More Than I Could (50)

“Who?”

“Gavin.”

Unamused Chase is amusing.

“I was at The Wet Whistle before I was supposed to get Kennedy at school—”

“Yeah, I’m sorry for not telling you she was going home with Neve. It slipped my mind.”

I shrug. “It’s fine. No harm, no foul.”

He grimaces and goes back to his dinner.

“Anyway, I was eating,” I say, “and Gavin walks in. We had an interesting little chat.”

“What about?”

I grin. “Gavin stuff.”

He scoffs. “That sounds like a headache to me.” He takes another bite. “Did Luke come by today?”

“Not while I was here. You know, I’ve yet to meet the infamous Luke.”

“You’re not missing much.”

“I don’t know. You and Gavin are two-for-two on the interesting level.” I open my can of Sprite. “Apparently, I’m interesting too, though, because my former boss, Dorothy, just offered me my job back.”

“Oh?” He chews slower. “You gonna take it?”

I sigh, falling back against the pillows. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

“Did you like working there?”

“Well, that’s tricky. On the one hand, I loved it. I got to travel all over the world and attend events and meet all kinds of people. But, on the other hand … no. I didn’t. Not really—not thoroughly.”

Chase places his beer on the end table. The sound of the can hitting the wood dings through the room.

The light overhead is dim—something I haven’t noticed about the living room until now. The room is pretty dark without the television's light, the sun's rays from the window, or the lamp by the fireplace.

“What was the worst part of the job?” he asks.

“Well, I guess it was just the loneliness of being on the West Coast alone. Mom won’t leave Dallas—which is ridiculous on so many levels. But I get it. Her life is there; she shouldn’t have to uproot all that for me.”

Although, I wish she would.

“But you liked California?” he asks.

“It was lovely. I don’t think it’s for me, per se. So many people. So much garbage. Never a dark sky or a quiet evening—two things I didn’t know I loved until I came here.”

We exchange a grin.

“So what did you love about your job?” he asks before taking another bite.

I set my plate on a box and then curl my feet up under me.

“My favorite thing was the traveling,” I say. “I saw so many incredible places—Morocco, Greece, Peru. Iceland was amazing. Maine and New Hampshire and Vermont in the fall were stunning.”

“Is that something you still want to do?”

I laugh. “Strangely enough, no. It’s odd because it was my favorite part, but I’m … tired, I guess. There’s nothing left that I’m chomping at the bit to see and so much else that I’d rather do.”

“Like what?”

“Fuck if I know. I just know that I feel like I’ve completed that part of my life. So another part has to be open, right?”

He grins before wincing. He rolls his shoulder around, holding it with his other hand.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I whacked my shoulder off a bucket last week.”

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“No, I didn’t go to the doctor,” he says like it’s a harebrained idea. “They’ll just tell me to take an over-the-counter pain reliever or an anti-inflammatory. I don’t need to pay a fifty-dollar co-pay for that.”

“So you sit and suffer. Got it. So smart.”

He gives me a look while continuing to move it in circles.

I start to offer to rub it but stop short of speaking.

If I get my hands on that man …

My stomach clenches. Hard.

It’s suddenly darker in the room. Quieter. The air is thicker—hotter. I watch the way he cups his shoulder with his hand and wonder, not for the first time, what it would feel like on me.

Fingertips pressing against my skin. The heat of his body radiating into mine. The coarseness of his palm biting against me.

He winces again—this time, closing his eyes and exhaling harshly.

I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the way heat builds in my core. I try desperately not to imagine his face twisted—eyes closed, breathing roughly—as he climaxes.

It’s been a while since you got laid. Relax, Megan.

“Fuck,” he says again before resting his head against the front of the couch. Pain is written all over his face. He sets his plate down beside mine.

You can control yourself. He’s not willing to do anything with you anyway, so what could it hurt to offer to help him?

I tingle all over at the prospect of having Chase Marshall in my hands—of finally getting to touch him, even if it’s innocent. And it would have to be innocent. I promised I would respect his boundaries.

“Let me help you,” I say.

His eyes pop open, but he doesn’t move. I can do this. I can help him and help myself at the same time. Like I said earlier—no harm, no foul.

“Sit up,” I say, getting to my feet. I swallow hard. I’m committed now. The ball is in his court.