“YOU’RE BONDING.” AND so am I. Nichole stood in the bathroom doorway of the master bedroom and glowered at Chase.
He’d cooked her favorite chicken in a delicate parmesan white wine sauce for dinner, added chocolate chip cannoli—another one of her weaknesses—for dessert. And blended the evening together with consideration and the attentive skill of a seasoned, executive chef. During the meal, he’d looked after Wesley, refilled her glass before it emptied, delivered second helpings as if on cue. He cleared plates, shared stories and fit in among everyone as if he’d always cooked for them. Always cared for them.
“I’m not trying to bond.” Chase rebuilt the pillow wall, fluffing and restacking each pillow. “Wesley is a great kid. I can’t just ignore him.”
“Maybe you could be more like you’re supposed to be.” Nichole waved her toothbrush at the newspaper on the end table. If he’d act like she expected, she wouldn’t be standing in the bathroom, searching for all the reasons that opposites were not supposed to attract.
Chase released a pillow and glanced at Nichole. “What does that mean?”
“You could be like the Chase Jacobs who makes headlines.” She pointed at the newspaper, her arm stiff, the toothbrush aimed like an arrow. Panic shuddered through her, weakening her resolve.
“I am him,” Chase argued.
“No.” Nichole tossed her toothbrush on the counter, charged into the bedroom and crashed through their self-imposed distance. She’d make him understand and force her own heart to stand down. “That Chase Jacobs wouldn’t rescue kittens. He wouldn’t leave his gloves as markers and risk frostbite, then make plans to continue searching for the kitten’s mother the following day.”
“Media Chase” would’ve ordered takeout, signed Pioneers’ gear and entertained his guests with football facts and stats. That Chase would’ve been bored, searching for an excuse to leave and discover a nighttime thrill on a closed ski slope. He definitely would not share mishaps from his childhood, inquire about Wesley’s likes and dislikes or agree to play cards using colored marshmallows for bets.
Chase scratched his chin and considered her. The slow motion of his fingers curving around his cheek drew her gaze like a misguided moth to a flame. The curious interest in his eyes collided with awareness. She remained silent and tried to wrangle her own mixed-up feelings.
“Actually, he would.” Chase leaned forward, his gaze locked onto her face. “Don’t you remember my junior year when I made you quiz me while I searched the woods for the injured squirrel I’d seen?”
“We walked miles that afternoon while I went through my stack of note cards. And you carried water and a hand-tossed salad you made out of a squirrel’s favorite foods.” The memory warmed Nichole better than a fleece blanket. She slashed a hand through the air as if cutting the memory in half. “That’s not the same. That was high school.”
“I can give you something more current.” Chase walked to the fireplace and poked at the logs.
Currently Nichole watched Chase too closely, every movement, every expression. She’d never paid attention in high school, never tracked his swagger down the crowded hallways. Now she feared she could locate him in a sold-out stadium. She focused on him so completely. Totally. Not. Good. Really not good. She blamed the fireplace. Who installed a storybook fireplace in their bedroom? The fireplace created an illusion and made her believe in happily-ever-afters.
“The reason we got caught on the snowmobile race last winter was because I made the guys reroute the course.” Chase added a log to the fire and turned toward her. “I made them change the route because of the snowy owls.”
“Snowy owls. Never mind.” Nichole shook her head as if unplugging her sudden interest. “I don’t want to know.”
“Snowy owls are ground nesters and hunt during the day, not at night like most owls.” Chase stretched out on the bed, crossed his legs at the ankles and looked entirely too comfortable. He stacked his hand behind his head as if content to recite owl facts into the night.
Nichole was entirely too ready to curl into his side, content to listen to him all night. She turned off the bathroom light, cutting her connection to Chase. But her gaze latched on to him as if she’d developed enhanced night vision.
“I saw the snowy owls and knew we had to change the course. The snowmobiles would’ve disturbed and stressed them too much.” Chase’s voice stretched through the room, tugging her toward him. “If we’d raced on the original trail, the park rangers would not have caught us.”
“That’s not true.” Nichole sat on the bed and tucked her feet under the blankets.
“Scouts’ honor.” Chase shifted, rolling on his good shoulder to face her.
“You were never a Boy Scout.”
“I should’ve been.” Chase reached across the pillow wall, grabbed her hand and flattened their palms and fingers together. He stared at their joined hands. A rasp scored his voice, etching the temptation deeper in his tone. “I clearly missed my calling.”
The glow of the fire fell across the bed like an invitation. She laced her fingers between his. His other hand reached out, curved around her cheek. His thumb brushed across her bottom lip. Just one slow caress. Nichole held her breath. Even the heat from the fire stalled as if the room itself remembered their most recent kiss.
But that was all there could be. No more kisses. No more memory-making moments. She turned slightly, pressed her lips against his palm. Too brief. Too fleeting. But all she could offer.
Tomorrow they left Tahoe. The ski-moon ended, along with the fantasy her heart wanted to believe in. Tomorrow, she’d return to the city and plant her feet firmly back on the cement.
Tonight, she fell asleep, her hand tucked firmly in Chase’s.