My words are a stark reminder of reality. His eyes shutter almost instantly, and I mourn the loss of the heat in his gaze. When he speaks, his voice is utterly composed.
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
In lieu of an answer, he reaches out, grabs my hand, and drags me over to the couches. This time, I don’t fight him. As soon as I settle in on the cushion beside his, my earlier predictions are confirmed — it’s cloud-soft and mega comfortable.
“Brett.” Chase says flatly.
“Do we have to talk about him?” I protest, having only just forgotten about his slime-ball of a cousin.
“Yes.”
I huff but don’t object.
Chase leans back, one arm draped casually over the top of the couch. If he reaches out just the tiniest bit, the tips of his fingers will be touching my hair. Which isn’t distracting, or anything. Atall.
Cue butterfly storm.
“And us,” he adds casually, like those two little words haven’t brought my world to a screeching halt.
“U-us?” I stammer, looking at him with wide eyes. “What do you mean,us?”
He holds my stare in a searching gaze. “Us. This.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You can try to deny it’s there, sunshine, but I’m sorry to break it to you — you’re a terrible liar.” He grins like he’s not even a little bit sorry.
“I am not!”
“You are.”
“And there’s nothing between us!”
His eyebrows lift, calling my bluff.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Maybe there’s a little, tiny spark. But that’sit!”
He just looks at me. Looks andlooks, until my lie disintegrates into thin air and floats away. And then he says, in a simple voice that makes my heart stutter, “It’s more than that and you know it, Gemma.”
More?!
“But… you don’t even like me,” I protest.
“Not true.”
“Well, I don’t even like you.”
“Gemma.” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Remember how I mentioned you’re a terrible liar?”
Shit.
“But…” I’m really grasping at straws, now. “You don’t date,” I remind him, desperate to believe my own words. “You don’t domore.”
“That’s true.”
Despite myself, I feel my heart deflate like a week-old balloon.