Page 161 of Check & Chase
My thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door, soft but insistent. Jackson, probably, having forgotten something.
I open the door without checking the peephole, a careless habit from living in Pinewood.
And there he stands.
Not Jackson.
Not room service.
Not any of the people who should logically be at my door at 9:47 p.m. in Hartford.
Chase fucking Mitchell.
He’s wearing gray sweats and a worn-out T-shirt, his eyes bloodshot from what might be exhaustion or crying or both.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, shock rendering me incapable of normal volume.
“I couldn’t wait,” he explains simply. “I know I promised I would, but after the game tonight, all I could think was that life is short and uncertain, and Emma needs to know exactly how I feel, right now, in person.”
My heart pounds painfully—joy at seeing him, anger at him turning up, fear of what this might mean for both of us.
“Chase, you can’t just show up like this.”
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair in a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. “I’m sorry for ambushing you. But please, Emma, five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Five minutes, and if you still want me to go, I will.”
I should say no. Should close the door, maintain the boundaries I’ve established, protect myself from the tidal pull of his presence.
But as I look at him,reallylook at him, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the weight he’s clearly lost, the vulnerability in his expression, I find I can’t turn him away.
“Five minutes,” I agree, stepping aside to let him enter.
He moves past me into the small hotel suite, his familiar scent—soap and faint cologne and something uniquely Chase—filling my senses and triggering a cascade of memories. His body heat warming me on cold mornings. His laugh vibrating through his chest as I lay against him. His hands, gentle despite their strength, tracing patterns on my skin.
I close the door, leaning against it for support as I face him, keeping distance between us. “Your five minutes start now.”
“I had a whole speech prepared,” he says with a small, self-deprecating smile. “Practiced it the entire drive here. But now that I’m standing in front of you, none of it seems adequate.”
“Try anyway.”
He takes a deep breath. “I love you, Emma. Not the idea of you, not what you represent, but you. Stubborn, brilliant, compassionate you. I love who I am when I’m with you, who you challenge me to become.”
The words flow directly from his heart, unpolished but genuine.
“I made a terrible mistake. I thought I was protecting you by ending things, but all I did was hurt us both and demonstrate a fundamental lack of respect for you. There’s no excuse for that. I can only tell you that I’ve learned from it, that I understand now why it was so wrong, and that I would never make that mistake again.”
I can feel how much he means it. It’s thick in the air, pressing in around me, impossible to ignore. I fold my arms across my chest, as if that will somehow keep it all out.
“You broke my heart,” I whisper, the pain still fresh despite weeks of trying to bury it. “You decided what was best for me without even asking what I wanted.”
“I know. It was arrogant and controlling, the exact opposite of how someone treats a partner they truly respect. I have no defense except that I was terrified of being the reason your career was damaged.”
He takes a hesitant step toward me, stopping when I stiffen.
“I’m not asking you to forget what I did, or to pretend it didn’t hurt you. I’m asking for a chance to prove that I’ve learned, that I can be the partner you deserve. One who stands beside you in challenges, not one who makes unilateral decisions ‘for your own good.’”
The raw honesty in his words chisels away at the walls I’ve built around my heart. But fear remains, insistent and protective.
“How do I know you wouldn’t do it again? The next time things get tough, the next time you think you’re protecting me, how do I know you wouldn’t push me away again?”
