He nods and gets out of the car to open my door. With an umbrella overhead, he rushes me up the steps to the brownstone beside his, lets me in, and says a polite, if not restrained, goodnight with a very tame kiss on the cheek.
With a wink, he says, “You know, since it’s not on the evaluation.”
It’s like he wants me to say we’re done with the Blancbourg rules and continue things on our terms, but I cling to them even as I feel him slipping out of my fingers.
As Chase’s footsteps move away, I lean against the closed door, wishing that I could be as brave as he was, making the last date for theCrush or Cupidshow our own. Making up our own rules.
I close my eyes, envisioning the happily ever after he described. It’s my exact picture of perfection. I never told anyone because my parents don’t think that kind of simplicity is worthwhile.
They want estates, manors, and wealth beyond imagination. I want stability, love, and trust.
I flick on the light. From inside the house, a steadydrip, drip, dropsounds as though punctuating each of my values. Moving through the house, I flip on more lights, following the noise.
Chase did an amazing job renovating and decorating the space. It’s magazine spread and home-show-worthy, but there is a problem. A big one. The kitchen ceiling is discolored and a puddle forms on the tile floor.
I find a bucket, set it underneath the leak, and then rush out into the rain to the neighboring brownstone.
Chase answers right away, as though he’d been waiting or about to step outside himself. “I was just going to come over and make sure you got settled in okay. You beat me to it. I’m sorry that I don’t offer turndown service or mint candies.”
“About that—” I grip his hand and draw him down the steps, through the gate, along the sidewalk, and inside the joined building.
He goes still the second we’re inside, like he instantly hears the dripping. We hurry to the kitchen. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Is it bad?” I ask.
He scrubs his hand down his face, then takes the stairs two at a time. I follow him to the bathroom above the kitchen.
He opens the cabinet and water gushes onto the already damp floor.
“I had plumbers here and they didn’t seal the PVC correctly when they replaced the supply line.” He thunders down the stairs and then returns moments later. “I shut off the water main and will call the plumber. This is a disaster.”
“I only used the master bathroom, but I’m sorry that I didn’t notice it earlier.”
“It’s not your fault. Good guys, but I should’ve checked their work.” It’s late, but Chase finds a twenty-four-hour service to call. He puts it on speaker and paces while it rings. “I should’ve inspected things myself, but moon-gate and all.” He groans. “It’s probably been slowly leaking for over a week and finally gave.”
After an assessment over the phone, the plumber urges Chase to be careful in case the water damage is so bad that the ceiling caves in. He also suggests cutting the electricity temporarily to be on the safe side.
“No one lives here, but—” He glances at me and then whispers, “You can stay on my side. I’ll spend the night over here.”
Chase and the plumber arrange for someone to come out early the next day.
“Aside from the stained ceiling, it’s a lovely home,” I say, trying to cheer him up.
“Thanks. I guess this is just the risk I run owning so many properties. Let me get you settled in next door.”
The rain picked up to a downpour, and we wait in the doorway for it to slow even though it’s only right next door to his place.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, crowding the doorway, he’s warm against my side.
“In my haste, I forgot an umbrella. I could go get one and then come back for you,” Chase offers.
“It’s not far. I have an umbrella but can handle a bit of rainwater. I’m from London, remember? It rains all the time.”
“When I was a kid, I was all about splashing in puddles.”
“I bet your parents loved that,” I say with a laugh. “My mother would have had a fit.”
“Sounds about right.”
