THREE HOURS AND too many licorice ropes later, Chase opened the front door to the main level of the secluded three-story château Travis had secured for Nichole and Chase’s ski-moon. A blast of cold air greeted them like a harsh hug from winter. “It feels colder inside the house than outside.”
“We need to get the heat on quick.” Nichole’s breath stalled in the air beside him, suspended as if encased in ice. She stuffed her hands into her pockets. “I’ll find the thermostat, if you unload the car.”
“Deal.” Chase rubbed his hands together and headed to his truck. It wasn’t long before he had moved the last suitcase and the cooler inside. Every step farther into the house, the air cooled another degree. And Chase second-guessed Travis’s choice of rental homes and his own ski-moon inspiration.
Nichole held her hand over the in-floor heat vent and scowled. “It just keeps blowing cold air.”
“I’ll call Travis.” Chase pulled out his cell phone, left Travis a voice mail and pressed buttons on the thermostat as if searching for proof he’d made the right choice coming to Tahoe.
He was alone with Nichole, cold and entirely too curious to know what else she remembered about him. Even more, he wanted to learn her story, not review game footage, study play charts or discuss offensive strategy. All because he’d been sidetracked by red licorice and Nichole’s consideration. She’d thought about him as she’d packed for their fake honeymoon. He’d forgotten the gnocchi Nonna had put together for their dinner. He’d only ever had one commitment: football. He belonged in one place: the football stadium. But with Nichole, he started to consider...
His cell phone vibrated in his hand, ruptured his thoughts and realigned his priorities. Working heat, first. Contract renewal, second. Chase disconnected his phone call and walked into the kitchen. “Good news. Travis got us a service appointment with a local heating company.”
Nichole closed the refrigerator and rubbed her hands together. “Bad news?”
“The tech won’t be here until tomorrow morning.” Chase motioned toward the door. “We can head into town and find a hotel room for the night.”
“Or make our own heat.” Nichole motioned to the wide stone fireplace. A stack of freshly cut wood waited beside the fireplace.
“Not sure we can warm this room up.” Chase stared at the log ceiling, more than two stories above his head. The right choice: leave and find a hotel. But another choice tempted him. “Let’s check out the rest of the house.”
Nichole headed upstairs. Chase searched the master bedroom suite on the opposite side of the main level. Five minutes later, Nichole called his name.
“Found an electric blanket in the guest room up here.” She leaned over the upstairs railing.
“Nice.” Chase locked his gaze on her, willing her to make the right choice. “Found a fireplace in the master bedroom with wood piled in the grate. I opened the flue and lit the fire.”
Now she’d tell him to extinguish it. Tell him to start the truck and head to a suitable hotel with individual hotel rooms.
“You know how to work a real fireplace?” She clutched the blanket.
“Come on down.” He turned around and headed toward the master bedroom suite. “See for yourself.” Then they would leave.
Nichole warmed her hands by the fire. “There are two more bedrooms, both suites, upstairs.”
“We both have to stay in here tonight.” Chase poked at the logs in the fire and his irrational suggestion. He added another log and waited for Nichole to walk out. She scooted closer to the fireplace, keeping her back toward the door.
Chase closed the wire mesh fire screen and opened his mouth. Now he’d tell her they should head to a hotel. If they stayed in the house, he’d forget. He’d forget he’d vowed not to learn more about her. He’d forget this was all pretend. “I can stretch out on the love seat.”
“You’re twice the size of the couch.” Nichole shook her head. “We’ll build a pillow wall and share the electric blanket on the bed.”
“A pillow wall?” Chase followed her to the four-poster bed, paused on the other side and scratched his chin. A cement wall dividing the bed wouldn’t cut off his awareness of her.
“It’s a barrier down the center of the bed. Made with pillows.” She quickly divided the bed into two halves.
“You’ve done this before?” Chase crossed his arms over his chest. She couldn’t seriously be constructing a pillow wall. He couldn’t seriously be agreeing.
“Wesley claims he’s too old to sleep with his mom.” Nichole fluffed a pillow. “During renovations at my grandparents’ house last summer, we shared a room. This was his solution.”
“And if I cross the barrier?” Wrong question. He didn’t want to know.
“I get to wake you up, then steal all the covers for myself.” She laughed and adjusted the electric blanket over the bed. “Wesley’s terms.”
Chase could have terms, too. If he wanted more with Nichole. “I accept.”
She fumbled with the cord on the electric blanket. “It’s a big bed. We’ll both have plenty of room.”
“Now that sleeping arrangements are solved...” The fire worked too well. Heat spread through him as if he’d wrapped himself in the electric blanket and set it on scalding. Chase dropped his jacket on the chair. “Let’s concentrate on dinner.”
“I vote grilled cheese, soup and hot chocolate for dessert.” Nichole walked to the door and glanced back at Chase. “And yes, we have everything we need, even marshmallows.”
Chase rushed after her, escaping the warmth and welcoming the slap of cold air. “I’ll take the grilled cheese. You heat the soup.”
She opened drawers until she located the can opener.
“This is going to be a grilled cheese experience, courtesy of Nonna’s recipe.” He pulled a cutting board from a cabinet and cut thick slices of bread. “One you’ll want to repeat again and again.”
Nichole looked at him, her gaze searching. Chase resisted the urge to pat himself down to make sure he hadn’t removed his shirt too. The more her gaze probed, the more exposed he felt.
Finally, she blinked. “I’ll be the judge of the grilled cheese experience.”
After the dishes had been washed and their hot chocolate mugs emptied, Nichole declared Chase’s grilled cheese the best she’d ever tasted. Nichole decided she’d ask Nonna for her recipe after Chase had claimed for the fifth time he couldn’t reveal family secrets.
Chase added more logs to the fire, waited for the flames to build. The night pushed in against the windows. The pain in his shoulder pushed against his nerves, pulsing deeper. He stacked several pillows, restacked and repositioned them again.
Nichole curled under the blankets and stared at the fire. The quiet would’ve soothed if not for the escalating throbbing in Chase’s shoulder. His gaze fell on Nichole. Her light brown hair fanned across the pillow, one strand curved across her cheek. He wanted to curl his fingers through her hair, absorb the softness. The ache in his shoulder eased. “Can I ask about Wesley’s real dad?” His curiosity had gotten the better of him.
Nichole rolled onto her side and studied him. “Only if you’ll tell me about your shoulder injury.”
“I’m good.” He hadn’t really wanted to know about Wesley’s father. Chase stretched his shoulders, clenched his teeth and stifled his wince. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You’re right-handed yet you rarely used your right hand to drive today. You wince before your other hand even touches your right shoulder. Every so often, you reach toward your shoulder as if you want to test the pain.” She scooted over and set her cheek on top of the pillow wall. Her gaze landed on him, concern in the hazel depths. “I watched the game, saw the tackle.”
“Then you know it wasn’t that bad of a hit.” Chase folded his left arm behind his head as if to prove he could relax through the discomfort.
Nichole’s gaze drifted to the fire and away from him. In that moment, Chase lost something. Something he wanted back. But he was fine alone. Better. He didn’t want her pity. If he wasn’t a football player, what could he offer her? Certainly not a heart too afraid to ever trust in love.
“Wesley’s biological father is nothing more in our lives than that—a sperm donor.” She slipped her hand underneath her cheek to prop herself up.
Perhaps the guy was no one in Wesley’s world. But Chase heard the anguish in her low tone. Like his shoulder, there was much more beneath the surface.
But Nichole blocked him out. As it should be. He’d stonewalled her too. Their arrangement was only temporary. “The hit to my shoulder was not bad. Or it wouldn’t have been bad if I hadn’t already had multiple surgeries on it.”
Her gaze drifted back to him. Again, that compassion and concern settled on him as if he deserved the kindness. As if she truly cared about him. Like he suddenly wanted her to.
“What does Mallory think?” she asked.
Chase blinked. “My sister?”
“Of course. Mallory. Who else?” Nichole pushed on his leg and sat up. Her hands waved around her as if she wanted to catch the words spilling out. “Don’t tell me you stopped asking Mallory’s opinion now that she’s an actual licensed doctor. Because that never stopped you in high school or college. Every time you got injured, you’d tell me, ‘Well, Mallory thinks... Mallory believes...’ You never once mentioned what the doctors told you.”
Chase leaned into the pillows and his memories. Mallory had a first aid kit in elementary school. By middle school, his sister had known she wanted to be a doctor. By high school, she’d started volunteering in a local physician’s office. Chase had always gone to his sister. First for Band-Aids and ice packs. Then to ask if he needed stitches and to try to convince Mallory to do the job herself. He still relied on his sister’s opinion.
Until recently. After Mallory had insisted that he have another surgery. Would Nichole take Mallory’s side or his? “Physical therapy got me through the season and the playoffs. After the last hit, I increased my physical therapy to every day and added extra rest to the regimen.”
Nichole assessed his shoulder as if determined to make her own diagnosis. “How do you plan to do your therapy here?”
He hadn’t planned. He’d canceled his physical therapy sessions against JT’s advice. JT had asked to join the ski-moon party, but then Chase risked Nichole and the others learning the true depth of his injury. “I have exercises I can do.”
“I can help,” Nichole offered. “Maybe a massage?”
Not from her. Chase usually ignored boundary lines, however, that was one he’d heed like a fully charged electric fence. “Why?”
“You’re in obvious pain, Chase.” Nichole pressed her palms on the pillow wall, smashing the feathers down and demanding his full attention. “You’re struggling to get comfortable right now. You keep moving, small shifts to the left, then the right. Small bend forward, then back. Your eyes narrow with every move. You’re in more than a little pain.”
“It hurts.” He’d give her that much. He kept his arm behind his head, refused to flinch. “It’s nothing that won’t heal.” If he kept reciting those words, it would come true.
“Well, I can also fix a mean ice pack. You just have to let me know if you prefer frozen peas or frozen steak.” Nichole flopped onto her side of the divide. “As you know I’ve had some experience with physical therapy routines.”
“That’s right.” Chase flipped through his memories and moved away from his shoulder. “You tripped on the bleachers, broke two toes and ended up in that bootie for over a month.”
“Don’t remind me.” But she laughed. The sound low and beguiling as if her disbelief still made the whole thing hard to process. “It was on the auditorium stairs during the regional debate finals. Three toes broke, not two.”
She’d shown up at his house in the walking boot. He’d wished he’d been there to help her. “Break anything recently?”
“Only my heart.” She flattened her lips together. The truth was already settling on the pillows between them. “But it wasn’t recent. I’ve healed.”
The fire snapped and crackled. The warmth expanded into the corners of the room. Everywhere except Nicole’s bronze gaze. Her heart may have been broken years ago, but she hadn’t forgotten the anguish. He said, “Wesley’s father broke your heart, didn’t he?”
“Professor Myles Dillon, PhD, is Wesley’s biological father.” Her voice was remote, as if distance, not time, healed pain. “I took his business econ and economic theory classes. Then I became his teacher’s assistant and a cliché.”
He disliked Professor Dillon for hurting Nichole. Still, Wesley’s real father had earned a PhD and was a college professor. A professor was the right kind of guy for Nichole. Not a football player, facing the possible end of his career, who knew more about being alone than being a couple. Chase cleared his throat. “If you loved each other, how was it a cliché?”
“I loved him, hence the broken heart.” Nichole traced her finger over the snowflake design on the pillowcase. “I don’t think his heart was even bruised after things ended.”
“You were having his child.” Chase wanted to believe he’d act differently. Wanted to believe he’d welcome the news. Be a good father. But his own father had failed on the good part. On doing the right thing. Chase had never wanted to test if he’d inherited more than his green eyes from his own dad.
“Not all fathers are created equal.” Nichole’s frown deepened.
Chase knew those words quite well. Chase’s father had left long before Chase had met Nichole. But she’d witnessed Chase’s father’s return. Days before the football draft, his father had walked back into Chase’s life and asked to be a permanent part of Chase’s world again. Seemed Chase was finally worthy enough of his father’s attention.
Nichole had argued his father deserved a second chance for simply being Chase’s dad. Chase had replied: not all fathers are created equal.
He’d never wanted Nichole to gain that kind of clarity, especially at Wesley’s expense. A different ache settled into his chest. One for a young boy who’d deserved so much more. So much better. He wanted to find Professor Dillon and lecture him. Right now, he wanted to pull Nichole into his arms and hold her until she forgot her pain. “Wesley is a really terrific kid.”
“I know.” A bitterness constricted her voice, squeezing her words together. “His biological father wasn’t interested in knowing anything about his own child.”
“He never met Wesley.” Even Chase’s father had a few years with his own children. He at least knew their names. Chase’s lecture for the professor intensified. That ache in his chest—the same one he knew Wesley felt—worsened, and he wanted to take care of a boy he hardly knew but understood.
“Myles doesn’t even know if he has a son or daughter.” The bitterness seized control of her words. “That was entirely his choice.”
Chase’s mother had glowed in the early photographs of her pregnancy with Ivy, framed by his father and a young Mallory. Nichole would’ve glowed too. Chase had seen her love for Wesley at the school. That same love would’ve already lit her from the inside at the very first news of her pregnancy. How could Professor Dillon not have been captivated by an excited Nichole? “You told the professor you were pregnant, and he walked away?”
“I told him I was pregnant.” Nichole focused on Chase. Strength in tone. “Then I walked away.”
“He never came after you.” Chase would’ve gone after Nichole. If he loved her. If he loved her, he’d have to show her his true self. But Chase’s love hadn’t been enough for his father to stick around.
“We wanted different things,” Nichole said. “It’s much better this way. Wesley doesn’t have to deal with the disappointment of a disinterested father.”
Chase had finally stopped dealing with his own disappointment one year after his father had left. He’d forced himself to concentrate on football. On the field, the physical pain was real. Every tackle, sack and collision strengthened him. “What did you tell Wesley?”
“I told him the truth. His biological father never wanted to be a dad.” Her voice sounded waterlogged. She’d accepted her own broken heart, but not Wesley’s. She’d found strength for her son. She added, “I didn’t want him to have illusions about his father.”
Chase understood. He’d spent his entire first grade believing his own dad would realize everything—everyone—he’d left behind was worth fighting for and come home.
Now Wesley had been forced to learn his own lessons from a father who’d never wanted to know him. Chase ground his teeth at the pitch of grief for an innocent boy. “My mom had wanted my dad to be better for us, but she’d known. Even warned me a few times not to get my hopes up.”
“Did you?” Nichole asked.
“Of course.” Chase stretched both arms out in front of him as if that proved he no longer hurt. “Each time my dad failed, it hurt a little less. Until finally it didn’t hurt at all.”
Nichole nodded. “Then you’ll understand when I ask you not to get Wesley’s hopes up.”
He understood but didn’t want to listen. “Get his hopes up?”
“He’s a huge fan of yours,” Nichole stressed. “But he doesn’t know you.”
“What does that mean?” Chase crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the jab of her words. His fans, even the kids, wanted his autograph on their jerseys, footballs, hats. Wanted pictures. People wanted to know him everywhere he went. “Are you saying I’m not worth getting to know?”
“That’s not it.” Nichole covered her face with both hands. Inhaled. Exhaled. “Let me start over.”
Chase waited. He might not be worth falling in love with. What was wrong with getting to know him?
“Wesley believes in the image of you. The superstar athlete with the superstar lifestyle.” Nichole rushed on. “You’re the guy all the kids want to grow up to be.”
That was much better than wanting to be like his own disinterested father or even Wesley’s negligent biological dad. “And that’s a bad thing, to want to be me?”
“Your reputation does need some polishing.” Nichole tied her hair up as if settling into her topic.
Everyone close to Chase talked about his reputation. Yet the public adored him. Chase scowled.
Nichole lowered her hands. “But that’s not my point.”
“What is?” His voice sounded sour as if he’d sipped Nichole’s bitter tonic from earlier. “That I’m not good enough to get to know Wesley.” Good enough for Wesley. Or even Nichole. He locked his jaw against the discomfort of the truth.
“I don’t want him to get hurt.” Nichole motioned between them. The movement quick and concise like her words. “This is not a family bonding weekend. This whatever it is between us isn’t permanent. It’s temporary.”
“Until our contracts are signed and official,” Chase clarified, restating their terms and disengaging from any sentiment.
“Exactly.” Nichole lay down and tugged the blanket to her chin as if they’d reached an understanding. “When this is over, I don’t want Wesley hoping you’ll continue to be in his life.”
Nichole didn’t want her son waiting at the front door for Chase to arrive. Checking voice mails and text messages every ten minutes for a message. A message that would never come. Chase had done that and more during first grade. He’d hoped and wished and waited for his father. His father had never returned. That old hurt tangled his distress for Wesley. “I can be his friend.”
“He won’t understand.” Nichole straightened her arms on top of the blankets. “He’ll want more. He’ll want the illusion. We cannot create an illusion this weekend.”
Chase stared at the bed. Divided and separated. But walls and defenses could be breached. He should agree with her. She was right. Wesley had to be protected. And he didn’t really want anything more between himself and Nicole. Even if the illusion tempted him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep your distance.” Nichole curled under the blankets, away from Chase.
Chase jammed his elbow into the pillows, searching for a comfortable position.
“Wesley will be busy with Ben,” Nichole added. “Those two are inseparable. They can enjoy the snow and their weekend together. And we can...”
“Watch from the sidelines,” Chase finished for her.
He’d never been any good at standing on the sidelines. But for Nichole, he’d try. After all, what did he really know about being a father or a good friend? He’d forgotten the gnocchi. She’d remembered licorice. All he really knew about fatherhood was the kind of father he wished his own dad had been and never was. But he’d stopped wishing in grade school. “I’ll keep my distance.”
He reached over, turned off the light and scooted to the edge of the bed, away from Nichole and her ridiculous pillow wall, as well as his absurd urge to prove to her that what was between them was more than an illusion.