Claiming Chase: (A Second Chance Stepbrother Romance) (6 page)

I still don’t know what I’m more surprised about — the fact that I actually went and propositioned him in his office like that, or the fact that he said yes.

I let out a frustrated sigh as I rummage through my wardrobe yet again. I keep hoping that if I just look hard enough, the perfect outfit will materialize. Something sexy yet comfortable. Something that doesn’t make me look like a little girl, or old beyond my years. Something with just the right balance of smart and casual.

I know I should have just gone shopping this afternoon, but time and money are two things that a PhD student doesn’t have a great deal of. And also, if I’m completely honest with myself, there’s a kind of reluctance in me to change for him — even to buy a new dress.

He might have changed his name, his motorbike, practically everything about himself, but I’m still the same old Charity.

So I make a snap decision, and grab a simple navy shift dress. It’s nothing fancy, just something I picked up from a sale rack at Macy’s. But it’s smart and comfortable — not too showy, or too shabby.

And now I’ve made the most important decision, I can concentrate on pulling the rest of my outfit together.

I have a grey suede clutch bag, a stack of silver bangles, and a pair of patent grey ballet slippers. I decide to wear my hair down, simple and unfussy, and as I look through my underwear drawer, I can’t help but select my best matching black satin bra and panties set.

Finally dressed, it’s time to pay some attention to my face.

I’m not a heavy makeup kind of a girl, but I do enjoy playing with the subtle ways I can emphasize and highlight my features.

A slick of mascara, some taupe eye shadow to compliment my hazel eyes, and I make sure to highlight my cheekbones with a hint of blusher. They’re definitely my best feature, so I want to make them stand out.

It takes me a long time to choose a lipstick.

I could go full vamp red, or a pretty, delicate pink.

But in the end, I decide to go for something much more natural. A lip stain in a delicate berry color.

Pleased with my makeup, I want to check that the whole outfit works together. Unfortunately, I don’t have a full-length mirror. I never quite got around to buying one. But what I do have is even better.

“What’s the verdict then, Gabs?” I say as I walk the few steps from my tiny bedroom to our even tinier living room.

Gabby is sitting on the sofa, MacBook on her knees, surrounded by text books, paper, and empty takeout coffee containers. I feel a tiny pang of guilt to be going out. She’s obviously up against a deadline. And I silently thank my lucky stars that I put in so much work on my thesis before all this started, because since setting eyes on Chase again, I’ve not written a single word. I’m gonna have to work my butt off, if I’m not going to fall behind and disappoint Professor Lane before our next meeting. But I need to get this sorted first. I need answers, once and for all.

“I think you’ve made the right decision with that outfit,” Gabby smiles up at me. “You don’t look obvious, like you’re about to throw yourself at him. You look like you’re gonna make him work for it. You’ve got a great figure, Charity. You’d look great in anything. So you’re lucky. You can dress like that, like you haven’t tried too hard, and still look hot.”

“Thanks, Gabby,” I say. “I’m sorry you’re going to be here alone all night.”

“Oh, don’t be,” she shrugs. “It’s completely my own fault. I don’t have your work ethic. I always leave things to the last minute. I’ve got seven thousand words to write before Monday. Don’t worry about me, though. I always seem to get it done somehow!”

“In that case, I’ll see you when I get home,” I say.

“
If
you get home,” Gabby adds, a cheeky smile on her face.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I laugh. “It’s just dinner.”

I glance up at the clock.

“Anyway, I’d better make a move. I want to be fashionably late, but if I don’t leave right now, I’m going to just be plain old
actually
late …”

§

It’s a cool, fresh night as I head towards the Midtown restaurant that Chase has chosen. I’m glad that it’s not too far. I’m too broke for a cab, and I don’t want to break into a sweat. So I take it as slowly as I can.

I’m also glad that he seems to have chosen neutral territory. I was worried that he was going to choose somewhere super fancy on the Upper East Side, but instead he’s gone for a small, intimate, reasonably-priced French restaurant.

I’ve googled it; it’s got great reviews, and I can even afford to go Dutch, although something tells me he’s not going to let me do that.

It’s such a weird feeling right now.

I mean, I’m dressed up, walking towards a romantic restaurant, for a date with a guy who turns out to be rich and successful, as well as handsome. But it’s not quite as easy as that, is it?

Not for the first time, I find myself cursing that summer we spent together. If only it had never happened. Maybe then we’d be able to meet in this city as equals. Maybe then we would be able to have that romantic dinner in an intimate French restaurant, and then see where the night takes us.

But of course, it did happen, didn’t it?

And now we’re here to confront that past, to settle old scores.

What if Chase is right? What if there’s nothing left to be said? What if the past is the past and it’s better to leave it there, where it belongs?

And as I take a deep breath, then push the door to the restaurant open, I think:

Well, Charity, tonight’s the night you’re gonna find out.

Aubrey Grant has the longest legs you’ve ever seen, not to mention breasts that defy gravity. And she made it
very
clear that if I was going to take her out tonight, I’d end up with those legs wrapped tight around me. Furthermore, Aubrey Grant is
not
the kind of woman that you turn down, not if you ever want to see the full glory of those exquisite breasts.

So why the fuck have I cancelled my dinner with her tonight?

Am I losing my edge?

Because from the moment I came back to my office to find her sitting there, I’ve felt dangerously out of control once more.

I walked away from her a second time, precisely because of this feeling. There’s something about Charity Lindley that makes me feel like I don’t have a grip on reality — there always has been.

And
damn
, she was hot, sitting there in my office, her eyes flashing up at me, angry and determined.

So when she insisted on dinner tonight, I just couldn’t refuse.

I could have any woman in New York that I wanted. And yet, I’m sitting here, nervous as a school kid waiting to pick up his first prom date.

I flag down the waiter and order a scotch to steady my nerves.

Pull yourself together, Chase.

And as I wait, I make three rules for tonight.

Number One: Answer her questions honestly and succinctly. I can keep the details to myself. She doesn’t need to know everything.

Number Two: Be a gentleman. You’ve really changed. Show her just how far you’ve come.

Number Three: Go home alone. Do I really need to explain that one? I don’t need to complicate my life any further. Not for a fuck. If I want that, I’ll make nice to Aubrey Grant later on tonight.

I look up from my drink and there she is, pushing open the glass door of the restaurant. She looks just as beautiful as always. It’s like she’s glowing from inside with goodness, with purity. I don’t deserve a girl like her.

“Good evening, Chase,” she says with a smile as she reaches my table and takes the seat opposite. “Aren’t you slumming it, coming to a place like this?”

“I might be able to afford to eat in the top restaurants,” I say, “but I don’t think I’ll ever be truly comfortable in them. At heart, I’m much more of a dive bar kind of guy. So maybe I’m making an effort for you, here tonight.”

You’re flirting with her, Chase. What the hell are you doing?

I try to remember my rules, but already I can tell that tonight’s gonna be even harder than I thought.

“I need you to tell me something I don’t understand,” she says. “How
did
Chase Lowe become Chase Parker?”

“Wow, you don’t waste any time do you?” I say. “I thought we might reach the appetizer at least, before you started grilling me.”

“Eleven years, Chase,” she replies, quick as a flash. “I’ve wasted enough time.”

“Okay, okay,” I sigh. “The last time you saw me? I was on the road to ruin. And I’m not gonna lie, after I left, I was kind of lost for a while. Drink. Petty crime. That sort of thing. I moved around, a new city whenever the heat got too much. I made some bad decisions. Some I’ll never be allowed to forget.”

At this, to illustrate my point, I take off my navy suit jacket and roll up the sleeve of my crisp white shirt, to show her a tattoo on the inside of my forearm: a large skull and flame design, emblazoned with the motto
Live Hard, Ride Fast
in cursive.

“More tattoos? Hardly surprising, Chase,” she remarks. “What’s more surprising to me is the suit that’s covering them. How did
that
happen?”

“I was down in Miami,” I begin. “About six years ago. And I was with a real rough crowd. Gun running, drugs, the whole nine yards. I was getting tired of it, tired of it, Charity. The constant moving around. The never knowing. I’d been telling myself that this was fun, that this was a
real
way to live, for so long, but I’d just been denying myself the truth. Then, my good buddy, Freddy — he was found in a back alley, with six bullet holes in his chest. It could have been anything. A drug deal gone wrong, a case of mistaken identity, who knows? But I wasn’t prepared to stick around to find out It was a wakeup call.”

I look up at her. She’s listening intently to my story. I thought she’d be kind of angry at me, but all that’s in her eyes is sorrow — sorrow at what I’ve been through, and it gives me the strength to continue. 

“So I got on my bike. And I promised myself that it was gonna be for the last time. I was going to go somewhere. I was going to settle down. And I was going to become someone
.
Not just another crime statistic. I was really going to
be somebody.
So I chose New York, of course. Where better to start again?”

I take a slow sip of my scotch, savoring the smoky taste, before continuing.

“I was tired of Chase Lowe. So I decided to be someone else. I saw the name Parker on the side of a removals van, and it seemed appropriate. And Chase Parker was born. He got a job in the mail room of Morgan Stanley, and worked his way up. It’s the classic all-American story of a boy done good.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she laughs, eyes sparkling now.

“It wasn’t,” I reply. “Let me tell you. My first six months here, I was practically homeless. Showering at work, staying late because I had nowhere else to go. Luckily they thought I was keen.”

“Lucky you,” she says.

“Yes, lucky me,” I say. “But what about you? Where has Charity Lindley been for the last eleven years?”

“Nothing as exciting as biker gangs and gun crime, I’m afraid,” she laughs. “In fact, it’s a pretty short story. I was fifteen going on sixteen when you left. So I spent the first two years finishing up High School. And then I went to Smith College, where I spent four years without speaking to any boys, practically. Then I spent a year teaching abroad in Barcelona, which sounds
way
more exciting and exotic than it was in reality. Then I came back to the States to do my postgraduate studies at Columbia, and I’ve been here ever since.”

She throws up her hands and smiles, sheepishly.

“So there you go,” she says. “It’s a life lived mostly in libraries, but it suits me just fine.”

She says she’s happy. But when I think of this beautiful passionate woman, and how much of life has passed her by, I know that she can’t be truly happy. Not really.

“Come on, get up,” I say.

“What?” she says, confused. “But we haven’t even ordered yet.”

“Get up,” I repeat. “We’re getting out of here.”