Page 82 of Check & Chase
“I should go,” she says, though she makes no move to leave.
“You good?”
She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “I’m good. Thank you, Chase.”
“Anytime, Blondie. That’s what fake boyfriends are for, right?”
The joke falls flat.
“Right,” she agrees, though her expression suggests otherwise. “I’ll see you tomorrow? For dinner?”
“Seven o’clock. Don’t forget.”
She offers a small smile before disappearing back inside, leaving me alone with thoughts too complicated to untangle.
Whatever happens tomorrow, one thing is clear—I don’t want to be Emma Anderson’s fake anything anymore. I want the real thing, complications and all.
Emma
Chapter Sixteen
He’s watching me again.
I can feel his eyes on me while I move around his kitchen, helping with dinner. It’s not creepy—just focused. Like he’s trying to memorize everything.
When I glance over my shoulder, Chase quickly looks down at the wine bottle he’s opening, color rising on his cheeks at being caught. It’s endearing, this bashfulness from a man who’s usually so confident.
“Your kitchen is surprisingly well-equipped for someone who claims to never cook.”
“I said I rarely cook, not that I never cook.” Chase hobbles over without his crutch, his knee clearly improving. “My mother would disown me if I couldn’t make at least five decent meals.”
“Five whole meals? Impressive.”
“Mock all you want, Anderson, but my lasagna has been known to make grown men weep.”
The domesticity of the moment strikes me suddenly—Chase and I in his kitchen, preparing dinner together, teasing and laughing as if we’ve been doing this for years. Max appears from wherever he was hiding to weave between our legs, purring loudly as he rubs against my ankles.
“Someone’s looking for dinner too,” I observe, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. Max immediately flops onto his back, exposing his belly.
“I’m glad he likes you. He’s usually pretty selective about who gets the belly rub privilege.”
I smile, giving Max the attention he’s demanding. “This is nice,” I add, looking around. “Your place, I mean. It suits you.”
“I just wish it felt more homey.” He pours us each a glass of red wine. “It’s just… big. For one person.”
There’s something vulnerable in the admission that catches me off guard. Chase Mitchell, star hockey player, is lonely in his big beautiful house.
“I know what you mean. After I left for college, coming home to an empty apartment always felt strange.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m at the facility so much. At least there, the noise fills the emptiness.”
“Until you got injured.”
His smile dims. “Yeah. Being sidelined has its downsides beyond just missing games.”
I turn off the burner. “Well, tonight you’re not alone. And if the steak is half as good as you claim, maybe I’ll even come back.”
The words slip out more genuinely than intended, sounding dangerously like a promise. Chase’s expression shifts, something hopeful flickering across his features before he masks it.
