Page 79 of Chase
“Any ideas?”
Emily exhales, locking her phone and sliding it back intoher purse. “Time to release your Kim Kardashian-style sex tape, I guess.”
I smile. “I’m way too sleep-deprived. I shouldn’t actually be contemplating doing that.”
She laughs softly, which soon turns into an all-out cackle. “God, we’re screwed.”
I hum. “I could do a nude photoshoot.”
“Funny.”
“I could,” I repeat. “I’d keep it tasteful. Artistic. Maybe in black and white. Do you think it would tank my career?”
She chews on the inside of her cheek. “Not necessarily. But I think you should wait until there’s no wine in your system before considering an idea like that.”
“I haven’t had any wine, actually.”
She squeezes my arm. “I have. And I’m going to go grab another, inside.”
“Good luck.”
She walks off toward the indoor bar area and I head through the house toward the long, glass staircase in the front entryway. I check behind me and there’s no one in the foyer, so I head up the stairs, sneaking off from the party.
I’ve been to Charlie’s home enough to know the best part about it.
There’s a different roof, off the edge of his office. Much more private than the pool deck.
The third floor opens up onto a smaller rooftop deck at the side of the penthouse that’s lined with a row of plants. It’s mostly just a slab of polished concrete with a glass railing, and a few deck chairs dotted along the edge.
Nobody else is up here. Everyone’s congregating downstairs and on the larger deck.
Peace and quiet.
Absolutely blissful.
I take a seat on one of the chairs, pulling out my phone and opening Instagram.
I scroll through Chase’s artwork again. He has a few hundred followers, and most of them seem to be his friends supporting his work, leaving emojis and comments likefreshandfireandsiiiick.
I tap a video at the top.
The video shows Chase, just a couple of hours ago, in front of a big blank canvas that’s taller than him. He’s in black boots as usual, but he looks very different when he’s not wearing the uniform from the hotel.
His black jeans hug the curve of his ass, and he’s shirtless, his bold tattoos standing out against his smooth skin.
“Working on a big one next,” he says into the camera, gesturing at the tall canvas. “Any requests?”
I pressfollowon his page.
I’m using my private Instagram account, which only has three pictures of flowers on it and no identifying information.
And then I go back to watching the video, replaying it.
I watch it twice.
Then three times.
I keep staring at the shape his hip makes right above the waistband of his jeans.
