More Than I Could (33)

Her smile could defuse a bomb. “No sides. I’m on a balcony over here as an unbiased third party.”

I intend on flipping my attention back on the girls. There’s still a battle to be fought, after all. But the rosiness in Megan’s cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes—the hint of debauchery hidden in her sweet grin—distracts me.

Focus, Chase. Don’t go there.

I clear my throat.

Megan turns away. “What are you two wanting to do this afternoon? What do teenagers do for fun in Peachwood Falls?”

“Nothing,” Neve says, wrinkling her nose. “There’s nothing to do in Peachwood Falls.”

“We’ll probably just hang out. We won’t be making videos,” Kennedy says, side-eyeing me. “We might … do our nails. Who knows?”

I fire Kennedy a warning glare to remind her I wasn’t playing. If she makes any more half-clothed videos for social media, she’ll not have a phone until she moves out of this house.

A horn beeps in the distance.

“Fine,” I say, giving in. “Go. Be home before six.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Kennedy hops up and kisses me on the cheek. “You’re the best.”

“Six. Not six oh one.”

“Got it.” Kennedy follows Neve to the door, sticking tight to her heels. “See you later, Megan.”

“It was nice to meet you, Megan,” Neve calls out.

“Bye, girls.”

The door closes swiftly as if they’re afraid I’ll change my mind.

As soon as we’re alone, the air shifts. Shadows dance across the tabletop. Megan’s jasmine perfume scents the air, and my body temperature rises.

I struggle to remember our conversation yesterday. I remind myself that my child—the same one that occupied the seat next to me a minute ago—is my priority. Over and over, I replay all the reasons I can’t afford to get off track.

Why I can’t touch Megan Kramer.

My muscles tighten in my stomach and across the back of my neck as I lift my gaze from the tabletop to her.

She grins. It’s simple, but when coupled with the heat in her eyes, nothing about it is sweet. “That was fun.”

I hold her gaze, unable to look away.

This is the first day, Chase. Twenty-nine more to go. Don’t blow it already.

I smirk and push away from the table.

I need to put some distance between us before things get really fun.





Chapter Thirteen





Megan




“Coffee?”

Chase’s chair screeches against the floor as he pushes away from the table. He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he heads to the coffee pot like a man on a mission.

His question throws me. Do I want coffee? It’s almost noon.

“I guess …” I shrug when he looks over his shoulder. “I mean, it’s lunchtime, but I won’t turn down coffee.”

“Yeah.” He exhales, leaning against the counter. “Hungry?”

I scoot my chair around so I can still see him.

He’s crossed his long legs in front of him. His waist digs into the edge of the cabinet. With his contented annoyance—a look that’s wildly amusing and hot beyond measure—he’s the picture of single dad perfection.

Thank God Calista can’t see this.

“I’m always hungry,” I say.

For once in the three days I’ve known Chase Marshall, I answer his question directly. No sarcasm. No prodding. No innuendo dripping from my words. But it doesn’t matter.

Chase’s gaze heats anyway, pinning me to my seat.

My heart pounds. The room spikes ten degrees. An array of goose bumps spill across my skin in anticipation of his touch … that never comes. That can’t come. That’s not why I’m here.

Yet I’m convinced that if I stood and walked across the kitchen, Chase would have a hard time turning away. My instincts say I could kiss him—that he wants me to.

And dammit if I don’t want to.

But I can’t.

“Want to make something?” His gravelly voice prickles against my skin. “Or we could go into town and grab a sandwich. I probably need to go to the grocery store anyway. I don’t know if we have anything here.”

He’s talking about sandwiches, but I can only focus on the snack right in front of me.

His hair is tousled at the top—just needing a trim. The veins in his forearm rope around the muscle. His eyes tell me he wants to grab ahold of me and toss me against the wall.

I steady myself. We need to break this moment.

“Why don’t you show me around instead?” I say, figuring movement is the best form of defense. “We can figure out food later—or I can go shopping tomorrow while Kennedy is at school.”

His shoulders sag as if he, too, were holding his breath. “Are you sure? I can put together a ham and cheese sandwich at worst.”

“Yeah, unless you’re hungry.”

He crosses the room. “Nah, we had bacon and waffles this morning.” He disappears into the mudroom and comes back carrying my bags.

“Should I expect homemade breakfasts every weekend?”

He grins. “Ken goes with Dad for brunch on Saturdays, so I usually grab cereal or a sandwich if I’m out fucking around. But we do usually cook together on Sunday mornings.”