“Hope you’re okay with fifty years of lights-off missionary, eating rolled oats for breakfast every day, and naming your pets after trashy reality-TV celebrities your kids idolize.” He kept baiting me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin and jump out the window, but I didn’t trust Chase not to do unholy things with the body I’d shed and leave behind.
I put my hand to my heart, feigning shock. “The horror of living a good, quiet life with an honest man, pets, and kids will haunt me forever. I beg you, stop.”
He sent me a sidelong glance. “You wear sarcasm well.”
I waited for the strike to come. Chase didn’t disappoint.
“Unfortunately, it is the only thing you wear that doesn’t look ridiculous.”
“Can you just shut up? It’s bad enough you forced me into coming here. Don’t offer me unsolicited commentary about my style or analyze my current relationship. I just want someone nice and normal.”
It was hard to admit, even to myself, that now I was even more nervous about sex with Ethan. If he wasn’t going to rip my clothes off and take me against a spiked wall in a BDSM dungeon, I was going to be disappointed, solely based on the fact Chase had been right about pretty much everything else about him.
No, I chided myself. Ethan doesn’t have doubts about dating me. We’d been hanging out for three whole weeks and still hadn’t slept together. He was obviously in it for the long run.
I could see Chase shaking his head in my periphery, chuckling to himself. “You don’t want what normal people want, Mad.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
More silence. My soul was banging its head against the futuristic-looking dashboard. Why did I have a soft spot for people I didn’t know? Why had I thought this was a good idea? But I never really could refuse small acts of kindness. That was why I didn’t narc on Nina from work for bullying me. I knew intern jobs in fashion were hard to come by, so I sucked it up while Nina verbally abused me daily. I kept a chocolate bar in my purse in case others fainted on the subway and needed sugar to spike their blood pressure. It was an Iris Goldbloom trait I’d inherited.
“Friendly reminder—you have to pretend that you like me,” Chase snapped after a while, tap-tap-tapping his steering wheel with his perfect long fingers. I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose.
“I know.”
“Convincingly.”
“I could be convincing.”
“Debatable. There may be touching involved. Light patting in nonstrategic areas and so forth.” His eyes were still on the road.
“Are you out of your mind?” I hissed.
“Presently, yes, hence why you’re here. As a result, we’re going to have to play the loving couple.”
“We will. Now can you please, please be quiet? I’m doing you a favor. A huge one. Don’t make me regret it,” I finally barked, feeling dangerously close to falling apart. My face was hot, my eyes watery, and it felt like someone had punched my nose from the inside.
To my surprise, he zipped it.
We zoomed past Long Island, the Tesla’s quiet buzz the only background noise accompanying the drive. I closed my eyes, feeling my throat bob with a swallow.
I longed for a truce. For Chase to take a step back and let me gather my ragged self-esteem and frayed thoughts. For a sign what I was doing was the right thing and not destructive to both my heart and his family.
Most of all, I longed to run away. Somewhere far, where he couldn’t grab my heart with his poisonous claws again and devour it.
See, I had a secret I didn’t share with anyone. Not even Layla.
Sometimes, at night, I could feel Chase’s claws sliding across my heart, sharp as blades. I still wasn’t over him. Not truly. I didn’t even think it was love—there was nothing about Chase’s personality I particularly enjoyed.
I was obsessed.
Consumed.
Completely enamored.
Problem was, Missionary Ethan, I knew, would be kinder on my heart than Reverse Cowgirl Chase.
CHAPTER FOUR
CHASE
First thing I’d noticed about Madison Goldbloom when I’d hit on her in Croquis’s elevator? Her beautiful hazel eyes.
Okay. Fine. It was her tits. Sue me.
To anyone else, they were probably average, pleasant-looking tits. They were even modestly tucked inside a perfectly sensible, albeit visually offensive white turtleneck with a tacky lipstick pattern all over it. But they were so perky—so goddamn erect and round—I couldn’t help but note they were the perfect size for my palms.
In order to test that theory, I had to wine and dine her first. Since nature all but conned me to pursue her, I took Madison to one of Manhattan’s finest restaurants that same evening and spared no expense—nor compliment—for the sake of my palm-to-tit ratio research.
(Which turned out to be a success. Science, baby. Never failed.)