Chase
PS: If you get bored, check my study.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest as a grin spreads across my face, so big it makes my cheeks ache. Like a little kid with a note from the tooth fairy, I pull the paper close and hug it to my chest, feeling stupidly happy as his words melt through me, warming me from the inside out.
I’m not sure what’s better — the fact that he worked a miracle and stopped the story, or the fact that he called me his girlfriend for the first time in a freaking note, like he thought if he casually slipped it in, it might not give me heart palpitations.
God, he’s annoying.
Sort of. Kind of.
Okay,fine, he’s not annoying at all.
I throw off the covers, jump out of bed, and race toward the door on the far wall, which I know leads into his study. I’ve barely gotten the door open, barely even scanned the space, when tears spring to my eyes.
It’s an elegant room, with loads of windows, an imposing oak desk, and a gorgeous view of downtown, but I hardly spare it a glance. My glassy eyes are locked on the far corner, where, in a sunny nook by the windows, a stunning, antique wooden easel has been set up. There’s a blank canvas propped on it, waiting to be turned into art. A brand new set of oils sits at the ready, next to a big bottle of turpentine, a container of gesso, several brushes, and a new wooden palette. All the supplies I could ever need — including the ones I’ve never been able to afford at the expensive art stores — are there, crying out for me to use them.
He’s thought of everything.
It’s the best gift I’ve ever had, from anyone. Ever. There’s no way to repay him — I know from many years of scrimping and saving just how much all this costs. Not that he’d let me, even if I tried.
I’m shocked to feel water leaking down my face, a steady torrent of tears. The sensation is so foreign, it takes me a moment to realize I’m crying.
Me. Gemma Summers.
Crying like a wimpy little girl, for the first time in as long as I can remember.
I wipe moisture off my cheeks as I walk forward, my hands shaking as they sift through the materials he left me. My gentle-flowing tears turn to full-out hiccupping sobs as I get close enough to see, stacked neatly against the wall, more than a dozen blank canvases in various sizes. It’ll take me months to fill them all. Which can only mean…
He wants me around, in his life, for a long while.
My tears flow faster at the thought, until I’m practically weeping. I didn’t cry when I had to drop out of art school because I ran out of money. I didn’t cry when I fell off that damn motorcycle as a teenager and broke my leg. I didn’t even cry when Mom told me the true story of my parentage.
But this, what Chase has done for me, is enough to turn me into a leaky mess.
The easel has been set up in the sunniest spot in the office, with the prettiest vantage, directly across from Chase’s desk. In fact, it completely blocks his own view of the windows. Sitting at his desk, looking out, he won’t see the cityscape. All he’ll see is me, painting.
Oh.
I’m having trouble pulling in a full breath as my eyes move from his desk to my easel. It should be strange — messy art and practical business sharing the same space — but somehow they go together. The easel is finished in warm mahogany, a perfect match for the rest of the office, as though it was designed to match. Designed tostay.
My breath halts entirely at that thought, and I decide it’s a good idea to gulp down some coffee before I pass out from lack of oxygen. And perhaps locate some tissues before I turn into a living, breathing puddle of emotion.
Turning my back on the office, I find my way to the kitchen in a daze and flip on the coffee machine, doing everything in my power not to think about the beautiful easel or its spot in that beautiful office andespeciallynot the beautiful man who put it there.
***
Lifting the coffee cup to my mouth with one hand, the other roots around the bottom of my purse, wincing as my fingers brush past several weeks worth of gum wrappers and half dried-out pens. I’ve just taken a sip when I finally feel the smooth plastic of my phone case. Pulling it from the depths, I press a button to power it on and nearly spit my mouthful of coffee all over the breakfast bar.
I have seventeen missed calls and voicemails.
Seventeen!
Fourteen of them are from Chrissy. Two are from Shelby. The last one is from my landlord.
I don’t bother listening to them. I just scroll to Chrissy’s name and punch the redial button. It barely even rings before the call connects and her voice crackles over the line.
“You are in so much trouble, Gemma Summers!”