More Than I Could (23)

I try to stare a hole into him, but he practically skips out the door.

My chin tilts toward the ceiling in what feels strangely like defeat.

Chase moves at my side, his knee brushing against mine. A lick of fire races through my body. Nooooo, Megan. We don’t like this rude Neanderthal.

“Why are you here?” I ask without looking at him. My voice is dull, free of emotion of any kind.

“We need to talk.”

“That’s funny. I distinctly remember you refusing to talk a few hours ago.”

He groans. “Will you look at me, please?”

I don’t want to look at him because, if I do, I’ll lose the upper hand. If I even have the upper hand. But I can’t sit staring at the dollars on the ceiling all afternoon. If nothing else, my neck will ache.

Stay in control.

Grinning because I know it’ll annoy him, I lower my chin. “Only because you said please.”

He’s not entertained. But I am.

Holy fuck, he’s something to look at.

Chase is handsome in the traditional ways—excellent bone structure, great lips, and thick lashes. But it’s the more subtle things—the way he flexes his fingers, the calluses on his hands, an implacable look that makes me wonder what he’s thinking—that make it hard to breathe.

“There,” I say, looking as far into his eyes as I can. “I’m looking at you.”

His tongue sweeps around his lips. “Look, Megan …” He takes a long, deep breath. “We got off on the wrong foot.”

“I think we already established that.”

He flashes me a look. “Let’s … restart.”

I don’t want to begin again with Chase, mostly because I’m not sure why he wants to. I’m leaving town in the morning. There’s no need to be friendly or to end our acquaintance any differently. We’ll never see each other again … unless he wants to walk back his position on me helping him with Kennedy. In that case, I’m better off just keeping things as they are.

The man gets under my skin like no other.

I’ll get under his before he can get under mine any more than he already has.

“Are we starting over before or after I saw you naked?” I ask, resting my chin on my hand.

His gaze shifts to the ceiling this time.

“Let’s go with after that particular moment,” I say as his cheeks turn slightly pink. “It’s the only interaction we’ve had so far that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed.”

Slowly, he lowers his gaze back to mine. When it connects, it’s so intense that I shiver.

“I’m trying to be serious here,” he says.

“Me too.”

He runs a hand down his face and then down his thigh. There are stress lines around his eyes; surprisingly, I feel bad for teasing him.

“Okay, fine, I’m sorry,” I say, frowning. I shove a hand toward him. “Hi. Fancy meeting you here. I’m Megan Kramer. What’s your name?”

He takes my hand warily and shakes it. A zip of energy shoots through me.

“I’m Chase.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Chase,” I say.

He drops my hand. “Are we doing all of this?”

“Hey, this was your idea. You said you wanted to start over.”

He stares at me.

I rest my chin in my hand again and stare back at him.

“You know this isn’t necessary, right?” I ask. “We can leave things as they are. As they were. I’m leaving town tomorrow, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

He starts to speak but stops.

Something in the way he watches me—a heated promise, maybe—has me holding my breath. Why are you here, Chase?

“I acted a little out of pocket today,” he says carefully.

My brows shoot to the ceiling. That’s not what I expected.

“I was surprised to see you, and I didn’t handle myself very well.” He slides his hands down his legs again. “I think we both got fiery and should’ve approached the situation more calmly.”

Okay … “Well, you make me fiery when you accuse me of being a bad person.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“You did.”

He sits back in his chair. The legs squeak with the movement.

I study him, picking up on his frustration, which seems higher than mine. His right leg bounces to a beat I can’t hear. He folds his hands on his lap, his thumbs flicking each other back and forth.

There’s a slight, so freaking slight, softness about Chase that I feel the fight dissipating from my body.

“Let’s not argue,” I say, sitting back too. “You’re right. You didn’t handle yourself very well. And, honestly, in retrospect, I didn’t handle myself the best either.”

He stills, and the corners of his lips turn slightly to the ceiling. “Was that an apology?”

“Was yours?”

He shrugs.

I shrug too.

Then, at the same time, we both chuckle.

The relief I feel from this small, simple action is massive. My shoulders relax, and the muscle across the back of my neck eases. The heaviness of a few minutes ago lifts—even if only a bit.

Chase bends forward. His body angles toward mine, giving me an unobstructed view of his face. I wonder if it’s intentional—if he wants to permit me to see him openly.