My skin tingles, my cheeks burn, as I shut off the water. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t believe I almost… thinking about my best friend… in his bathroom. I dress fast, twisting my hair into a bun. A swipe of mascara, a dab of moisturizer. I don’t need anything more. I can do full makeup—shadowed eyes and lipstick—and hair glossy when I want to, but it’s not really me.
Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent half my life trying to be that version of myself. At sixteen, I was captain of the high school cheer squad, and that title came with expectations—on and off the field. Always poised. Always polished. Then two years later came the Stormhawks. While Chase, Harper, and Mia went to college, I jumped straight into pro cheer. The pressure doubled. Bigger stage, brighter lights, and a wider smile even when every muscle ached and I was so tired I could barely remember what day of the week it was. Now I’m on the coaching side, the only person I need to please is myself.
When I pad into the kitchen in jeans and a fitted sweater, Chase is already there in basketball shorts, barefoot and bare-chested, handing me a coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like we didn’t wake up wrapped in each other’s arms.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for the mug. Our fingers brush. My eyes shoot to Chase’s face. He’s smiling back, oblivious to the electricity zinging up my arm.
I clear my throat, holding up my phone. “Are you OK if I record my weather report now?”
He smiles, deliberately flexing. “Let’s put this Chasing Love thing to rest once and for all.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I set my phone against the coffee machine and angle it toward the windows, where the morning light pours in over the Denver skyline. “Honestly, at this point, my viewers don’t care about pressure systems. They’re tuning in for updates on us.”
“Correction,” Chase says, leaning against the counter. “They might show up for the gossip, but they’ll stay for the weather. You’re too awesome for them not to become as obsessed with your updates as I am. You wait and see.”
It’s ridiculous how warm his words make me feel. My biggest champion, even when I’m joking about people only clicking for him.
I’m still smiling as I tap record. “Morning, Denver. We’ve got a cold front pushing down from the northwest this afternoon. Temperatures are gonna drop to the late forties so it’s the perfect excuse to pull out your cozy sweaters, but don’t put those sunglasses away just yet because it’s still going to be bright out.”
As I continue with my report, Chase strolls casually past the frame, sipping his coffee like he’s oblivious to the next tabloid headline he’s just created.
The Denver Fall Fair is less than two weeks away, and this whole fake dating thing will be over. I should be happy. Chase said last night that he’s getting less DMs, and I’ve hardly seen any memes about him. And I’m pretty sure we’ve convinced Ryan. Another few weeks and it will be mission accomplished.
So why does the thought of stopping feel like a gut punch?
The department store in downtown Denver is sprawling and bright, a maze of cozy faux living rooms with curated throws and artfully arranged bookshelves. Bedrooms in dainty prints or bold stripes. Chase and I meander through the aisles, bickering and messing around like we’re ten years old again, being dragged to the grocery store by my mom with the promise of an ice cream afterward.
“What about this one?” I hold up a soft, navy throw pillow with tiny, embroidered stars.
He makes a face. “I mean, sure. If I was eight years old and into space themes.”
“It’s cute.”
“It’s hideous.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m discerning,” he counters. “There’s a difference.”
“OK, Mr. Discerning, how about these bookends?” I lift two sleek marble pieces shaped like mountains that would look gorgeous in the den at his house on the ranch.
“I don’t read enough books to need ends,” he deadpans before his face lights up and he’s reaching for a tacky sign that reads:
Man Cave Rules: No Rules.
“Now this speaks to me.”
“At this stage, I’m not gonna say no if it means you’ll actually agree to buy something.”
Chase sticks out his bottom lip like I’ve spoiled his game. He places the sign back. “Nah. It’s not me.”
I pause near a display of chunky candlesticks, but Chase is shaking his head before I’ve even opened my mouth.
The lightness to our steps fades at the same time as the humor.
“We’ve already walked around this entire store twice,” I say.
“Tell me about it.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “You’ve pointed out everything.”