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“Okay, the uh…the anchor. That’s for Grandpa Reeves. He was a sailor. It’s supposed to represent strength and staying grounded—no matter how rough the seas—” An exasperated breath releases from him as I keep my strides sharp and avoid the bullshit he’s giving me.
He’s not behind me anymore. He’s stopped his pursuit. But my legs don’t stop. I’m too hurt—too embarrassed for trusting him with the one thing I’ve never shared with anyone.
“It was Elliot,” he shouts.
I stop. But I’m not turning. Not yet.
He’s breathless. “My dream…he does that, the jackass. Comes to me where he knows I’ll listen because I have no choice.”
I glance around the empty streets before turning slowly.
He releases a breath and takes small strides. “He wanted me to teach him to skate like a pro. Play like a pro—be like me. I told him to find his own thing. To stop trying to be like someone else and just find his own way.”
He stops moving and his head falls like he’s out of breath. Which I know is impossible for him because I’ve seen him fly across the rink like it’s a walk in the park.
“So he did,” he finally says. “He went skiing instead of to the rink with me that day. That’s how he died.”
My heart falls.
“Last night he asked me again—if he could come with me.”
“What did you say?” I ask quietly, moving toward him in slow steps.
His jaw works and his eyes shimmer. “What I should have said.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“No,” he agrees then looks back at me. His eyes full of regret. “But I didn’t even give him a chance. I kept telling myself that I just wanted him to be who he is. But…what if I just wanted it to be my thing?”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I tell him. Meaning it but knowing he’ll never be convinced. He’ll never stop believing that his brother’s death was his fault.
“I’m sorry about last night. I wasn’t prepared.”
“I don’t blame you.”
He stretches a hand to me. “I know a nice place with a killer mountain view for breakfast if you’re interested.”
I perk a brow.
“Not in that way, of course. Message received, you are not interested in me—or my tattoos in any way.”
“Alright.”
The café is nothing like where I’d expected Chase to take me when he suggested breakfast. What I had in mind was a corner diner that was likely voted “best omelet in Denver.” But he walked us down to his underground garage, settled me into his sports car and drove us twenty minutes out of the city.
Chase wasn’t wrong about the view. The place is nestled in a forest of trees, overlooking the mountains. It looks like a kind of tea shop a middle-aged couple would call their hidden gem. Soft jazz music plays through some hidden speakers—possibly somewhere behind the hanging baskets of bright greenery.
It’s a spacious café but there are only a total of seven round tables, each lined against the wall of the enormous windows.
Coffee is definitely key here. Warm scents of freshly-brewed coffee, spices like cinnamon and cloves fill the air. It’s inviting, and seeing as how Chase drove out of his way here for what’s supposed to be the quickest meal of the day, tells me it’s one of his favorites.
“I got you something,” he says absently as he sips his coffee.
I blink past the skepticism. “Okay.”
He digs into his jacket and pulls out a phone. Sliding it over.
“Pretty,” I comment on the pink and gold cased phone.
