Page 13 of Chasing Chase London: Part 8-Valentines Day
He doesn’t let go of my hand, but I wrench it from his grasp. I’m on thin ice already. I can’t have Lindsey seeing us holding hands.
Undeterred, Chase slings an arm casually around my shoulders. Then he pulls my head to him and says into my ear, “Don’t try to be like Lindsey. Please.”
I suck in a breath, startled at the intensity of the electricity coursing through my body when his mouth brushes my ear.
“Chase,” I warn, my head swimming with his nearness, his masculine scent, the sensation of his strong body against mine.
“You’re a hundred times sexier,” he murmurs, his voice deep and seductive.
Gathering all the strength that remains in my melting body, I shove his chest. He slowly slides away from me, an infuriatingly teasing look in his eyes as his hand casually makes its way over the back of my neck, my shoulder, and finally, down my arm.
What the hell? How can he say things like that to me?
Either he has no idea the effect he has on me, or he does, and he’s making the most of it. Either way he’s completely out of line. He said this wouldn’t happen anymore. No more inappropriate flirting.
“You said you’d stop all this,” I say, finding my voice and my senses at the same moment.
I look away from his piercing blue eyes, sparkling with wit. I hate myself for the flutter in my stomach I still get whenever he’s around. He makes it so hard.
“I have no memory of that,” he says, brushing my hair away from my cheek and winding one long, straight strand behind my ear. “I said we shouldn’t be alone together. I can’t trust you not to use your seductive charms on me.” He leans against the locker next to mine, a casual smirk on his face.
My skin prickles deliciously where he touched my cheek. I turn to face my locker so he can’t see how flushed I am. “I don’t think I have those,” I mumble.
“Oh, you do.”
“Chase…”
“I never said I wouldn’t talk to you,” he points out. “I mean, I’m still your friend, even if you’re dying to get in my pants.”
I promised myself I’d stop all this silliness, for Lindsey if not for myself, but my body just doesn’t seem to care what I promised. It’s not listening to anything my mind is saying. Nomatter how conflicted I feel, how torturous it is to be around Chase and Lindsey, never knowing and always wanting, my heart doesn’t care. It just wants more. My body craves his touch the way an alcoholic craves a drink, with a want bordering on need, a need bordering on pain.
Suddenly I understand Daria all too well.
At work that night, I get warned about all my absences. I don’t even care anymore, but I insist I was sick over the weekend. It’s not a total lie. Lovesickness counts, right?
As if it’s karma for lying, I get sick for real right afterwards. I spend the two days before Valentine’s Day with my head in the toilet. I’m secretly relieved I don’t have to worry about having a boyfriend for the big day, or how many candy grams I get at school, or helping Lindsey and Daria pick out dresses for their dates.
Mom brings me soup dutifully, oblivious to the fact that she’ll probably catch my virus by coming near. She never seems to care about that when one of her kids is sick. It makes me forgive her a little for all her horribleness this year—and feel guilty for my part in it.
Valentines’ Day afternoon she brings me a huge bouquet of roses and a big box of fancy chocolates. I’m a little better today, but the thought of chocolate is enough to turn my stomach. My heart skips a beat when I see a card sticking out of the roses, though. It’s just like Chase to give me something completely extravagant and boyfriendish.
I hate myself for wanting them to be from my friend’s boyfriend. Why would he get me something for Valentine’s? It’s a holiday for couples, for giving things to the person you love. Still, I have to squelch my disappointment when I read the card.
Sky,
I’m still sorry. Please forgive me.
Love, Todd.
“He’s downstairs,” Mom says. “Do you want to see him?”
“No,” I say, sinking back against the pillows. I’m still weak, and I look like hell. But when Daria texts that she wants to come over that evening, I tell her to come. As long as Lindsey doesn’t see me like this, I don’t care what girls think of my wan appearance.
“Nice flowers,” Daria says, leaning down to sniff them. “Who from?”
I can tell by the too-casual way she asks that this is fodder for the gossip mill.
“Todd,” I say, handing her the card.
