Текст книги "Give Me Yesterday"

Автор книги: K. Webster

Соавторы: Elle Christensen
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Ever since Saturday, I’ve had one thing on my mind.

Her.

Tori “Call Me Victoria” Larkin.

Despite her desire to keep me at arm’s length, I simply couldn’t settle for that. In fact, my dumb ass refused to stop touching her like some sort of creepy stalker. Her scent is permanently etched into my brain and I’m already craving more. Not just her scent, but her mouth—fuck me—her mouth is an entity in and of itself. Perfect, pouty lips that are chewing my head off one minute, and the next quivering in an attempt to hold it all together.

I want to kiss those angry lips.

But I want to kiss the sad ones too. To fix her. To make it all better.

As I roll up to the front of her building, I’m pleased to see it has valet. A couple of workers dressed in uniform whistle at my ride as I pull up to the attendant station. The male starts to head for my driver’s side window, but the red-headed chick pushes past him. I mash the button and the window rolls down to which she sticks her head in. Upon seeing me, her green eyes widen and she flashes me a flirtatious grin.

“Sweet ride, mister.”

I tilt up the corners of my lips and give her a smug smile. “Sure is, Red. Do you think you could just hold my car for ten minutes? I’ll be right back.”

Her smile falters as she flicks her gaze over to the guy in the kiosk. “I don’t know. It’s against the rules to leave the cars here.”

I feign disappointment and she frowns. “Well…” I hand her a twenty dollar bill, “Maybe you could ask your boss over there?”

She reaches for the bill but I don’t let go. Her freckled cheeks blaze to nearly the color of her bright red hair. “No, I, uh,” she stammers, “We can make an exception this one time.”

I reward her with a huge grin and nod. “Thanks, Red.”

When she moves out of the way, I climb out of my baby and accept the ticket from her. Then, I stride into the lobby. It’s already two minutes after noon, and when I scan the area, I don’t see Tori anywhere. Strolling over to the panel by the elevators, I note that Abbott and Taft is on the forty-fifth floor.

The ride up gives me time to check my appearance over in the brass reflection on the back wall. My hair is a big fucking mess—but I styled it that way, so it’s okay. Behind me, a woman in a suit watches me from the corner of her eye as I check myself out. I wink at her and nearly chuckle aloud when she gasps and diverts her attention elsewhere. By the time I’ve made it to Tori’s floor, the woman has stepped off onto another floor, leaving me to enter the lion’s den alone.

As soon as I step into the pretentious offices of Abbott and Taft, I know I was accurate in calling it the lion’s den. A stiff, powerful vibe courses through the air, almost rendering me immobile. Pushing past the awkward, out-of-place feeling I have at being in such a sterile workplace, I stride over to the receptionist and beam at her.

She drops her phone into the cradle and her cheeks redden. “Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m here to see Tori, er, Victoria Larkin. We have a date,” I tell her point blank.

The alpha lioness is whom I’m stalking.

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, I see. Um, let me, um,” she stutters while fumbling over her phone before punching in a few numbers, “…ring for her assistant, Stacey.”

A few minutes later, a woman in her late thirties in a cheap suit which doesn’t compare to the casual threads Tori donned on Saturday regards me with a confused look.

“Can I help you? I’m Stacey Cantrell, Ms. Larkin’s assistant.”

I saunter over to her and hold out my hand. “Chase Monroe. I’m taking Tori to lunch.”

Her eyes dart back and forth as she shakes my hand, horror painting her features. “Oh, my. I see,” she mutters. “I didn’t see you on her schedule. If I missed it, she won’t be pleased with me. Please, follow me over to my desk and I’ll double check.”

I follow the woman who now walks on wobbly legs and her hands tremor beside her. Jesus, is Tori the fucking she-devil around here?

“Now, if you’ll hold just a moment, let me check the calendar,” she rushes out in exasperation.

I nod and lean over her desk picking up an “urgent notice.”

Ms. Larkin, please call your mother about the rehearsal dinner next Saturday night. She needs to know if you’ll be attending so she can RSVP.

Yanking a pen from the cup, I scribble out a message on the paper, earning me a horrified stare from Stacey.

Yes. Plus one.

I smirk at her and start making my way to the only office with the grayed out glass. Victoria J. Larkin is emblazoned on the glass beside the door.

“What are you doing?” she hisses and follows after me. “She’s working on a very important case and has asked that nobody disturb her. Not even me!”

Shrugging my shoulders, I toss her an undeterred smile. “I’m not nobody. I’m Chase, and we have a date.”

“Please, sir, you—” she tries, but I’m already pushing through the door.

My lips curve up into a grin to see Tori’s brows furrowed in concentration with a pen between her teeth. Tendrils of blonde have escaped their nest on her head and I decide that I’m making it my mission to see her hair down.

God, she’s beautiful.

Her eyes lift to mine and annoyance instantly flits over her expression.

“You’re late,” I inform her as I stride into her office and plop down in the chair in front of her. Her brow raises when I pick up her signed Cubs baseball from its stand and toss it back and forth between my hands. “Don’t you know time is money?”

She rolls her eyes at having her words thrown back at her and shoots Stacey behind me a scathing look. “I thought I was clear when I said absolutely no visitors.”

Stacey begins stuttering but I hold up the ball in the air to draw Tori’s attention back to me. “It’s not her fault, Tori. I barged in. Now,” I beam, “catch.”

She squeaks and catches the ball before abruptly standing from her seat. “Chase, you need to leave,” she grumbles. “I’m sorry. I know we had lunch plans, but as you can see, I’m buried in work and I don’t have time for…”

Her stomach groans in protest and I raise a smug brow at her.

“To eat?” I question and stand to match her stance. She sets to frantically tucking the loose blonde strands of hair behind her ear.

“Yes, to eat.”

I shrug. “I call bullshit. Come on, let’s go. We can eat on the run. I need your help with something.”

She tosses a pleading look toward Stacey but thankfully her assistant is on my side.

“With all due respect, Ms. Larkin, I believe I can handle any fires that should arise. An hour in the sunshine will do you some good.”

Tori gapes at her and I take the moment to pounce. “Thanks, Stace. You’re a good employee.”

I round the corner of her statuesque mahogany desk and snatch her hand that still holds the baseball. “Play time’s over, Grumpy,” I tell her as I steal the ball and put it back onto its holder. “You probably won’t be so hungry once you have some meat in you.”

Stacey chokes down a giggle to which Tori sends death rays at her.

“Don’t kill her,” I chuckle. “I tend to influence those around me and cause trouble.”

“You don’t influence me,” she pouts, but bends to pick her purse up from the floor.

“Not yet, beautiful. Not yet.”

Stacey regards us with a shit eating grin on her face. I wink at her as I drag my date out of her office. Tori attempts to jerk her hand free from mine as I haul her past the desks and other offices, but I grip her tighter. I’m met with many shocked stares along the way.

Ice Queen needs a little thawing it would seem.

I can imagine the entire office would agree with me.

When we finally make it into the elevators and the doors close, she yanks her hand away and unleashes her fury.

“You’re an asshole, Chase,” she huffs. “You know that? You can’t just manhandle me whenever you want.”

She’s glaring at me with her tiny hands on her small waist, her purse hanging from her shoulder. The pencil skirt is tight and sexy as hell. I want to hold her hips too. Encroaching on her, I step until I’m in her space and watch with smug satisfaction as she retreats—right into the fucking wall. Once she’s trapped, I slip my hands to her waist and cover her hands with mine.

“I think you like being manhandled.”

Her eyes widen in shock and for a moment, the vicious divorce lawyer has nothing to say. A strand of hair is stuck to her suckable lips so I lift a hand to her face. Her breath catches and I inspect her features. The warring behind her eyes—whether or not to push me away or pull me to her. The way her lips pop open and closed like a cute little fish.

I give her a small smile as I drag my thumb along her soft cheek and tug the hair from her mouth. She exhales the breath she was holding and I smell peppermint on her lips. When I tuck the strand back behind her ear, her eyes flutter closed. Not one to miss an opportunity, I gently kiss the corner of her cheek where it meets her mouth.

“You smell good,” I tell her as I step away, as if I didn’t just kiss the sexy vixen—no matter how innocent it was.

She’s still faltering from our exchange when the elevator doors open to the lobby.

“Ready for an adventure?”

Her head is curtly shaking back and forth in protest, but I snatch her hand and guide her out of the elevator and through the lobby. When we step outside of the building, I’m glad to see my baby—sitting right out front like I left her.

“This is your car?” she questions in surprise, but I don’t miss her impressed tone.

“My baby,” I correct. “She’s been with me since Christmas.”

I hand the male valet the ticket and a tip which earns me an appreciative nod.

“After you,” I tell her as I open the door for her.

She gapes at me as if she’s never dated a gentleman before. Jealousy knifes its way through my chest from the thought of her dating anyone. I want to be the one to open her up and discover the true self she hides deep inside. Nobody else would handle her the way she needs to be handled.

Not with kid gloves.

But instead with bare, naked, strong hands.

She slides into the car as if she was born to do so and I close the door behind her. Once I get in and settled behind the wheel, I flash her a grin.

“I hope you like barbecue.”

I don’t give her time to argue before I pull away from the building. The engine craves to be tested and abused. But, I never drive more than the posted speed limits. Oftentimes, the tiger beneath the hood bucks and jumps against her cage with the desire to peel out or haul ass down the highway.

I never give in to the beast.

“Why are you driving so slowly?” she questions in horror as I travel down Whacker Drive going thirty miles per hour.

“Because that’s the speed limit, babe.”

She huffs and I’m not sure if it’s from the pet name or my refusal to go any faster. I let her stew in silence as we drive toward the place where I’d like her help. When I pull into the parking lot of the home improvement store, she jerks her head toward me.

“Why are we here?”

The smoke from the cooker out front, boasting Billy’s Bada$$ BBQ, blurs the air within the parking lot. As soon as I park the car, the heavenly aromas waft their way into the car.

“That,” I say and point at the barbecue stand, “is why we’re here.”

Her stomach growls again and I chuckle. “And,” I tell her, reaching for my paint swatch in the backseat, “We’re here because I need to pick out some paint. You’re a girl and girls are good at that shit.”

Not waiting for her to respond with some feminist remark, I climb out of the car and make my way over to her side where she’s already scrambling out.

“I can’t waste my entire day traipsing around with you, Chase,” she barks. But, I don’t miss the way her eyes cut a sideways glance to the barbecue that is making my mouth water and no doubt hers too.

“An hour, Tori. That’s all I ask of you.”

Moments later, we’re parked at a dirty picnic table which buzzes with annoying flies, but neither of us are deterred from devouring our chopped brisket sandwiches that are dripping with the best-flavored sauce this side of the Mississippi.

“Oh my God,” she whines after polishing off her sandwich and picks at her fries. “You’re going to make me fat.”

I bellow with laughter. “Hate to break it to you, Grumpy, but your ass needs some meat on it.”

She scrunches her nose at me and she’s cute as fuck doing it. “There’s nothing wrong with my ass.”

My lips draw up in a crooked grin. “No, babe, there is certainly nothing wrong with that ass. But, I could inspect it further, just in case.”

A giggle—so damn sweet—rings out in the air and she tosses her rolled up napkin at me. “Why am I here with you again?” she mutters in faux annoyance.

The truth is, though, she’s having fun. Much to her apparent disbelief.

Good, I’ll make sure she continues having more fun moments in her life.

“Come on, time is money, Tori,” I chide as I stand and hold my hand out to her. “Someone wise once told me that.”

She rolls her eyes but meets my hand with hers, not an ounce of hesitation in her movement. My heart fist pumps the air at breaking her down little by little. I’m telling her about a few more places that have great food as we enter the store and make our way to the paint department.

When Cliff, a full-time worker who I know by name, sees me, he pretends that he hasn’t and mutters to the other gal that he’s taking his break. I frown, but push it away the moment I stand in front of “Darla,” according to her name tag.

“Can I help you?” she questions in a flat, bored tone.

Not releasing Tori’s hand, I slap the swatch down on the counter. “I need a gallon of the expensive indoor paint, eggshell, in this color.”

She nods and snatches it from the counter. But, before she leaves me, I stop her. “And,” I say with a tight voice, “it has to match exactly. Pay close attention to the numbers you enter. We’ll need to open it after so I can be sure.”

Tori’s hand sweats in mine and I risk a glance at her. She’s watching me with a frown, not her usual frown, though. A concerned one. And while I love the new expression on her face, embarrassment slinks down my spine and I can feel it heat my cheeks.

“Sure, whatever.” Darla smirks before turning away to her task.

The moment she’s gone, Tori speaks, “Why is this paint color so important?”

Dropping my gaze to the countertop that is speckled with many different paint colors, I shrug my shoulders at her. “It just is.”

I can tell she wants to ask more questions, but she drops it, accepting my lack of desire at wanting to explain my reasoning.

“What are you painting?” she asks finally.

Turning to her, I notice her eyes darting back and forth—the lawyer quick at work inside her head—as she tries to figure out my unusual behavior.

“A wall.”

My short answer drives her mad, and I revel in how cute she is with her brows pinched together in annoyance. “I hope you have fun painting your wall,” she clips out.

I laugh and it breaks down the mood. “Don’t get all mad at me. You’re going to help. Tonight.”

And the Ice Queen with the dagger eyes and mouth that devours baby kittens is back…

Inside my head, I’m sputtering for a response to Chase’s outrageous claim that I would help him paint a wall. I manage to keep my face set in stone, but I’m sure that my eyes reflect my astonishment.

“I don’t paint, Mr. Monroe.”

It’s meant to be a kind of dig and put some distance between us, but amusement flashes in his eyes. Those sexy as hell, molten chocolate, panty-melting, shiver-inducing eyes.

Get it together, girl!

Ten years of abstinence and in a matter of days, it goes out the window?

Pathetic.

I stifle a sigh at my turbulent emotions—and physical reactions—and glare at Chase. He winks at me. Ugh—damn sexy, fucking wink. Is there anything about this guy that doesn’t scream naked bodies and twisted sheets?

“Dr. Monroe.” Obviously seeing the confusion on my face, he continues, “It’s Dr. Monroe. Feel free to call me that in the bedroom. Otherwise, it’s Chase, babe.”

This time I can’t keep from stammering out loud, fighting off the heat that nickname just shot straight to my core. “I don’t—that’s not—I don’t do bedrooms either.”

“Seriously?” Chase looks utterly flabbergasted. “You sleep on the couch in your living room? I hope you aren’t camping out on the floor. Mice and bugs and stuff.”

His shudder is over the top and his laughing eyes give away that he’s teasing.

“First of all, you would never find mice or bugs in my apartment. Second, I meant I don’t do bedroom activities with the opposite sex.”

Immediately, I want to call the words back.

“Really now?” Chase looks intrigued. “With the way your body reacts to me, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a lesbian. Or…do you mean to tell me that your bedroom activities are limited to you and Mr. Buzzy? Which, by the way, you could do so much better if you upgraded to a doctor.”

I stand there, my mouth open, wordless, and feel heat on my cheeks spreading down to my neck. I can’t remember the last time I blushed, which renders me even more speechless. Once I get myself together, I finally speak, “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

I applaud myself for my even and somewhat haughty tone, convinced it will shut him up and close the door on this ridiculous topic.

“You know that ‘sexy librarian’ voice is a total turn on, right?”

At this point, I’m so flustered I can’t think straight. Lucky for me, Darla returns at that moment and Chase is distracted. His entire countenance changes, becoming agitated and serious. I want to ask him about it, dig for the reason behind this change. But, that might prompt him to think he has been given the green light to do the same with me.

Darla drops the can on the counter and turns to the register, tapping her fake nails on the side of the machine. Chase thumbs the counter with his knuckles impatiently. “I need you to open it, please.”

She rolls her eyes and turns back to the paint can, prying it open, then placing her hands on her hips and raising a brow, her own impatience radiating. I want to snap at her to stop being such a bitch, but it’s Chase’s fight, not mine. So, I stay silent.

He examines the paint, turning it right and left, inspecting it close to the swatch. Finally, he seems somewhat satisfied and returns the lid to the can.

“That’s close enough.”

Again with the eye roll—this girl is getting on my nerves.

I put on my bitchiest, Ice Queen face and lean slightly forward, satisfied with my intimidation factor when she steps back awkwardly. “I sincerely hope that you are simply having a bad day and don’t treat all of your customers this way. Even so, your personal life should not affect your professional life. Now, I suggest you put a smile on your damn face and at least pretend you know what customer service is, and treat Dr. Monroe with some respect.”

Darla blinks and then smiles tremulously. “Let me just seal that lid back up, Dr. Monroe. Will there be anything else for you today? Or for you?” She swallows and casts me a timid glance. “Ma’am?”

“Nah, we’re good Darla, thanks.” Chase’s voice sounds weird, so I turn to look at him and see him struggling valiantly not to laugh. I narrow my eyes at him, daring him to let it out and ruin the intense atmosphere I’ve created.

He purses his lips and turns back to inspecting the can of paint Darla has just placed before him on the counter. After paying, he thanks her with a brilliant smile and a wink. She blushes and I feel an odd, sharp sensation in my chest. A growing irritation at their interaction. I don’t like to see him winking at another female. I’m struck when I come to this realization. Holy shit, I’m jealous. Unacceptable Tor—Victoria.

We leave the store and return to Chase’s sweet ride. Even for someone who doesn’t know much about cars, I understand the sex appeal of this one. It’s an orgasm on wheels and with Chase as its driver, the combination is lethal. The ride back to my office is quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence, without the aura of awkwardness I expected.

He maneuvers the car into the drive and puts it in park. He turns to me and reaches out, tucking stray strands of hair behind my ear. “I’d walk you up, but I get the feeling I’ll have an easier time getting you to come over tonight if I don’t piss you off.”

I almost laugh, but I focus, needing to make it clear that I will not be joining him this evening. Before I can get a word out, he sticks out his hand in front of me, palm facing up. I stare at it, not understanding the gesture.

“Phone, babe.”

He smiles at me and before I even realize what I’m doing, my phone is in his possession and he is tapping away. Then I hear his cell start playing “Highway to Hell.”

Seriously?

“Now you’ve got my number,” he says as he tosses my phone back to me. “What’s your address? I’ll pick you up tonight at seven.”

I start to shake my head, but he cuts off any reply I might have made, “Nope, you’re not going to meet me at my house. I’m not giving you the chance to back out last minute. Besides, I don’t want you taking the train so late at night. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

With a reluctant huff, I ramble off my address.

Then he leans over and places a chaste kiss on my cheek before running a finger down my nose and taps the tip. “Now scoot, you’ve got work and I’ve got shit to do.”

There’s that smile again…

In a daze, I grab my purse and get out of the car, meeting his eyes one last time before turning and walking to the entrance of my office building. Despite the presence of the valets and the fact that it’s broad daylight, he waits until I am inside before driving slowly away in that chick magnet of his. I hope his speed was indicative of the fact that he was staring my way as well, seemingly a little bit lost in a fog caused by me.

Many minutes after he’s gone, the hazy fog in my own brain begins to clear and I am suddenly able to think again. What just happened? The little devil on my shoulder is laughing and pointing at me. You got handled.

At six fifty-eight, my doorman rings to tell me I have a visitor. I’ve spent the better part of the last two hours trying to figure out how to get out of this. I barely noticed when it was six-forty-five, used to burning the midnight oil at work. Luckily my high rise condo is less than a ten-minute walk from my office. I rushed home and put on a slightly more casual outfit, pressed khaki pants and a navy and white striped top, with three-quarter sleeves and a boat neck. Finishing off with pretty, navy ballet flats, makeup in check, hair in my typical style.

I tell the doorman I’ll be right there and fetch my purse and keys. For some reason, I don’t want Chase to see my apartment. Okay, I know exactly why. My condo could grace the pages of a magazine, but even those homes have a personal touch. The décor is done in cream and different shades of brown. The walls are all adorned with sepia photographs of the city from different angles, but no people. There are not pictures of anyone in fact. No homemade blankets or pillows, no candles, sentimental knick-knacks, nothing to make the space seem personal. I’ve never had an issue with my apartment, but for reasons unknown, I don’t want Chase to see just how cold and empty I am.

After entering the hall, I lock the door and take the elevator down to the lobby. Chase is at the counter shooting the shit with Gary, my doorman. When he sees me, his eyes light up and I go all squishy inside. He straightens up to his full height which has to be several inches over six feet because even in my heels, he’s several inches taller than me. Right now, in my flats, he towers over me and I can’t help feeling dainty and feminine.

He walks up to me and kisses my cheek, and when he moves back, I see Gary gaping at us, his jaw practically unhinged. I frown at him and he immediately snaps his mouth shut and busies himself at the desk. I don’t understand his reaction, it’s not like I don’t have guests. My mother has visited me a few times and Lindsay stopped by once or twice before we lost touch. I’m wracking my brain to figure out who else has been at my place since I bought it five years ago.

I don’t like the answer.

Chase looks me up and down, smirking, but all he says is, “Let’s hit the road, babe.”

The damn nickname flusters me, like every other time he’s used it. I should argue, insist on staying home, nip this in the bud, but I don’t. I don’t want to. For the first time in almost ten years, I admit to myself, I’m lonely. So, I let him guide me out to the vehicle, idling near the valet stand, which practically screams, “For a good time, spend an hour in my backseat with the owner.”

He holds my door while I climb in, shuts it and jogs to the driver side. He gets in and glances over, “Seatbelt, Tori.”

His tone is firm, a little rough even. I don’t usually forget, but I find myself burning brain cells from the heat he inspires inside of me. After I click it into place, he pulls out of the circular drive, carefully navigating the streets of the city—not an easy task when there are six-way intersections. The city planner was paid off by a notorious gangster to design it this way, making it easier to slip away from the police. Unfortunately, it also means more accidents and I find myself breathing a little harder from anxiety. Thank you, Al Capone. Chase practically crawls through each light until he gets onto the freeway for a short distance before exiting into a residential area.

Eventually, he stops and parallel parks on the street in front of a charming, greystone townhouse. He shuts the Challenger off, gets out, and rounds the car to my side, opening the door and offering me a hand to help me out.

Staring up at the house, I ask, “This is yours?”

I can’t keep out the touch of awe in my voice. I definitely didn’t picture him having a place like this.

“Yep. Bought it, gutted it, and am restoring it.” He eyes me, “Why? What were you expecting?”

I chuckle quietly, my cheeks heating once again. What is with that? “I guess I figured you’d have a flat in some trendy neighborhood by the university.”

Chase laughs and the sound reverberates through my body, putting my hormones on high alert. I bite back a groan of frustration.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Tori. And a lot I don’t know about you, but my goal is to correct that sad state of affairs.”

He leads me to a tall wrought iron fence which surrounds the tiny front yard. The gate is particularly tall, with an arch at the top, an old-fashioned gas lamp hanging in the center. Once he’s unlocked it, we step through and I get the full view. On the right side are steps leading up to a small covered porch, the stone arching over the entrance, and a gorgeous, mahogany door, with a stained glass center, set back inside. The house rises to a second level where a tall, rectangular window breaks the pattern of the greystone. The left side of the house expands outward with a bay window, the design stretching from top to bottom. Each section contains their own set of three windows, each with the stone arching at the top. There is also a rather large window near the ground, indicating a high basement. It’s amazing.

Chase takes my hand, and we walk up the steps, where he unlocks the door and I find myself once again stunned speechless by the beauty. The natural woodwork is everywhere, the floors, the molding, and throughout the entirety of the staircase which takes up the right wall. It’s shiny and looks new, but it is also obvious that it’s the original, lovingly restored. To the left of the staircase, is a long hall with a lot of doors and I absolutely have to know what’s inside them all.

Chase squeezes the hand I now realize he hasn’t let go of. His smile is proud and amused at my enthusiasm. “Want a tour?”

“Yes!” I blurt out in excitement.

He chuckles again and begins walking me around from room to room. The main floor is complete, a front room which was once a parlor, now a warm space intended to welcome its visitors. A full dining room, with a massive wall unit built around a large fireplace, a half bath, an office, and…oh my. The kitchen of my dreams is at the back of the house, rusty cream cabinets, white appliances, sand colored granite counter tops. Somehow it all looks vintage. All of this taking up the majority of the three back walls, with a center island. However, it’s the large window over the sink—which overlooks the big, fenced back yard, and a beautifully carved back door, painted to match the cabinets—which sells me on the room.

The yard is perfect and someday, Chase’s kids will play out there, frolicking and having fun, and with no gate in the fence, he and his wife won’t have to worry. A cloud settles over me and I spin around, dropping Chase’s hand, and march out of the kitchen.

“Where to?” I ask in a brisk tone.

He’s looking at me with an unreadable expression, but he doesn’t verbalize his thoughts. He lifts his chin toward the stairs and we visit four bedrooms and two baths, all works in progress. Finally, an unfinished basement which will eventually be a “play area.” I beat a hasty retreat out of that room as well.

Once again in the upstairs hall, I ask, “So? Where is this torture to take place?”

Chase smirks and shakes his head, “You can’t be painting in those clothes, Tori. Don’t you own any ratty stuff for messy activities?”

I stare blankly at him.

“Okay,” he says, understanding dawning, “not a messy activity kind of person.” A sly smile slithers onto his face. “One more thing we are going to change.” He moves toward the stairs and grabs my wrist, dragging me up alongside him.

We enter the largest bedroom, with the bay window overlooking the street, and he disappears through a door. He reemerges with an old, paint-stained T-shirt and sweatpants.

I raise a cynical eyebrow at him. “Please tell me you aren’t expecting me to wear those?”

Chase beams at me and my resolve melts a little. “I have no doubt you’ll make it work, babe. And look fabulous while doing it.”

I want to argue, but seriously, what’s the point? He’s right, I can’t wear these clothes. Ones I’d worn, sure that I would be able to get out of painting. I can tell that will not be the case, so I snatch the clothes and motion for him to get lost. “Shoo.”