Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
My eyebrows climb the distance of my forehead—which is saying something because I’ve got a decent-sized forehead—concern making my limbs feel a little numb. “And he just…believed you?”
Chase shakes his head then, reaching out to squeeze my forearm. “Oh, Brooke. I’m sorry. I can see now how inappropriate that was and how much it would worry you, but I promise he made me show my Longstrand ID and driver’s license to confirm my identity before he let me go anywhere near the elevator.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Still, you should have a talk with him just to be sure the security is tight enough for your liking. I know the safety of your apartment building is one of the most basic needs of a woman, and you deserve to be able to be at home without the constant worry that someone might find their way to you who shouldn’t. Especially with all the publicity you’re going to be getting soon.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“No,” Chase argues. “You really opened my eyes here, Brooke. And at the risk of being inappropriate again, I’ll just offer that I’d be happy to talk with your doorman myself if the conversation makes you uncomfortable in any way.”
Chase talking to my building staff like he’s responsible for my well-being? Like a boyfriend or something? Ha. Ha-ha.
“No, no. That’s sweet, but I can handle it myself, really.”
“Okay,” Chase agrees easily, raising his hand in the air to hail a cab. It’s such a casual action to perform while holding my eye contact perfectly that it’s a little disarming. “Whatever you want. This is your decision, but I’m here for support if you need it.”
Man, I didn’t think guys like this existed. At least, I’ve never had any experience with them before. No bravado, no false posturing. Just an honest apology and an open-minded discussion about solutions.
A cab pulls up just in the nick of time, saving me from myself and all of the ridiculous things I might say in the face of his honesty.
Chase holds open the door, and Benji and I climb inside. “Hey, you can’t bring dogs in here—” the cabbie starts to yell but then shuts his trap when he notices the service vest over Benji’s Superman cape. “Sorry. The dog’s no problem.”
Chase smiles at me and then winks as he climbs in behind us and gives Benji a pointed scratch of his ears, leaning down to whisper, “Biggest compliment there is, buddy, blending in despite your superhero status.”
I turn to face the opposite window to conceal my smile at the sweet attempt to comfort my dog, who’s not offended in the slightest. Not only is Benji used to getting the stiff arm from most establishments, he’s got the confidence not to care.
Unlike me, he’s not affected by awkward uncertainty on a daily basis. In fact, he’s the exact opposite.
He’s got swagger and style, and quite frankly, I don’t know what I’d do without him. Even aside from the whole passing out and cracking my head open thing—Benji is often the balm to my raging soul.
“Where to?” the cab driver asks, and Chase is quick to answer.
“La Croissette. 59th and Amsterdam.”
La Croissette? Dayum, I’m really glad I hosed off now.
It’s a fancy-dancy kind of place, and I’ve only heard about it in random articles highlighting the best restaurants in the city.
“Okay.” I look over at Chase. “I have to know your secret now. You said you know a restaurant we can get into last minute, without a reservation, with a dog, without a problem, and it turns out it’s La Croissette?” I shake my head on a laugh. “What’s the secret? And when is Ashton Kutcher showing up with his crew from Punk’d?”
“That’s a pretty old reference, you know, Ashton and Punk’d,” he teases. “You better be careful using that around the Gen-Zers.”
I scoff and giggle at the same time. “I’m old, and I’m never around Gen-Zers. Now, stop stalling. What’s the secret? How on earth do you think you’re going to get us into this restaurant? I mean, the whole thing is a tough deal for any restaurant in the city, but La Croissette? No way. They’re booked up months out.”
“I know the owner. I have an open-ended reservation. I can show up anytime, with anyone, and they’ll find a way to seat me.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Are you their bookie or something? They owe you money?”
Chase chuckles. “Something like that.”
“Pfft,” I blow out an audible breath through my lips. “It’d have to be.”
I’ve got a stout feeling, influenced by the look on Chase Dawson’s face, that there’s a lot more to this story than he’s letting on, and not only that, but he’s not going to tell me anytime soon.
I take the small moment as a reminder that we are not, in fact, lovers on a romantic date sharing a meal—the kind of occasion where we might reveal our innermost secrets to each other—but instead work associates, celebrating a professional victory (for him) in a food-centric setting.