I shove the covers off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the tequila delivers a delayed, skull-splitting reminder of last night.
I pad barefoot into the hallway, drawn by the low rumble of his voice. With every step, the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt—brushes against my thighs, oversized and soft. The wide collar slips off one shoulder no matter how often I pull it back up. It smells like him. That clean, masculine scent that makes my skin flush. It clings to me like his hands are still on my body.
My heart is a riot in my chest as his voice grows clearer, pulling me forward.
I know what I feel. I just don’t know what the hell to do about it.
He’s exactly where I expected—on the couch, his back to me, facing the wall of glass that looks out over Central Park. The rising sun slices through the window, casting streaks of gold across his bare chest. He’s in nothing but gym shorts, hair still damp, like he’s already worked off half the night’s rage.
My mouth goes dry.
I’ve no idea the exact moment I fell in love. It crept up on me, day by day, hour by hour, until this moment right here. The moment I know, I’m totally beat. It’s too strong to fight. And the best part? I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want to fight it.
I linger before I go in, not to eavesdrop but unable to stop myself, either.
Although he’s talking quietly, his tone is clipped and cold. “...no, I don’t care where he goes; I just want him gone. If we get the police involved, his family lawyer will get him off with a slap on the wrist and try to destroy her in the process. I want him out of her life for good. He’s never to set foot in this city again.That’s all that matters. He’s finished here, anyway.” He listens for a second longer, then ends the call, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“Please don’t tell me you’re having him whacked?” I say, my voice teasing but warm.
Chase turns, startled at first, but then his mouth quirks with amusement. “Why are you worried about him?”
I shake my head, stepping closer.
“No,” I assert. “I’m worried aboutyou.”
He smiles, a genuine one that lights up his face, and for a second, I can’t breathe. It somehow breaks my heart and puts it back together all at once.
“You don’t need to. Even though he deserves a bullet in the head, unfortunately, he’s very much alive. But he won’t bother you anymore, Violet. I promise.”
The t-shirt rides up slightly as I perch on the arm of the couch. I don’t miss the way his eyes flick to my legs before they jump back up to mine.
“Thank you, Chase,” I say, my voice soft. “I don’t know what he would have done if you hadn’t come.”
“But you’re okay? He didn’t hurt you?” His eyes rake over me, shining with worry.
“He didn’t,” I confirm, trying to swallow back the mess of emotions swirling in my chest. “How did you know where to find me?”
“When you didn’t show at the restaurant, Seb was worried.” He rubs a hand over his mouth, the tension barely contained. “He told me you’d gone to Millie’s. I called her from Seb’s phone, and she cracked right away. Whether she was trying to save you or herself, I don’t know, but I could hear the guilt in her voice.”
Even though I know my friendship with Millie is over, there’s a strange comfort in knowing she felt some remorse. A tiny crumb to hold on to.
“Don’t go after Millie,” I blurt, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My fingers twist the hem of my shirt, my eyes holding his, searching for understanding.
He exhales, frustration lacing his features. “How can you say that after all she’s done?”
“I’m not sure,” I murmur, my shoulders sagging. “But I know she’s not all bad. She’s lost, and Elliot manipulated her, and God knows what else.”
He takes a slow breath, jaw tightening. “I’m not happy about it, but if you promise to keep the fuck away from her?”
“I promise.”
A silence falls between us, thick and loaded. His expression softens, but there’s something else there too—something heavier, like he’s pulling back. He looks away first, his gaze drifting to the window.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes fixed on the skyline like it holds the answers he’s too afraid to look for in me. “This never would’ve happened if I hadn’t dragged you back to New York.”
“It wouldn’t,” I admit, keeping my tone even. “But—”
He cuts me off, his voice flat, distant, like he’s already halfway out the door. “I’m glad things worked out for you. You’re safer in London. You have your friends; you’re happy.”
