In Deep: Chase & Emma (All In Book 1)

by Callie Harper

  “I’m going to go make some changes to your schedule.” I strode toward the door, waiting to put down the clipboard until I’d turned my back to her. “I’ll be seeing you later tonight.”

  “What?” I could hear her say before the door closed behind me.

  Whatever the male form of a diva was, sure, you could call me that. But I had a lot riding on this next month. And it wasn’t just me. My teammates were relying on me, countless companies wanting product placements, the PR crew working the games. Hell, millions of fans worldwide were counting on me to win.

  All eyes were on me, the boy who’d almost drowned, now the man swimming for gold. I knew exactly what I needed to do to reach my goal. My coaches, my teammates, my rigorous, relentless training schedule.

  And Emma. All to myself. Any time. Morning, noon or night.

  I wasn’t going to share. She would not be working with any other members of the team. I didn’t expect much pushback from our team managers, and definitely not from the coaches. The fact that I’d found a physical therapist so good I wanted her all to myself? They’d probably high five each other. Especially since I could bankroll any additional expense. I’d cover the cost of hiring on a replacement for the remaining team members, no problem.

  Emma was mine.

  CHAPTER 3

  Emma

  I didn’t know what, exactly, I’d expected from meeting the famous Chase Carter, but that wasn’t it. I stood in the therapy room re-folding towels, waiting for my next client. The towels didn’t need rearranging, but I needed something to do instead of pace the floor while I tried to take stock of what had just happened.

  No, Chase wasn’t warm and fuzzy. He did not give me a big bear hug and welcome me into the swim family. Nor did he tell me how excited he was to be working with me. That all fit with his reputation for being cool and laser-focused on his goal of gold.

  But he hadn’t struck me as a jerk. I hadn’t felt treated like a menial hand-servant, beneath his notice. Instead, I’d felt as if he were intensely aware of me, hyper-observant of everything I said and did. And he’d seemed deeply appreciative of the work I did on him. So much so that he wanted more time with me on his schedule.

  Why did that make me shiver with anticipation? I told myself it was just nerves. I’d have to put that time to good use. Extracting secrets, getting into his past, searching for the exclusive story he’d never told a soul.

  But it felt like more than that.

  The way he’d looked at me, so possessive and hungry, as if he were going to devour me. I must have been imagining it. It was probably my nerves, struggling with feeling duplicitous. I was who I said I was—a licensed and experienced physical and massage therapist fully capable of working with him over the next month. But I was also more than that.

  It wasn’t as if I were after a smear story. Tori was the one who was all about the colorful splash. I wanted a story with depth and heart. I’d only spent a half hour with the man, and I could already feel he had a lot of both. The powerful charisma he radiated was almost palpable. What made him tick? Why was he so passionately driven? Why had he kept on with swimming, every day taking the plunge into water after almost drowning? Now I wanted to know more than ever.

  My phone blipped with a text.

  Tori: How’d it go? You just met him, right?

  Oh, so now she started paying close attention to time! I rolled my eyes, but as much as Tori exasperated me with her typically laissez-faire, party-till-you-drop attitude, I loved her. Together, we’d been through thick and thin. We were both 25 now, but I still saw the scrawny nine-year-old inside her, wide-eyed and freaked out as her parents screamed, threw things and ultimately divorced. Technically, Tori had lived two doors down from us in Vero Beach, but she’d pretty much moved in with us that year and never looked back. My mom got in the habit of setting an extra place for Tori at dinner without even asking, and the two of us had been joined at the hip ever since.

  Even if sometimes my hip hurt from it. Like when Tori drank too much and needed a ride from some guy’s house but didn’t know exactly where she was. Or when she dragged me into one of her schemes, usually involving a guy she was after, or mad at, or both. But Tori was just Tori and I couldn’t imagine my life without her. We shared a little apartment together, as we had for the past three years. Sometimes other roommates got into the mix as well, but the one constant was always Tori.

  I texted her back.

  Emma: I think OK. He wants more time with me.

  She sent me a few thumbs-up emojis. Tori had never met an emoji she didn’t love. A few more popped up on my screen, a flexed bicep muscle, a tongue lolling out of a mouth, a guy swimming. Then she asked the question I knew she had on her mind.

  Tori: How hot is he????

  A strange possessive growl formed in my throat. Back off, Tori, my fingers twitched to write. I didn’t want her all up in his grill.

  But that made no sense. First, he wasn’t mine to warn her away from. Second, even if Tori wanted to jump him—and that’s exactly what I knew she would do the second she got the chance—I shouldn’t care. Tori was just being herself, young and fun and after a good time. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the international parade of hotness known as Olympic athletes.

  And holy hell was Chase hot. I still felt all tingling and alive, the pheromones rushing through my body. The feel of massaging his broad back, those incredible, powerful muscles. He’d felt so good under my hands, so warm and hard and right. I’d wanted to keep right on going, rubbing him, giving him exactly what he needed, taking such good care of him. Only the 30-minute timer I’d set had started flashing at me. I usually didn’t lose track of time, but rubbing Chase I could have gone on and on for hours.

  I finally texted back with an honest answer. She was my BFF, after all. She’d see right through me in a heartbeat if I tried to deny it.

  Emma: Off the charts

  I waited for her reply, half expecting her to tell me she was on her way to San Antonio. We weren’t supposed to see each other again until Rio in three weeks. She was traveling there before me as part of the PR team, but she’d been known to make a change in plans for a hottie before. Especially a hottie of epic proportions.

  But the next text I got wasn’t from her. It was from an unknown number.

  Extra session tonight at suite 18. 7pm.

  Who was it? What did they mean by an extra session? Was someone trying to ask me if I was available at the end of a long day of clients for another session?

  Emma: Who is this?

  My phone rang in my hand and I clicked it on.

  “Emma, it’s Chase.”

  “Chase?” I dumbly repeated. Obviously it was. He’d just told me that.

  “Yes. I’d like another session with you at seven tonight.”

  “Um...” Flustered, I reached for my clipboard, trailing my finger down my schedule. “I’m not done seeing other clients until seven.”

  “You’re done now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re only going to be working with me from now on. I’ve spoken to the team managers. It’s all arranged.”

  “It’s…what?” I had been hired to work with six members of the U.S. Olympic swim team. Now I was only working with him?

  “You’re good at what you do. I’m going to need you on call over the next month. Your compensation will remain the same, regardless of the change. We can discuss details when I see you tonight.”

  Confused, I managed an “OK” before hanging up. So, I guess this was what people meant when they said Chase was a classic Alpha, calling all the shots. But, again, it wasn’t exactly rude, was it? Unexpected, but it wasn’t as if he was giving me more work to do. In fact, I’d be paid exactly the same amount of money but only have one client for the whole month. Piece of cake!

  But it sounded like we’d be spending a lot of time together. On call? What did he mean by that? He didn’t exactly strike me as the relaxed and casual type. Being on
call with Chase might be fairly demanding. I’d have to clarify it all with him when I saw him tonight. What exactly was this new agreement?

  I still had a few hours before I saw him again. I walked the short distance to the hotel adjacent to the swim complex where we were all staying. Up in my room, instead of making myself crazy with questions I didn’t have answers to, I fired up my laptop and clicked onto our blog.

  Tori was keeping Scoop’d alive, thankfully. She always did. I was a much less frequent contributor. For one, my regular job at the Center for Sports Medicine kept me a lot busier than hers. She waited tables at a local restaurant. When it was crowded—which wasn’t that often—she was full-on crazy. But during the frequent down times she could fold silverware in napkins and post to social media. Plus the kinds of blog posts she specialized in were quick, typically hilarious responses to just-breaking celebrity scandals. Tori knew how to zing off a one-liner like nobody else.

  We’d started blogging in our senior year of high school, an anonymous and entertaining way to offer commentary on our little world. Right from the start we’d made a good team, with her unearthing fun tidbits that intrigued readers and me profiling the people who made our school amazing. I did all my interviews by phone, and though I was pretty sure everyone in our town knew we were the ones behind our blog, it became easier to preserve our anonymity as our audience grew.

  Now, seven years into it, Tori still kept the constant drumbeat of posts alive, and she’d really perfected a zingy, sassy writing style perfect for blogging. I’d gotten better over time, too, figuring out which details to feature, understanding how and when to ask the right questions to elicit a great story. I typically read a bunch online, looking for interesting leads, and then I’d follow up with an interview. You’d be surprised how many people were willing to spend an hour talking on the phone with a random blogger. I always enjoyed the conversations, capturing every element of feel-good stories about little old ladies who’d left unknown millions to local charities, five-year-olds who’d managed to dial 911 and save their dad’s life after a heart attack, or dogs who returned home after getting lost on a family vacation hundreds of miles away.

  But today, I just read through Tori’s posts. She hadn’t flown to Rio yet, but she was working the hype already, posting hot pics of athletes, starting contests over “hottest abs” and “best shoulders.” So far, Chase was winning both polls.

  I didn’t have a story of my own. Not yet, anyway. I needed to scoop it first. And it looked like I was going to have a lot more time to do exactly that, as his personal “on call” physical therapist. Would he want me to be available to him 24/7, all hours of the day? And night? And why did I feel excited about that prospect?

  §

  I knocked on Chase’s door at six fifty-eight p.m. I really was my parents’ daughter. They’d raised me on the saying, “if you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re late, it’s as if you didn’t show up at all.” Slightly dorky, yes, but I couldn’t help it. They’d baked it deep into my DNA.

  I’d gone for a run in the late afternoon, grabbed a salad and then taken a shower, so my hair was still slightly damp. I’d thought about blow-drying, or putting it up, but stopped myself. I wouldn’t start changing everything for Chase Carter. Every day I woke up and pulled my hair into a quick ponytail. It stayed like that until my late afternoon or early evening run, depending on my schedule with clients. Then I took my shower and let it air-dry. I wasn’t a primper, and Chase would just have to deal with that. This wasn’t a date, anyway. Even though butterflies flew around in my stomach exactly like it was.

  He opened the door wearing a T-shirt and shorts, not tight but draping along the definition of his muscles. Damn the man had muscles. At five feet five inches, I wasn’t short, but he made me feel small standing next to him, like he could pick me right up, swing me over his shoulder and carry me into his bedroom.

  Which was what it seemed like he was thinking of doing when he looked down at me. That heat I’d seen in his eyes earlier, it was still there as he stood in the doorway.

  “Your hair’s down,” he observed as he stepped to the side to let me in. “And a little wet.” He reached out and took a strand between his fingers. “Did you go swimming?”

  “No.” I gave him a slightly flustered smile, and took a step away. I didn’t know why I felt so exposed around him. “I showered after my run.”

  “Thought so,” he murmured, almost to himself, and then went on to ask me questions like the athlete he was.

  “What kind of a runner are you? Short course or long?”

  “Distance.” I knew what he meant, even though he used swimming terminology.

  “What’s your favorite race?”

  “10K.” I didn’t have to think a moment about that. I’d run a marathon, once, and decided that would be my one and only. The first guy who’d run it had died at the end, anyway. Even a half marathon became a slog to me. But the 10K? That fit me just right, long enough I could push it the whole time, but short enough I could still walk to a bar and celebrate afterward with friends.

  “What’s your best time?”

  “45:23.”

  “Did you run in college?”

  “Yes.” I held up my hand, signaling to him to give me a moment after all those rapid-fire questions. And I had to tease him a little. “So, you don’t like interviews. But you don’t mind giving them?”

  “I do want to get to know you.” The intensity in his aquamarine eyes made me catch my breath. As did his next question. “How do you know I don’t like giving interviews?”

  “Everyone knows that.” I shrugged, averting my eyes. It wasn’t because I was trying to interview him! Besides, what I said was true. Everyone did know that he hated interviews. He’d grown famous for his swimming, of course, but his avoidance of the spotlight had played into his star status, too. Everyone wanted what they couldn’t have.

  I looked around his suite and realized while all of us were staying in the same hotel near the swim center, we clearly weren’t all in the same type of room. Chase had a lavishly decked-out suite with what looked like a full kitchen and living room large enough to accommodate a massage table, already all set up.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked, heading toward the kitchen. “Water? Pellegrino? I’ve got some sports drinks, too.”

  I smiled, in spite of my nerves. It was kind of nice to not have to explain myself. I’d never been a big drinker, and after my last boyfriend’s tendency to get stumble-down drunk more nights than not, I’d cut way back. But I wouldn’t have to explain that to Chase the uber-athlete, now would I?

  “I’ll have some water, thanks.” I followed him into the kitchen. He handed me a glass, then started fixing himself a whole wheat bagel with peanut butter. His short brown hair looked a bit wet. I bet it usually was. I wanted to run my hands through it.

  “Want one?” he gestured to the bagel, an overflowing gooey, sticky mess.

  “Thanks, I just ate.”

  “So did I.” He gave me a goofy smile I couldn’t help but return.

  “Hard to get enough calories?” I asked, understanding. I’d worked with athletes before, though none of his caliber. Even for top-tier athletes, his workouts were legendary, five or six hours a day of swimming over two separate sessions. He probably had to take in around 8,000 calories every day.

  “Never enough,” he agreed, giving me a hungry look. Insatiable, huh? I took a sip of my water and looked down.

  “Why did you become a massage therapist, too?” He gazed at me with those bright blue eyes, his head tilted slightly with curiosity. “In addition to being a physical therapist?”

  “Well,” I reflected, “probably because of my mom.”

  “Is she one?”

  “No, she’s a nurse. But she works in this great senior facility with a lot of different physical and massage therapists and I guess I grew up understanding how much they could both help peo
ple.”

  “You like to help people?”

  That struck me as a strange question. I looked at him, and he shrugged, munching on the last bites of his bagel. “Not everyone does,” he clarified.

  “I think it’s more…” I struggled with the right words to express something I wasn’t sure I ever had before. “So many people walk around in constant pain. My mom used to be one of them.”

  Without realizing I was doing it, I started telling him all about it, how my mom had developed rheumatoid arthritis at the early age of 40 with crippling pain every morning. Eighty-five pounds overweight and sedentary, she’d had high blood pressure and faced a scary downhill slide into her future.

  “So she changed.” I brightened up at the memory. I’d only been 11 at the time, but I could still remember how she’d started walking in the mornings, lifting first two-pound then five-pound weights as she hustled around before breakfast. She’d met with a nutritionist, physical and massage therapists and low and behold she’d made that illusive, long-term lasting whole-scale change.

  “It’s so inspiring,” I gushed, thinking about how healthy she was now in her 50s. She and my father went biking and swimming together almost every day, enjoying life like they never had before. “Pain is so debilitating for so many people. I like doing what I can to lift it.”

  “You’re a good person.” He made the statement as if it were a done deal, the final decision on the subject. I looked up and met his eyes. Not a hint of a smile, he wasn’t teasing. He really thought I was a good person.

  “Um, thanks.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and left the kitchen. I didn’t usually start talking about myself and my family with someone I didn’t even know, let alone someone who was supposed to be my client for the next month. But all of this was new. I’d never had just one person I was working with at a time before, for an entire month. As we practically lived together in hotels.

  “So, the on-call thing?” I started. “Can we talk about what you have in mind for the next month? Just working with you?”