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I look down at the white mug, covered in dashed marks and imagine all the times Chase’s lips have encompassed the rim. Suddenly, his silly mug seems like the kind of thing I’m going to have to talk myself out of taking to bed tonight.
You are a sick, sick woman.
Desperate to separate myself from the thoughts, I offer up the mug with a lift of my arm. “Here. You can have it back, then.”
He considers me for a minute before accepting it, but accept it, he does. How cute, I think. The little weirdo has formed an obsession with the mug.
That’s totally something I would do and, at the same time, completely unexpected from him. He seems so dignified, so mature, so well-adjusted. Turns out he’s just faking it way better than I am.
Satisfied, I’ve nearly turned my attention back to the scene and River’s faux pas when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Chase putting the mug to his lips and taking a sip before pouring it out in the sink.
My coffee. My backwash. My lingering lips on the rim.
Holy shit. My abdomen spasms, full-blown arousal threatening to make me come right then. And I don’t even think he knows he did it!
Just a mindless sip from a mug he’s established as his own.
If only my body would recognize it as that innocent, but my mind is too busy playing memory lane with last night and imagining what it would’ve felt like to kiss him.
Don’t go there. Disengage.
I busy myself with absolute bullshit for the five minutes it takes Chase to wash out the mug and refill it with his own coffee and return to the table. I’m still trying to make my eyes focus on my computer screen enough to read the words when he taps me on the hand, a frown pointed in my direction.
“Are you upset we’re not out exploring right now?” he asks, clearly misreading my fucking off for something deeper than a spontaneous-combustion orgasm.
“Huh?” is my eloquent response.
“You seem sad. And I don’t like the idea that I’ve made you sad like some kind of work-pusher. You’re a grown woman, and you’re allowed to make your own schedule.”
I wave him off with a dramatic arm. “Oh, it’s fine. You’re right to make me work. I may be grown on the outside, but my maturity and responsibility are slightly lacking around shiny things.”
He smiles as I continue.
“It’s no big deal, really. I’ve been to NOLA before, so it’s not imperative that I get boots on the ground. Work does need to get done.”
He nods, considering me closely before pushing a little harder. “How about the flaws for Clive? Have you gotten a chance to work on those yet?”
“I, uh…well, I attempted it.”
“And?”
I cringe. “I failed.”
“Brooke,” he chides gently, and I sink my head into my hands.
“I know, I know! But it’s the next item on my agenda. Just getting myself reestablished with the story.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire! You know these characters better than you know the folds of your labia, and thanks to writing this story about Chase Dawson, you know your meat flaps quite well.
My God, I’ve turned shameless. I didn’t even think about how duplicitous this whole thing is before spewing something to get him off my back. I don’t want to have this attitude—I don’t want to keep hiding something this important from him—but my God, how do you even begin to explain this to someone without both scarring them for life and ruining their opinion of you?
“That’s fair,” Chase answers, completely unaware of the half-cooked monologue in my head. “Do you want to brainstorm through some of the notes I’ve made at this point? See if you’re open to accepting any of them?”
I’m just about to say yes when Chase’s phone rings from its spot on the table, drawing his eyebrows together until he gets a look at the caller. I catch a glimpse before he picks it up, and I recognize the name straightaway.
President of Longstrand himself, Jonah Perish.
Yikes. It never feels good when the boss is calling, and it feels even worse knowing I’ve been fighting Chase’s ability to do his job at every turn. I really, really hope he’s good enough at bullshitting to keep himself out of trouble.
But his face is incredibly stalwart, given the circumstances, and I’m impressed as he manages to offer me a smile and a wink before stepping out of the motor home’s front door to take the call.
When it closes behind him with a click, I let my head fall back in dismay.
The time has come when avoidance is no longer possible without seriously fucking with the man I have an enormous crush on and, quite possibly, ruining his life. I can hem and haw and pretend to try to work on this stupid scene some more, or I can get down to the meat and potatoes of what I know I have to do.
