17

I PACE THE porch for the fifth time in the past twenty minutes.

Every time I work up the courage to finally knock on Chase's door, I immediately retract myself from it, doubt creeping into my head.

He hates me.

And I really, really care that he does. Months ago, I wouldn't have given a flying fuck what Chase Rhodes—or anyone—thought about me. How they perceived me.

They were just obstacles to a goal I was trying to reach, anyway. I didn't need to stop and cradle the obstacles in my hands.

But the more time I spend with Chase, the more time I spend with someone that genuinely cares—about everything, the more I care too.

Which is why I'm here. At his house. Completely unannounced.

I biked all the way here, and my legs hurt painfully due to how much I never exercise.

But after I had seen the way Chase's face dropped at him he dinner table last night, nothing will compare to how much hurt I felt just by watching him.

He's my friend, my only friend. And I hurt him.

I had planned to tell him what it was all about—that I didn't want to stress him out. That I didn't want to drag him into my house where my mother would prod him with questions. He was tired. More than usual. And I wanted to respect that.

If only it didn't go and blow up in my face afterward.

Before I could get a word out, Chase shoveled his slice of cake into his mouth and politely bid my parents goodbye, not sparing any time for me to try and make the situation better.

It's what I deserve, I know that.

But that doesn't mean I can't rectify it now.

My hands curl in my jean pockets and I shake my head stubbornly before approaching the light wooden door and knocking. Twice.

It opens on the third.

Chase stands with his hand running through his light brown hair, the sun shining down across his eyes.

He doesn't realize it's me until he steps forward a little and squints his eyes. And that's when I realize Chase Rhodes is shirtless.

His golden skin from the football field is what I catch sight of first, and I nearly yelp. He has a motherfucking six-pack.

How is that fair?

"Lila?" He says, his voice is tougher than usual, as if he just woke up, and my eyes draw away from his six-pack and to his face.

It is nine a.m. on a Saturday.

Oh God. What if I woke him up? And to do what? Apologize for being such a bitch? This is already blowing up in my face.

"Hi," I breathe out, then immediately want to slap myself. Hi, really? That's it?

He doesn't respond, just stares at me like I've grown two horns, which I deserve. I clear my throat quickly, trying not to let the awkwardness of this situation keep from doing what I came to do.

"I...I wanted to—apologize," I huff. "For yesterday. And I wanted to explain myself, if you'll let me," I sneak a glance at his face, but his expression is unreadable, and I wonder briefly how he's able to do that.

What made him able to do that?

I continue on, "I didn't want to pressure you, when you were with Grace. And I knew that if I invited you in, that was likely to happen. And I know now that it wasn't my decision to make—or that I should have at least told you—Lord know it would have saved me from this really awkward conversation—but I was being stupid, and so, yeah. I wanted you there, but I didn't want you to feel obligated to go."

I blow out a breath, keeping my gaze on the pavement of his porch. What if he hates me?

I really don't want him to hate me.

I'm fine with everyone else. But not him. He's the only friend I have.

And it would be a world record to have a friend hate you within two weeks of knowing you.

"I forgive you." My head lifts up at the sound of his voice, he searches my face for a moment before huffing out a breath, "Dammit. I was doing really good, too."

My gaze shoots to him and my brows shoot up. "What do you mean?"

"You make it really hard to be mad at you, Matthews," he admits, rubbing at his eyes.

"I do?" I don't even mean to say it out loud, but I'm too confused to even realize.

"Yeah, you do." He glares at me. I'm not sure how I should feel about this. "I was tempted to text you earlier."

"You were tempted to text me?" I say, pointing toward myself. I had debated doing the same actually, but I quickly realized it would be a lot more sincere if I did it in person.

"Yeah, but then I remembered I was supposed to be mad at you—so I couldn't share the fact that I got a romance book at the library," his ears tinge pink. "Well, there you go. I got a romance book at the library."

My brows dip down. "You read romance? I didn't even think you read at all," I say honestly.

He scoffs, "I read. But, no, I don't read romance. At least, I haven't in my eighteen years of living. The book is for you," that familiar grin returns.

My cheeks are burning. "What—"

He hums, "Remember that day in the parking lot after my football practice?"

I swallow, "Vaguely."

That's not true though. I remember everything about that day. I remember everything about every day pretty much.

"Looks like Lila Matthews has a thing for cheesy romance books," he waggles his brows at me, and I scoff, trying to hide my burning cheeks.

"Don't act like you've discovered the New World, Rhodes. Lots of people read romance books," I cross my arms over my chest, glaring pointedly.

His grin only widens, "The Gang Leader's Princess," he says, starting off dramatically.

"Shut up," I mutter.

He chuckles. "For you? Of course."

I roll my eyes. "You're horrible."

"This is the part where we go from enemies to lovers, isn't it?"

My mouth props open. "You—You read it?"

A smile peeks through, "I had to do my research."

I think, that out of all embarrassing conversations I've had, this is probably the worst.

Though, for a moment, I don't even mind. I would take Chase's teasing over his hurt any day.

Part of me wants him to be mad at me longer. I know I would be. But the other part is just glad I can talk to him again.

As much as I complain about his voice, I've grown custom to it by now. It feels sort of...empty without his constant banter.

"Great." I say thickly.

"Great." He replies, eyes twinkling.

He suddenly widens the door and jerks his head behind him. "Do you...want to come in?"

My breath caught in my throat, "You mean in your house?"

He pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek, probably to refrain from laughing. "No. Into my basement."

I decide to humor him. "You have a basement?"

He narrows his eyes, "I though I was supposed to be the dumb one?"

I grin, "You are."

He rolls his eyes, though a smile pulls at his lips, and I'm very relieved to see it. "C'mon, Matthews. You can help me make eggs."

I slip past the doorway and into his house, the cool air allowing me to breathe.

"Eggs?" I wrinkle my nose. The only time eggs are acceptable to eat is when there's nothing else around.

"Oh, God. Don't tell me your diva taste buds don't like eggs either?" Chase groans, watching as I slide my shoes off.

I remember from the last time I was here that he hadn't left them on, and reminded myself to do the same. Who knew Chase was a germaphobe.

"I do not have 'diva tastebuds', mine just happen to be superior," I shrug, finally catching up to him.

He gives me a look, "You keep using that word incorrectly. Do you need me to let you borrow a dictionary?"

"No, I'm good. I have one in my bag," I smile sweetly at him, but he merely shakes his head.

"Why am I not surprised?" He mutters absentmindedly, then, "We can make pancakes to fit your diva tastebuds, then?"

My eyes widen, "You would do that for me?" I say, pouting for extra effect.

"I could not do it for you, the choice is yours, Matthews," he grins like he's just won the lottery.

I change my mind. I don't like his smile.

"Give me the flour," I grumble. "I've had enough of your antics to last a life time."

"On the contrary, I know that if that were true, you wouldn't be here right now. So admit it, you like my 'horrible' presence." He places his chin into the palm of his hand and gazes up at me.

I narrow my eyes. "I'm going to get the eggs."

I ignore his grin of satisfaction.

Pulling the eggs out of the fridge, I spin back around to find Chase reading one of the recipe cards from his counter.

"I have a question," I announce. "What exactly did you get from the library?"

I place four eggs onto the counter, though Chase doesn't take his eyes off the recipe.

"Don't worry. You're going to love it," he informs me distractedly.

I huff. "Last time I checked, you aren't a psychic."

He doesn't miss a beat. "And last time I checked, you like cheesy romance books. Trust me, you'll like this too."

That doesn't settle anything for me. I hate being left out of the loop. Its like one giant secret right in front me, only I can't breach it in any way.

"Fine," I grit out. "I'll let you keep your stupid secret this time."

He doesn't even glance at me. He suddenly claps his hands together, turning toward me. I jump back, startled.

"Alright!" He says. "Chef Matthews, it is extremely important that you don't mess this breakfast up, capeesh?"

I blink at him. "I think reading that recipe is getting to your head." I state flatly.

He ignores my pointed jab and begins pulling out a pan, his back muscles flexing as he hauls it. I quickly turn away, my cheeks burning.

I try and distract myself with the eggs, whisking them in a bowl, but I am hyperaware of every movement Chase is making.

At one point he reaches over to me to grab the measuring spoons and it takes everything in me not to yelp.

I keep to a corner by the kitchen island for the most part up until I've officially finished prepping the oven and cutting up fruits.

"Done," I exhale, and turn back to Chase who is whisking pancake batter in a large bowl.

He takes a step closer and squints his eyes, "You've got a little something right there," he points to his cheek, mirroring my own.

My brows draw in as I reach up and swipe at my cheek, "Gone?"

He shakes his head, "Here, let me get it for you," he reaches his hand up to my face, my breath caught in my throat for a second, then promptly wipes a spoonful of pancake batter onto my face.

I blink up at him, my teeth grinding together. He struggles to contain his laughter, but I quickly grab my own spoonful of the batter, and smile tightly at him. "You know...I was going to say the same exact thing."

I fling the batter at him and it lands right on his exposed shoulder, dripping down it.

A real smile pulls at my mouth as he looks down at his shoulder, "You're on, Matthews," he says, narrowing his eyes.

He barely gives me time to duck under the counter when he throws a handful of the batter onto my worn sweater.

I try to wipe some of it off, but apparently it's a bad idea because he throws even more at my hair.

I groan, trying to reach for the bowl. Chase extends his arms, waving the bowl around like a schoolyard bully and I jump as high as I can, trying to reach for it.

My sweater brushes against his bare skin, and for a moment I pause, looking up at him. I swallow thickly, watching as his eyes track mine, then I steal the bowl from him.

Men are too easy.

A full blown laugh breaks out of me as I dip my hands into the bowl and splash some of the batter onto his face, gazing at him as he tries to blink it away.

"Face it, Chase. You," I step closer, my voice a whisper. "lost."

"Not yet," he grins, and before I can pour the rest of the bowl on him, he hauls me by my waist and places me over his shoulder, my arms and legs flailing.

"This is cheating, you asshole!" I pound at his back but it's no use.

"What was that? I can't hear you from here," Chase shrugs and just as I'm about to pinch his arm, pours the rest of the bowl onto my head, finally setting me down to save himself from the batter.

I wipe at my eyes, trying to see through my now bunched up hair. "I hate you," I mutter.

He merely smirks, "No, you don't."

I hate him more for saying that—because against all better judgement, no, I don't.

I huff, "There goes the pancakes."

Chase shrugs, "Good thing we have more eggs," he winks at me as he grabs some towels and begins to clean himself off.

And I'm just about to do the same when a voice rings out, "What..."

I look over to the entrance of the kitchen and wince at Maya's presence. Probably not the greatest second impression.

Not that the first was good either.

Chase doesn't even look up, though a sheepish look does take over his face as he scrubs at his shoulder. "Morning, Maya."

She doesn't answer him, and instead slips her headphones on. "I'm going back to sleep." she mutters so quietly I almost don't miss it.

Once she's left, and the kitchen looks semi-decent—as well as ourselves—I spin around to Chase. "I don't think she likes me."

I don't know what I say it, exactly. I don't have a problem with people not liking me, it happens to often to care anymore, but Maya is Chase's sister, and I think it counts for something.

"She's..." he shakes his head. "C'mon, let's make the eggs."

I don't argue. I'd rather make eggs with him than not be around him anymore.

I almost laugh. Two weeks and it seems that Chase might just be my favorite friend.

Well, my only friend. But I don't mind.