Page 114 of Check & Chase
“Slipped on those darn steps. Should have waited for Jackson to check the mail, but you know how impatient I get.” She pats the couch beside her. “Sit, sit. You look frazzled.”
“I thought…” I swallow hard, the fear that gripped me earlier trying to resurface. “When Jackson said you fell, I remembered Dad…”
“Oh, sweetheart. Nothing like that. Just your clumsy mother not watching her step.”
Tears press hot behind my eyes, relief making me lightheaded now that I can see she’s truly okay. “You need to be more careful.”
“I will,” she promises, squeezing my hand. “Now, is that your handsome hockey player I hear in the hallway?”
Sure enough, Chase’s voice mingles with Jackson’s, their tones surprisingly cordial given their history.
“Yes,” I confirm, wiping discreetly at my eyes. “Chase drove with me. He insisted, actually.”
“Good man,” my mother approves. “Bring him in! I want a proper introduction this time, not just that quick video chat.”
I go to the hallway, finding the two men engaged in what appears to be an amicable conversation about road conditions. “Mom wants to meet you,” I tell Chase. “Officially.”
His smile is instant, genuine. “Lead the way.”
I watch with a strange mixture of anxiety and pride as Chase enters the living room, presenting himself to my mother with the same charm he uses on everyone. But there’s an underlying sincerity that can’t be faked.
“Mrs. Anderson,” he greets, balancing on his good leg to lean down and offer his hand. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you properly.”
“Diane, please,” my mother insists, ignoring his hand to pull him down for a hug that clearly surprises him. “Anyone who drives for hoursthrough a snowstorm to check on a woman with a twisted ankle is family as far as I’m concerned.”
Chase recovers quickly, returning the hug. “I’d have come even without the ankle. Emma speaks very highly of you.”
“Charmer,” my mother accuses with a wink. “Sit, sit, before that knee gives out.”
The next hour flies by, my mother getting Chase’s entire life story out of him. She’s good at this—spending half her life teaching means she knows how to get people talking.
He responds with good humor and surprising openness, detailing his childhood, his early hockey career, even the difficult dynamics with his father.
Jackson joins us eventually, bringing mugs of hot chocolate “fortified” with a splash of whiskey he keeps at Mom’s house. The scene is surreal—my brother and Chase sitting across from each other without any hostility, my mother holding court from her injured position on the couch, me watching it all unfold like I’m dreaming.
“You’ll stay for dinner, of course,” my mother announces when the conversation hits a natural lull.
“We couldn’t impose…” I begin.
“Nonsense!” she interrupts. “You’re both probably hungry, plus I want time with both my children and this delightful young man who’s stolen my daughter’s heart.”
Heat floods my cheeks at the phrasing, but Chase just grins, clearly pleased by the description. “I’d be honored, Diane. Though I should warn you, I’m a terrible kitchen assistant.”
“That’s what Emma’s for,” my mother says with a wink. “She’s quite handy with a potato peeler.”
And just like that, I find myself in my childhood kitchen, preparing dinner with my family and Chase as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Jackson mans the grill despite the snow, refusing to let a mere blizzard interfere with his cooking. Chase sits at the counter, unable to helpmuch with his knee but offering commentary and company while I prep vegetables and my mother supervises from her perch on a high stool.
Dinner itself is a lively affair, conversation flowing easily despite the unusual combination of personalities. Chase fits seamlessly into our family dynamic, matching Jackson’s dry humor, appreciating my mother’s stories, shooting me soft glances that make my heart stutter when he thinks no one’s looking.
“You’ll stay the night,” my mother declares as we finish dessert, apple crumble that Chase praises with such enthusiasm that my mother practically preens. “The guest rooms are all made up.”
Jackson’s eyebrows rise at the plural, but he says nothing. Chase defers to me with a look.
“Maybe we should head back,” I say, suddenly nervous about sleeping under my mother’s roof with the man who went down on me just this morning. “Chase has PT exercises to do, and…”
“Those can wait one night,” Chase interrupts smoothly. “If you’re comfortable staying, I am too.”
