Her Surprise Engagement

by Cari Lynn Webb

  “Really?” He glanced at her. “But lilies are your favorite flower.”

  “You remembered that?” No big deal. She remembered minor details about him too. They were even. That her heart flipped over in one of those forbidden cartwheels was not relevant.

  “I also remember that you had questionable music taste in high school,” he teased.

  “I was in a soundtrack phase.” Nichole shifted in her seat, opting to keep the conversation in the easygoing lane. “And Broadway musicals would’ve definitely been playing in the Hearts Forever Chapel in Reno.”

  “What music would you play at your real wedding reception?” Curiosity lightened his tone. His fist relaxed, his fingers flattened against his leg.

  Had she distracted him from his pain? Nichole leaned into the back seat and rummaged through a shopping bag. “Jazz band. What about you?”

  “Live cover band.” His eyebrows arched above his sunglasses. “Is that red licorice?”

  The hope in his tone reminded her of a younger Chase. The one who’d started every tutoring session with the same impractical question: Don’t suppose we can skip today and have fun instead? Nichole had quickly discovered food represented fun for Chase. She opened the bag of licorice and pulled out a candy rope. “Is it still your favorite?”

  “Haven’t had it in too long.” Chase reached across the console, wiggling his fingers. For the moment, his face masked in happiness. “But yeah. It is.”

  “Good thing I bought several packages.” Fact: food still distracted Chase. Fact: she hadn’t forgotten his favorite things. Fact: he kept his guard up and she wasn’t interested in breaching his defenses. She knew all she needed to about Chase: he was a bachelor and wanted to remain one.

  He waved the licorice at her. “Destination wedding. Where do you go?”

  “Vineyard in Napa.” She settled back into the seat and prepared to tally more differences to prove they didn’t belong together. “You?”

  “Island.” He smiled and bit into his licorice. “Add in a private yacht equipped with all the toys—Jet Skis, speedboat for waterskiing and tubing.”

  Nichole wanted a beach chair under a shady palm tree and a good book. “Guest count at the reception?”

  “Island-wide, open invitation.” He laughed and added, “It’d be a week-long celebration. What about your guest list?”

  “Friends and family only.” Quaint and intimate versus rowdy and crowded. How much more proof did she need? “Your wedding sounds exhausting.”

  “Let’s head back to your vineyard.” His chuckle released his grin. “What else is happening? An insider tour. Wine-making classes. Horseback rides.”

  “Strolls through the vineyard. Simple wine tastings. Long, casual dinners.” She straightened, added a defensive edge to her tone. “What? When do we get to relax and enjoy each other’s company at your wedding festival?”

  “Simple. At night under the stars on the yacht deck,” he said. “No other guests allowed.”

  She liked that image. Too much. Nichole curled her fingers around the licorice package. The plastic crinkled into the silence.

  Chase changed his grip on the steering wheel and remained quiet as if he too lost himself in the idea.

  Annoyed his words made her consider more than she ever should, she yanked out another licorice rope, intending to distract him. She waved the licorice around. “These are not my favorite.”

  “Don’t waste it.” Chase snatched the candy rope from her. “You must have chocolate truffles or a chocolate bar back there too. You were never without chocolate in high school.”

  “I’ve upgraded to dark chocolate now that I’m an adult.” And she’d upgraded her standards. Recalling her favorite things would not make her heart tumble.

  Nichole pulled out a package of sea salt truffles, her vendor call list and concentrated on the practical.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THREE HOURS AND too many licorice ropes later, Chase opened the front door to the main level of the secluded three-story château Travis had secured for Nichole and Chase’s ski-moon. A blast of cold air greeted them like a harsh hug from winter. “It feels colder inside the house than outside.”

  “We need to get the heat on quick.” Nichole’s breath stalled in the air beside him, suspended as if encased in ice. She stuffed her hands into her pockets. “I’ll find the thermostat, if you unload the car.”

  “Deal.” Chase rubbed his hands together and headed to his truck. It wasn’t long before he had moved the last suitcase and the cooler inside. Every step farther into the house, the air cooled another degree. And Chase second-guessed Travis’s choice of rental homes and his own ski-moon inspiration.

  Nichole held her hand over the in-floor heat vent and scowled. “It just keeps blowing cold air.”

  “I’ll call Travis.” Chase pulled out his cell phone, left Travis a voice mail and pressed buttons on the thermostat as if searching for proof he’d made the right choice coming to Tahoe.

  He was alone with Nichole, cold and entirely too curious to know what else she remembered about him. Even more, he wanted to learn her story, not review game footage, study play charts or discuss offensive strategy. All because he’d been sidetracked by red licorice and Nichole’s consideration. She’d thought about him as she’d packed for their fake honeymoon. He’d forgotten the gnocchi Nonna had put together for their dinner. He’d only ever had one commitment: football. He belonged in one place: the football stadium. But with Nichole, he started to consider...

  His cell phone vibrated in his hand, ruptured his thoughts and realigned his priorities. Working heat, first. Contract renewal, second. Chase disconnected his phone call and walked into the kitchen. “Good news. Travis got us a service appointment with a local heating company.”

  Nichole closed the refrigerator and rubbed her hands together. “Bad news?”

  “The tech won’t be here until tomorrow morning.” Chase motioned toward the door. “We can head into town and find a hotel room for the night.”

  “Or make our own heat.” Nichole motioned to the wide stone fireplace. A stack of freshly cut wood waited beside the fireplace.

  “Not sure we can warm this room up.” Chase stared at the log ceiling, more than two stories above his head. The right choice: leave and find a hotel. But another choice tempted him. “Let’s check out the rest of the house.”

  Nichole headed upstairs. Chase searched the master bedroom suite on the opposite side of the main level. Five minutes later, Nichole called his name.

  “Found an electric blanket in the guest room up here.” She leaned over the upstairs railing.

  “Nice.” Chase locked his gaze on her, willing her to make the right choice. “Found a fireplace in the master bedroom with wood piled in the grate. I opened the flue and lit the fire.”

  Now she’d tell him to extinguish it. Tell him to start the truck and head to a suitable hotel with individual hotel rooms.

  “You know how to work a real fireplace?” She clutched the blanket.

  “Come on down.” He turned around and headed toward the master bedroom suite. “See for yourself.” Then they would leave.

  Nichole warmed her hands by the fire. “There are two more bedrooms, both suites, upstairs.”

  “We both have to stay in here tonight.” Chase poked at the logs in the fire and his irrational suggestion. He added another log and waited for Nichole to walk out. She scooted closer to the fireplace, keeping her back toward the door.

  Chase closed the wire mesh fire screen and opened his mouth. Now he’d tell her they should head to a hotel. If they stayed in the house, he’d forget. He’d forget he’d vowed not to learn more about her. He’d forget this was all pretend. “I can stretch out on the love seat.”

  “You’re twice the size of the couch.” Nichole shook her head. “We’ll build a pillow wall and share
the electric blanket on the bed.”

  “A pillow wall?” Chase followed her to the four-poster bed, paused on the other side and scratched his chin. A cement wall dividing the bed wouldn’t cut off his awareness of her.

  “It’s a barrier down the center of the bed. Made with pillows.” She quickly divided the bed into two halves.

  “You’ve done this before?” Chase crossed his arms over his chest. She couldn’t seriously be constructing a pillow wall. He couldn’t seriously be agreeing.

  “Wesley claims he’s too old to sleep with his mom.” Nichole fluffed a pillow. “During renovations at my grandparents’ house last summer, we shared a room. This was his solution.”

  “And if I cross the barrier?” Wrong question. He didn’t want to know.

  “I get to wake you up, then steal all the covers for myself.” She laughed and adjusted the electric blanket over the bed. “Wesley’s terms.”

  Chase could have terms, too. If he wanted more with Nichole. “I accept.”

  She fumbled with the cord on the electric blanket. “It’s a big bed. We’ll both have plenty of room.”

  “Now that sleeping arrangements are solved...” The fire worked too well. Heat spread through him as if he’d wrapped himself in the electric blanket and set it on scalding. Chase dropped his jacket on the chair. “Let’s concentrate on dinner.”

  “I vote grilled cheese, soup and hot chocolate for dessert.” Nichole walked to the door and glanced back at Chase. “And yes, we have everything we need, even marshmallows.”

  Chase rushed after her, escaping the warmth and welcoming the slap of cold air. “I’ll take the grilled cheese. You heat the soup.”

  She opened drawers until she located the can opener.

  “This is going to be a grilled cheese experience, courtesy of Nonna’s recipe.” He pulled a cutting board from a cabinet and cut thick slices of bread. “One you’ll want to repeat again and again.”

  Nichole looked at him, her gaze searching. Chase resisted the urge to pat himself down to make sure he hadn’t removed his shirt too. The more her gaze probed, the more exposed he felt.

  Finally, she blinked. “I’ll be the judge of the grilled cheese experience.”

  After the dishes had been washed and their hot chocolate mugs emptied, Nichole declared Chase’s grilled cheese the best she’d ever tasted. Nichole decided she’d ask Nonna for her recipe after Chase had claimed for the fifth time he couldn’t reveal family secrets.

  Chase added more logs to the fire, waited for the flames to build. The night pushed in against the windows. The pain in his shoulder pushed against his nerves, pulsing deeper. He stacked several pillows, restacked and repositioned them again.

  Nichole curled under the blankets and stared at the fire. The quiet would’ve soothed if not for the escalating throbbing in Chase’s shoulder. His gaze fell on Nichole. Her light brown hair fanned across the pillow, one strand curved across her cheek. He wanted to curl his fingers through her hair, absorb the softness. The ache in his shoulder eased. “Can I ask about Wesley’s real dad?” His curiosity had gotten the better of him.

  Nichole rolled onto her side and studied him. “Only if you’ll tell me about your shoulder injury.”

  “I’m good.” He hadn’t really wanted to know about Wesley’s father. Chase stretched his shoulders, clenched his teeth and stifled his wince. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You’re right-handed yet you rarely used your right hand to drive today. You wince before your other hand even touches your right shoulder. Every so often, you reach toward your shoulder as if you want to test the pain.” She scooted over and set her cheek on top of the pillow wall. Her gaze landed on him, concern in the hazel depths. “I watched the game, saw the tackle.”

  “Then you know it wasn’t that bad of a hit.” Chase folded his left arm behind his head as if to prove he could relax through the discomfort.

  Nichole’s gaze drifted to the fire and away from him. In that moment, Chase lost something. Something he wanted back. But he was fine alone. Better. He didn’t want her pity. If he wasn’t a football player, what could he offer her? Certainly not a heart too afraid to ever trust in love.

  “Wesley’s biological father is nothing more in our lives than that—a sperm donor.” She slipped her hand underneath her cheek to prop herself up.

  Perhaps the guy was no one in Wesley’s world. But Chase heard the anguish in her low tone. Like his shoulder, there was much more beneath the surface.

  But Nichole blocked him out. As it should be. He’d stonewalled her too. Their arrangement was only temporary. “The hit to my shoulder was not bad. Or it wouldn’t have been bad if I hadn’t already had multiple surgeries on it.”

  Her gaze drifted back to him. Again, that compassion and concern settled on him as if he deserved the kindness. As if she truly cared about him. Like he suddenly wanted her to.

  “What does Mallory think?” she asked.

  Chase blinked. “My sister?”

  “Of course. Mallory. Who else?” Nichole pushed on his leg and sat up. Her hands waved around her as if she wanted to catch the words spilling out. “Don’t tell me you stopped asking Mallory’s opinion now that she’s an actual licensed doctor. Because that never stopped you in high school or college. Every time you got injured, you’d tell me, ‘Well, Mallory thinks... Mallory believes...’ You never once mentioned what the doctors told you.”

  Chase leaned into the pillows and his memories. Mallory had a first aid kit in elementary school. By middle school, his sister had known she wanted to be a doctor. By high school, she’d started volunteering in a local physician’s office. Chase had always gone to his sister. First for Band-Aids and ice packs. Then to ask if he needed stitches and to try to convince Mallory to do the job herself. He still relied on his sister’s opinion.

  Until recently. After Mallory had insisted that he have another surgery. Would Nichole take Mallory’s side or his? “Physical therapy got me through the season and the playoffs. After the last hit, I increased my physical therapy to every day and added extra rest to the regimen.”

  Nichole assessed his shoulder as if determined to make her own diagnosis. “How do you plan to do your therapy here?”

  He hadn’t planned. He’d canceled his physical therapy sessions against JT’s advice. JT had asked to join the ski-moon party, but then Chase risked Nichole and the others learning the true depth of his injury. “I have exercises I can do.”

  “I can help,” Nichole offered. “Maybe a massage?”

  Not from her. Chase usually ignored boundary lines, however, that was one he’d heed like a fully charged electric fence. “Why?”

  “You’re in obvious pain, Chase.” Nichole pressed her palms on the pillow wall, smashing the feathers down and demanding his full attention. “You’re struggling to get comfortable right now. You keep moving, small shifts to the left, then the right. Small bend forward, then back. Your eyes narrow with every move. You’re in more than a little pain.”

  “It hurts.” He’d give her that much. He kept his arm behind his head, refused to flinch. “It’s nothing that won’t heal.” If he kept reciting those words, it would come true.

  “Well, I can also fix a mean ice pack. You just have to let me know if you prefer frozen peas or frozen steak.” Nichole flopped onto her side of the divide. “As you know I’ve had some experience with physical therapy routines.”

  “That’s right.” Chase flipped through his memories and moved away from his shoulder. “You tripped on the bleachers, broke two toes and ended up in that bootie for over a month.”

  “Don’t remind me.” But she laughed. The sound low and beguiling as if her disbelief still made the whole thing hard to process. “It was on the auditorium stairs during the regional debate finals. Three toes broke, not two.”

  She’d shown up at his house in the walki
ng boot. He’d wished he’d been there to help her. “Break anything recently?”

  “Only my heart.” She flattened her lips together. The truth was already settling on the pillows between them. “But it wasn’t recent. I’ve healed.”

  The fire snapped and crackled. The warmth expanded into the corners of the room. Everywhere except Nicole’s bronze gaze. Her heart may have been broken years ago, but she hadn’t forgotten the anguish. He said, “Wesley’s father broke your heart, didn’t he?”

  “Professor Myles Dillon, PhD, is Wesley’s biological father.” Her voice was remote, as if distance, not time, healed pain. “I took his business econ and economic theory classes. Then I became his teacher’s assistant and a cliché.”

  He disliked Professor Dillon for hurting Nichole. Still, Wesley’s real father had earned a PhD and was a college professor. A professor was the right kind of guy for Nichole. Not a football player, facing the possible end of his career, who knew more about being alone than being a couple. Chase cleared his throat. “If you loved each other, how was it a cliché?”

  “I loved him, hence the broken heart.” Nichole traced her finger over the snowflake design on the pillowcase. “I don’t think his heart was even bruised after things ended.”

  “You were having his child.” Chase wanted to believe he’d act differently. Wanted to believe he’d welcome the news. Be a good father. But his own father had failed on the good part. On doing the right thing. Chase had never wanted to test if he’d inherited more than his green eyes from his own dad.

  “Not all fathers are created equal.” Nichole’s frown deepened.

  Chase knew those words quite well. Chase’s father had left long before Chase had met Nichole. But she’d witnessed Chase’s father’s return. Days before the football draft, his father had walked back into Chase’s life and asked to be a permanent part of Chase’s world again. Seemed Chase was finally worthy enough of his father’s attention.