“I’ll call you later, babe,” he said, the last word louder than all the others.
My gut clenched. Babe?
Chase nodded, a strange little up-and-down of her head I’d never seen her make before. “Okay,” she said, the single word almost a mumble.
With that, Donald the Dude gave me an oily smirk, ran another inspection over me – this one very clearly designed to make me feel insignificant – and then pivoted on his heel and took off through the thinning crowd.
I watched him walk away, my heart thumping a crazy beat in my throat. Of course he’d be one of those guys that didn’t wear socks. I was surprised he didn’t whip out a Trilby and plonk it on his head before draping a cashmere scarf around his neck.
You know what else would have looked good around his neck? My—
“When did you learn to sign?”
At Chase’s question, I turned a relaxed smile on her. Relaxed. Not Ruffled. “On the flight over.”
She rolled her eyes, stepping away from me a little. I wanted to snag her wrist and bring her back to my side. In fact, I didn’t just want to do that, the craving to do it was almost painful, a fierce tugging on something deep in my body. My soul? Was that possible?
“You still think you’re funny, I see?”
I preened. “Hell yeah.”
She opened her mouth, an acerbic gleam in her eyes, but closed it again when I held up my finger and shook my head.
Hell. Yeah. I signed, finishing with a flourish of my wrist my signing teacher had called a “quirky accent”.
Chase pulled a face, closed her fingers around my wrists and held my hands still, her stare fixed on my face. “Why?”
“Why did I learn to sign?”
She nodded.
I grinned. “So I could scare off creeps in international airports.”
I’d intended the smart-arsed remark to make her chuckle. Instead, the slight smile on her lips faded. She dropped my hands and stepped back from me. “Come on,” she said, her eyes sliding away from my face. “Let’s get going.”
As she turned I stopped her with a gentle grip on her wrist. This was seriously overstepping our unspoken interaction rules. As much as I hungered to hold her, touch her – and hungered isn’t hyperbole, trust me – the only time Chase and I touched without her initiating it was the night I flicked her ear during Shaun of the Dead.
But I couldn’t help myself. Not now. I’d just flown halfway around the world on the pretense of seeing Brendon and his family when what I was really here for was to make Chase see what I already knew – that she liked me. Like, liked me liked me – and the guarded sadness on her face before she’d turned away ripped at my heart.
She held my gaze now for a heartbeat before she let out a ragged sigh. “You can let go of me any time you like,” she said. “And I don’t need you to protect me against creeps in international airports. Or against anything else, for that matter.”
I shook my head. “Not until you tell me who Donald the Dude is.”
Her eyebrows shot up. She let out a wry snort – almost but not quite a laugh.
“Well?” I asked.
Until that point I can honestly say jealousy wasn’t something I felt often. In fact, I think the last time I was jealous about something was when my best friend at uni managed to drop the last can of Red Bull in the dispensing machine when we were both pulling a pre-exam all-nighter. Man, I’d really needed that hit of extra-leaded caffeine.
What was twisting and threading through me right now though left that feeling for dead. Cold and hot and tight all at once, it filled me with a dark sensation I didn’t like at all.
Chase studied my face, her gaze searching my eyes. I didn’t move. Nor did I drop her wrist.
“Chase,” I finally said, “you know why I’m really here. You do. And you know it has nothing to do with Brendon and Amanda and Tanner. So you’ve gotta tell me, who’s Donald the Dude?”
A shaky breath left her and, with an expression the very definition of ambiguous, she looked away. “Donald is – was – my Art History professor at college.”
My gut clenched. I knew where this was going and I liked it even less than the unexpected jealousy snaking through me. He was a snake. I could see that after barely a minute in his company. How could she even give him the time of day? Why?
She looked back at me, caught her bottom lip with her teeth, and shrugged. “Do I need to tell you any more?”
“You were seeing each other?”
God, how sour did that question taste in my mouth?
She finally laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “You could say that.”
I swallowed, controlling my rising agitation. “Is it over?”
“You could say that as well.”
“Doesn’t look over.”
She drew in another slow breath, her gaze moving to where Donald the Dude had moments ago been standing before her. Was she imagining him there again? And if so, why?
“Chase?” I prompted, keeping my voice loud enough for her to hear but calm enough not to make those around us curious. Chase doesn’t like attention. Which is ironic when you consider they way she looks and the car she drives.
With another wobbly breath, she returned her focus to my face and smiled. “Come on, O’Dae. Time to get you to San Diego.”