What the hell did I just think? Other than his food. Jesus.
I slide a hand over my tummy because it’s so full it almost hurts. Or maybe it’s that I’ve laughed so hard tonight between Felix the Frenchman and Leo the Italian Stallion, as he calls himself, that I decreased my capacity for food.
But they had so many stories to tell me about Chase. And it’s weird because it was like they were talking about someone I’d never met.
Who he is here, in this place, is so different from the dumbass Noah Adler sidekick in the outside world.
Or maybe that’s just the box I put him in.
As I think it, I hear a familiar conversation coming from his side of the table, but it’s hard to make out because dishes are clanking as everyone begins to clear.
“Leo, Leo, get in on this. Chase is defending his love of women born in the sixties.”
Leo hums like it’s vibrating his chest, but I roll my eyes, remembering back to the first time I heard this nonsense. I could’ve done with missing out on this for the second time.
“No,” Chase bellows, his dimple flirting with me as he holds up a finger, staring directly at me as if he knows I’m judging him. I am. “Put that look away. Let me make my point. I am not saying women in the sixties. All women are beautiful, from every era. I just happen to think that the bar was set by one ... and she was born in 1967.”
He leans back in his seat as I lift a brow, waiting for the reveal. Because he’s so full of shit with whatever buxom playmate he self-cared to because he found a dirty magazine somewhere.
I’m folding my napkin on to the table, about to go off about how men have no place in a conversation about women’s looks. How their standard isn’t about beauty but sex, when his voice cracks my feminist rage.
“Lisa Bonet,” he levels.
Oh.I mean . . .
My eyes narrow the way they always do when I feel like he’s one-upped me. And he smirks the way he always does when he knows he has.
There’s respectful agreement from around the room as I stare at him. But I’d be a liar if I said my stomach wasn’t doing that weird flutter thing. Because while we’re locked on each other from over the table, noise happening all around, I’m in a bubble, remembering that night at the wedding when he leaned in and said, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Lisa Bonet?”
Our gaze breaks because I’m too chicken to let it be held. Because while I don’t like him ... I did like that.
I glance at my wineglass, hoping I can blame the Cab for my thoughts, but I only had a sip since I have to drive home.
“You look like her,” Felix offers, like some kind of op trying to kill my resolve.
I laugh and hold up my glass, determined to change the subject. “To the best dinner I’ve ever had. And to whoever’s doing the dishes. Because, not it.”
Laughter abounds as they all jump on board, sayingNot it, until it reaches Chase, who says “Fuck you, guys,” making us all laugh harder.
I take another sip of my red wine and place the glass down, looking between my new European besties.
“Maybe we should help clear, too, so he has all the dishes in one spot when he pulls his weight?”
They laugh and agree. So I make my way around, gathering plates and glasses, sometimes handing them off to others and other times walking back to the sinks to place them myself.
And while I don’t avoid Chase’s eyes on purpose as I chat with everyone else, I don’t search for them either. Conveniently, he’s deep in conversation with someone I haven’t met yet.
“My angel,” Leo seduces with that damn accent as he points to where Chase is standing. “The plates there ...”
I make my way over, trying not to think about the Lisa Bonet of it all as I reach for his friend’s plate, saying, “Let me just grab—”
But Chase is doing the same, and our fingers brush. I gasp because you’d think we’d been hit by lightning the way both of our hands jump back, and we immediately lock eyes.
“Sorry,” I rush out, but he’s already shaking his head.
“No, it was all me. I ...”
His voice trails off as his friend laughs and picks up his own plate. I turn and greet him, trying to ignore the moment. But before I can say anything, he beats me to the punch.
