Page 23 of How to Get Even

Maybe they did know her better than she thought, Bella decided, smiling and feeling just a little better.

* * *

Chase was still breathing hard as he exited the elevator. He swiped at a bead of sweat that ran down his temple and then nearly tripped over his own feet as he saw Bella coming towards him dressed in running gear.

Eyes up. For the love of God, eyes up.

But it was too late.

Chase knew, right then and there, that the image of Bella encased in black, figure-hugging workout gear would be indelibly printed on his brain for the rest of his life. It didn’t matter that there was barely an inch of the pale skin that never failed to make him think of Dutch Golden Age painters.

There she was, looking fresh, vibrant and practically glowing, and he felt like an old, haggard, unfit, has-been. And with his reputation already hanging by a thread, he didn’t need to add sexual harassment in the work place.

She acknowledged him with a tight smile as she passed.

He nodded in return, pretending that the nine-mile run hadn’t nearly killed him that morning. Of course, it wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been able to run his usual five, and not been detoured after one particular part of the park had been closed. He opened his mouth to let Bella know, but what if she wasn’t planning to run that way? What if she wasn’t actually planning to run at all? She could be on her way to a gym. She could be on her way to pick up coffee for all he knew. Maybe that was the kind of thing socialites liked to do.

But she was more than a socialite, wasn’t she? She’d certainly sounded like it when she was hauling his ass ever so politely, if not quite angrily, over the copy for the website.

He looked up to find her staring at him.

‘Did you want something?’ she asked, peering at him strangely.

No,hewas the one that was behaving strangely as he realised he’d just been caught staring at her while his slugging brain clunked its way through a thought process.

Jesus, get a grip, Miller.

‘Nope,’ he said, the word leaving his mouth on a pop as he spun on his heel and continued down the corridor to his apartment door, resolutely refusing to look her way again. At least until the elevator dinged its departure. He banged his head against the door, once, slowly, before inserting the key and nudging the door open with his foot.

Chase still had that moment of jarring surprise not to find himself in his apartment back in Muswell Hill. The sheer difference between the very British London flat and the swanky New York apartment was as jarring as jet lag.

He missed that strange damp smell that the hallway had had. He missed the small stained-glass windows in each of the building’s apartment doors. He missed the highly illegal ginger cat from one floor above, who would try to trip him by winding through his feet like it was a game. He missed the age of the building. He missed the dry sarcasm of the Brits, and the fact no one here knew what Marmite was. He missed the silly Britishisms he’d collected in his time there and he even missed the God-damned tea.

He missed a time when he didn’t question things, took everything for granted, where what he’d had had been enough. Now he just seemed to be playing out someone else’s life because he couldn’t do what he did before.

Twelve months ago he’d have already been in his studio, knee-deep in a painting, or prep for one. He’d be covered in paint, chalk, pigment, PVA glue, and whatever else he could get his hands on to create the textures he liked exploring in his artwork. But ever since he’d accidentally walked in on his wife and his best friend –and agent– going at it on the sofa, his entire world had changed.

Chase threw his keys onto the breakfast bar and crossed the room to look out the window.

The betrayal had been such a shock that he’d been numb to pretty much everything and anything. At least for the first few months.

His life had become unrecognisable. He had no wife. No home. No best friend.

So, it hadn’t been until somewhere around the third month that he’d realised he had a problem. A serious problem.

Creative block.

The word echoed scornfully around Chase’s brain.

Such an innocuous way of describing the slow and very painful desecration of everything he’d ever known. Painful in that heart-pounding, breath-stealing, needle-poking, sharp stabbing panic kind of pain. The terror, genuine terror, that his purpose in life would forever remain just beyond reach. That he’d never find the success his mother had wanted for him.

It had been the last conversation they’d had before she died. He’d been pressed up against her thin body in the too-small hospital bed. As if he could attach himself to her, so that she couldn’t leave. As if he could keep her with him.

Make something of yourself, Chase. You have too much in you. Talent, generosity heart.

I promise, Ma. I’ll make it happen.

And he had. He’d thrown himself into it all.

---