However, Tory sends me repeated text updates about how ratings went through the roof when it aired.
When I made my confession, my boss seemed preoccupied and said we’ll talk when we’re back in Concordia, but she didn’t seem overly concerned that I broke employee guidelines.
Because the contract forCrush or Cupidwas signed before the commissioner’s punishment came down, Coach Hammer said Chase isn’t in trouble. He also asked if I like pizza.
Miraculously, we’re in the clear, but that still leaves the issue of us...and Chase’s final date for the show. While trying todistract myself from that unpleasant reality, I do get an idea to make Chase a pizza-scented candle to make up for this mess.
I drag my feet, getting ready to accompany him on his final date. Part of me wants to pull on little more than a hoodie and leggings, but I opt for a coordinating blouse and skirt with lilacs and ruffles. It’s cottagecore style and is like wearing the interior of my apartment—my sanctuary—or a London garden in the spring.
The doorbell to the brownstone echoes through the house.
Chase waits on the doorstep, car keys in hand, BMW roadside.
He wears navy blue chinos, cuffed at the ankles, tennis shoes, and has a light jacket slung over his shoulder, drawing my attention to the way the hem of his sleeve hugs his biceps.
“It’s supposed to rain.”
I point to my purse. “I have a compact umbrella.” Apart from the obvious—keys, phone, wallet—among my rules are never to leave home without an umbrella, water, or pepper spray.
Like the perfect gentleman, Chase guides me down the sidewalk, opens the car door, and closes me inside.
However, he remains quiet as he zips along the winding and confusing Boston streets. I recall him commenting the other day about how his grandfather used to complain that the horses the city’s forefathers rode had been the ones to design the streets.
I open my phone to check the dining plans Tory sent me. It’s best for me to check the menu ahead of time so I can focus on Chase’s conversation in case he needs any assistance.
“Mmm. Sushi.”
“Change of plans. We’re headed to Dalton Corner Cuisine.”
“Oh, Tory didn’t notify me of the change.”
“No? Surprise.” But there’s no punctuation at the end of the word. I can’t tell if there should be an exclamation point or a question mark.
The restaurant is one of those newer, bespoke, farm-to-table joints where everything has a story, from the sourcing of the wooden beams spanning the ceiling to the day’s fresh catch to the semolina flour in the homemade ravioli spirals. I’m not sure what those are. The film crew must be super covert in here because the place is packed and I don’t see them anywhere.
The hostess smiles expectantly and leads Chase to an intimate table with candlelight. I trail behind, assuming my table will be nearby. That’s been the arrangement at all the other dining establishments. But there aren’t any open two-tops available.
“Where should I?—?”
Chase pulls out the chair across from him and gestures for me to sit.
“Your date, Judy, I think the name was, should be here any second.” I check the correspondence from Tory on my phone. “Nope. My mistake. The name is Jude. NoY.”
“Mmmhmm,” he says.
“Seriously, Chase. This is the last one. We’re almost done.”
“Pippa, I know.” There is punctuation this time. It’s a full stop. Period. End of sentence.
By the intensity in Chase’s sparkling blue eyes, either he knows something I don’t or this chair is for me. I lift my hand to get the hostess’s attention before she forgets we exist and nearly knock the tray off a server’s shoulder as he gets ready to distribute drinks to a neighboring table.
“I’m so sorry. I?—”
“Pippa,” Chase says slowly, kindly, and with authority. “Please sit down.”
“I will, but only so I don’t ruin anyone’s dinner.” He helps me move in my chair and his fingers graze my shoulder, filling me with heart fluffies because this almost feels like a real date.
Too bad, I’ll have to get up and give someone with much better luck than mine the seat.
