Page 50 of The One Timer

Chase distracts her, either because he knows it’s a good strategy to keep her on an even keel or coincidentally. I’m not sure which, but I’d bet it’s purposeful.

“I spent a fair amount of time talking with the people at the Boston Public Library. They assured me Guastavino Hall will hold two hundred guests comfortably with a large dance floor.”

Chase blows out a whistle. “Two hundred is a lot of guests. I thought it was a big crowd last year with a hundred-fifty.”

“We’ve expanded our reach this year. WW has been more successful than ever, and we need to expand our foundation’s reach as well.”

I remove the blood pressure cuff from her arm. It’s a bit high, but I’ll check again in the morning. “Sounds like a beautiful ambition,” I say, not meaning for the wistfulness to show through in my voice.

“You must come to the gala, Emery,” she says, imploring me, and not for the first time.

But I’m saved by the doorbell from having to make excuses yet again.

Chase stands. “It’s the back door. I’ll get it.”

He returns a moment later with Sheryl Foster, and I groan inwardly because she looks so fresh and American pie, with her cheeks pink from the cold and the scent of cold winter air surrounding her. She looks picture-perfect and like she was made to match Chase.

“Look who I found lurking out back,” he says. I notice he has his hand on her lower back as he ushers her into the room.

“Hey, Mrs. W., I brought over the ticket money for the gala for our family. Dad wrote a check instead of doing it online. He figured it would be more anonymous that way. I think he’s getting paranoid.”

Mrs. W laughs, and Chase resumes his seat, but he takes my hand and pulls me down beside him, surprising me. I go along because…why not? Maybe he’s trying to avoid his Gran’s obvious attempts at matchmaking him and Sheryl. She hands Mrs. W an envelope and sits in a chair opposite us—with a perfect view of Chase’s face that she takes advantage of as she stares at him. I recognize that look. It’s probably the same one I’d see if I were to look into a mirror when I’m thinking about Chase.

Wanton desire—okay, maybe not wanton exactly, but a whole lot of desire.

“I’m looking forward to the gala. I found an absolutely sinful dress to wear at Nieman Marcus over in Copley Place. I’ll save my last dance for you, Chase, if you’re nice.”

“Well, that’s too bad, Sher, because you know I’m nothing but naughty.”

She giggles in a flirtatious way and even goes pink in the cheeks, the exact shade of pink that compliments her long blond hair and bright blue eyes. I do everything in my power not to roll my eyes.

Then she turns her attention to me. It’s the only thing worse than her flirting with Chase that she could do because she has a sweet smile, and it’s sincere.

“Will you be going, Emery?” I hate that she remembered my name correctly this time. It proves she’s a decent person and gives me more reason to be jealous no matter how inappropriate and out of line I am to feel this way.

So what if I slept with him once, and it was the most spectacular and memorable night of my life? That doesn’t mean I have a right to be jealous of another woman just because she’s flirting with him. Especially not since I’ve made it clear to him—because it has to be this way—that the one night we had is all we’ll ever have.

The stolen kisses since then don’t count.

“No, I’m not⁠—”

“Maybe you should reconsider going to the gala,” Chase says.

“Yes,” Gran chimes in. “I’d appreciate your companionship. Speaking of the gala, do you have some time to stay this evening and help me try on my dress?”

“Of course.” How can I say no?

“Perfect. We’ll do that right after dinner. Sheryl, will you stay for dinner?”

Sheryl looks between me, Chase, and Mrs. W as if she’s deciding, then shakes her head. “I would love to, but I need to call Mom and let her know.”

“That’s terrific,” Chase says. I try not to flinch because his voice sounds sincere. “I want to hear all about how you’re killing it in your finance classes—not.”

“You bugger. I happen to be doing very well in finance. It’s English lit that’s sinking me. Luckily, I only had to take the one class.”

“That’s right. I remember you had me write a paper for you back in⁠—”

“You did not—you reviewed my paper is all. Don’t let these people think I’m a cheater.” She’s half alarmed and half enthralled, and I listen to their non-flirtatious banter with fascination because they sound like childhood pals, like they clearly belong together in a way I never could because they grew up the same and share so much background and family history.