brownstone buildings and maple trees capped with leaves in a vibrant shade of green.
“Welcome to Chez Chase.” He gestures to the classic architecture and black shutters typical of brownstone buildings.
I follow him up the stairs. “Actually, you’ll be next door,” he says. “I bought it too.” Then he gestures down the street. “I’m working on the entire block.”
“Seriously?”
“Despite what my father thinks, I’m not a hapless jock who spends his money on limos with Jacuzzis in the back for wild parties. Plus, when I’m not playing, and since I’m not in a relationship, I have a bit of time on my hands.”
“I thought you said you were busy?”
He lifts our bags. “I am, managing my real estate investments, the charity, and trying to use my brainpower to figure out a loophole in the playbook. Pippa, I want my life and free will back.”
“After the whole #BruiserButt scandal, I don’t think your coach would look kindly on you cheating.”
Chase’s expression goes stony. “I’d never cheat.”
“Oh, did you mean the contract for Crush or Cupid? Rhiannon said she had your lawyer look at it.”
“Pippa, don’t you think it’s odd that you hired my sister to work as your dating coach and yet you’re trying to pair me up with some stranger on her show?”
“I’m your etiquette coach.”
“Exactly. You’re not my dating coach. You don’t have to follow the rules you’ve made up or go along with her nonsense.”
“Right, but it’s my job to make sure you improve your image and—” I gaze at the ground. I’m partially stepping on a crinkly brown leaf from last fall. I know what Chase is getting at, but I can’t let myself travel down that road. Not since discovering the secret of his inheritance.
That and everything that happened years ago makes me nervous to trust him. Instead, I’ll resist.
Which proves hard to do when we’re constantly together. The next morning, I shadow him at meetings with contractors about his properties. In the afternoon, the stateside team for Crush or Cupid breaks down what to expect for film production.
Tory, who emailed me, is our point person and will be handling everything passed down from Rhiannon, who’ll be out toward the end of shooting. She assures Chase that nothing is scripted, it’s all recorded in real-time and minimally edited because of the viewer voting component.
“Pippa is my life coach. I’m guessing my sister told you about the Blancbourg program.”
“She sure did and we decided it’ll be best for her to be on set to communicate with you through a comms unit in your ear. That way, if you need any etiquette pointers, she’ll be there with you the whole way.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. I droop like a flower in need of water. I’m well past asking if this could be any worse.
“We made a reservation for your first date at the Maple Leaf. It’s not far and we’ll have an assistant and crew there for you every step of the way. Can’t wait to see who you pick.” Tory bursts with the kind of giddy energy I lack.
“I thought the viewers vote who’ll be my match,” Chase says.
“They help you narrow it down, but ultimately, it’s your choice between the two finalists.”
“And how long should this take?”
“The next couple of weeks. It’s all in the contract.
You go on twelve dates plus the grand finale, providing a spectacular viewing sensation as you date, reflect, interview, and play games.
It’s a blast. Let’s see. Last season, we had the soccer player Emilio Escriva.
He was a hit, so we’re trying to expand to the US market with a football player.
Lucky you. For the next UK edition, Sebastian Stuart-Southwold will be our star. ”
“Who?” Chase asks.
“He’s the prince of one of the distant British-occupied isles.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“But he’s a prince.” Tory taps the air.
“What if I already found my princess?” Chase’s gaze, filled with blue flame, lands on me.
I check to see if I’m on fire because his smolder threatens to incinerate me.
Tory fans herself. “Yeow. Bring that to the show and I can see the ratings coming in hot. Hold up. If you found your princess, then why’d you agree to do the show? Unrequited love?”
“Something like that,” Chase mutters.
Tory presses her hand to her chest as though relieved. “I was afraid you were going to say it was a favor to your sister. Trust me, business and family don’t mix.”
“Neither does business and pleasure,” I add. Everyone knows that, which is exactly why I have to keep my distance from Chase.
“Pippa here has been incredibly helpful. We’ve briefed her on everything and she’ll be with you every step of the way as per the rules of your etiquette training, but it’s great for us because she knows you better than one of our assistants and can give you direction.
Pippa is your number-one fan. Don’t let her go,” Tory says.
“I wasn’t planning to.” A surprising weight drops into Chase’s tone and his dimple appears with a tease of what I know I can’t have.
We’re deep into Crush or Cupid and have another date on the docket. Chase exits the brownstone wearing a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt left casually untucked. “How’d you sleep?”
With Elvis in my ear. I haven’t had to hear him croon in order to fall asleep in a long time, but it did the trick, mostly because I couldn’t turn off my thoughts...about Chase on the other side of the wall.
“I slept,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with sunshine when all I feel is gloom, especially after watching him go on a date with a chipper web designer with a penchant for cosplay. She was great, no complaints, but it’s agonizing to watch.
“Lucky for you, the previous tenants moved out earlier this month and I’m still vetting new ones, so the space is open.”
More like unlucky, if he had a view into my thoughts. “It’s lovely. Furnished and everything.”
“Quite the project, let me tell you,” he says as we start down the sidewalk.
...so is this, chaperoning my crush on dates with other women.
Every fiber of my being tells me not to do it, but if we don’t find him someone else, I’ll fall...and keep falling.
I don’t know where rock bottom is, but I imagine it’s a long way down. I’d never let myself want a married man or someone in a relationship, so the sooner Chase is off the market, the better.
While we walk, Chase points out various aspects of the properties he purchased along with project details. He speaks with purposeful passion like his greatest pleasure comes from creating a home.
“We should get a move on. You have to meet date number six.”
“Is this revenge for the sponge thing?” Chase asks. “Did the guys on the team put you up to this?”
“What? No. If anything, they’d be concerned this jeopardizes the rules set forth in the playbook, but the contract was signed before the #BruiserButt scandal and your coach backed you on this.”
We stop under the glow of a neon sign. “I need pizza.” He looks at me like a starved man, half-deranged with hunger.
“But your date—”
Once inside the pizza shop, Chase plants me at a table.
Hardly taking his eyes off me, he returns with slices for each of us.
The sight and smell of wood fired dough carry me back in time to the spring fair in Concordia when, for a couple of hours, I wasn’t Chase’s coach.
He wasn’t my client. We stepped outside our roles. Outside time. It was just us.
Tears work their way toward my eyes. Now is not the time to cry. I have to get through the next eleven days. Keep my job. Help him find love.
Chase appears with a tray of pizza and drinks.
Taking a long sip of orange soda, I keep my mouth busy so I don’t point out that it’s just us right now. No Crush or Cupid. Okay, a crush, a big, fat, aching one. But also, no arranged marriage, nothing else except pizza. Except each other.
My phone beeps with a series of messages. “Tory is wondering where we are.”
“We’re here.”
“When will we get there?”
Chase wipes his mouth with a woefully undersized napkin in his large hands. “When we’re done here.”
I start to type. “When is that?”
“I’m getting tired of this. Not you, Pippa. This dog and pony show. Yes, I’m the nice guy. A people pleaser, but I want my life back. This isn’t working for me.”
“It’s only eleven more days.”
Taking a sip of his soda, Chase does a spit take. “Eleven more what?”
“Days.”
“I thought you said dates. I was ready to walk.”
“Tory wants us to review the women you’ve met so far,” I say, reading the most recent text.
He sets down his pizza and wipes his hands, then counting off on his fingers, he says, “Let’s see, the first few, I can’t even remember their names.
Most recently, Nancy was significantly older.
Maybe even older than my Nana. She’s the gold digger type.
Seven husbands. Smoker. Rude to service workers. Shall I keep going?”
“She could stand a stint at Blancbourg.”
“I’d like to have kids, and forgive me for saying this, but I think she’s well past her childbearing years.”
“Not to worry. Brielle’s profile says she wants to have babies.” I paste on a perky smile that’s fake, fake, fake. I’ve hardly touched my pizza.
“You going to eat that?” Chase asks.
He takes a bite and then holds it up to me. “It’s delicious.” He waves the slice a little.
“I’ll get something before we head back to the house.”
“I think you should take a bite.” Chase cups his hand under the end so nothing drops on me as he moves it closer to my mouth.
“I insist.” His hand gently caresses my jaw as he feeds me a bite.
The dough has the perfect amount of chewy give and the melty cheese is deliciously fresh. I close my eyes for a moment. “Oh, that’s good,” I say around a mouthful.
His eyes land on my lips and linger as if he too realizes that it’s just the two of us.
My throat bobs with a swallow. This must be what it feels like right before Chase Collins kisses a woman.
His lips are confident. I imagine they’re softer than they look, but demanding too. He looks like he knows the fine balance of being both a smooth and rough kisser, but also generous, aware of what and when to give.
The pizza place could go up in flames, or the ground could shake, and I don’t imagine anything could interrupt this moment.
Not lightning or a meteor.
Not Marlow or our parents. Not even a camera crew.
We’re so close, I could reach out and press my mouth to his.
His gaze drops to mine.
My heart throbs so madly, I’m certain he can hear it, feel it, over the din in the pizza shop.
Then someone squawks, “It’s the Lion! Number four. Chase Collins!”
This isn’t the first time Chase gets mobbed by fans. It happens multiple times a day. This one is what Chase said the guys on the team call a Bruiser Babe—they flock to him like flamingos to a pond. She’s a bubbly brunette with team colors and a tattoo of the logo, which she proudly shares.
Chase is polite, signs her shirt, and they take several selfies.
I’m no Bruiser Babe. More like Auntie Awkward. If only I could find a guy who prefers quiet nights in, scented candles, popcorn, and Ted Lasso marathons.
I can’t deny that I wish I was looking at him. We’ve had moments, but those thirty seconds at the table were something else. His head was tilted just so. My cheeks flushed. Our mouths were close. So close.
But I have to crush this crush! I’m on a mission, people.