Take a Chance on Me (6 page)

“But not a dessert?”

I shook my head.

Nia snorted. “Well, we’re making some progress anyway.” She took a step toward me, reached out, and brought her index finger to within a millimeter of my mouth.

I held my breath.

“You’ve got a little phyllo dough on your bottom lip,” she said, grinning. Then she abruptly stepped back. “See you in a couple of days.”

I licked my lip, captured the stray bit of pastry, and watched her glide away.

~Nia~

My body was tingling
everywhere
.

After the session on Monday, I’d been sore, but today…oh, God. I could still feel his hands on me. His touch made my skin want to scream, “Just. Do. It.”

It was bad.

While I was at the gym, I kept trying to figure out what it was about Chance that affected me so much. There was his strength. The fact that he had all of this unexpressed power, like a wild animal in those quiet, stalking moments before he pounced on his prey.

There were his eyes, too. Those deep, golden, intensely focused eyes. And he was watching me with them. A lot. Even more than last time.

I didn’t have time to take a long walk today—The Gala was catering a bridal shower tonight, so there was more to prepare in advance—but I needed to burn off some of the energy that had built up after this session at the gym. If every time was going to be like this…jeez. How was I going to make it through eight more sessions?

I decided I’d walk just as far as the bookstore down the street before heading back to The Gala. Maybe grab a romantic suspense novel for those nights when I couldn’t sleep, or I might pick up a fun cookbook for my mom. She loved to try new recipes and Mother’s Day was coming up.

Which in no way explained why, when I got into Between the Pages and started wandering down the aisles of the bookstore, I didn’t head to either the fiction section or the area for cooking resources.

Instead, I found myself making a beeline to the “Self Help - Relationships” shelf, and flipping through a half dozen volumes.

Jaleina Longoria, the owner of this independent bookstore and one of the most well-read women in Mirabelle Harbor, finished up with the customers at the counter and then came over to me.

“Hey, Nia. What can I help you find today?” she asked.

I’d always like Jaleina, but towns like ours could be tricky. Gossip was a reality, and you didn’t necessarily know who’d tell on you if you revealed something too juicy. With a boyfriend as well known as Grant Jordan and a personal trainer who was one of the über-connected Michaelsens, I had to be careful.

“I’m looking for a few things,” I said, mentioning the romantic suspense novel and the cookbook I’d had in mind for Mama. “But a friend of mine is getting married soon,” I added, which was only a partial lie. I was acquainted with the bride whose shower we were catering tonight, but I wouldn’t exactly call her a friend. Jaleina, however, didn’t need to know that.

“So, does your friend need a wedding planner or guidebook?”

I shook my head. “No, more along the lines of a ‘how do I know for sure if I’m with the right guy’ kind of book.”

“Ah,” Jaleina said gently. “She’s getting cold feet. I’ve never been married myself, but I hear that’s common.” She scanned the shelves before tapping one of her long, polished fingernails on the spine of a very pink book called
When It’s Hot & When It’s Not: The Dating Girl’s Handbook for Finding THE ONE.

“Don’t let the bright pink cover fool you,” the bookstore owner said. “It’s not as fluffy on the inside as it looks on the outside. There’s actually some decent psychology within its pages, in between all of the usual quizzes and checklists and things.”

“Great. I’ll take a peek,” I told her. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

The door jangled and another customer walked in, so Jaleina excused herself and left me alone in the “Self Help” aisle.

I opened the pink book and read the Table of Contents. There was a section on “First Impressions.” Another on “Dating Expectations.” Yet another on “The Role of Fear.” I turned to the latter chapter and started reading:

“Fear about pursuing a relationship can take many forms and can express itself in surprising ways. The first question to address, however, is whether there is a legitimate basis for this fear (as in, the potential partner has certain traits that make him a poor fit for you) versus whether the fear stems from a more personal place of origin (that is, your own concerns about commitment, a lack of readiness/maturity to settle down, worry that your dating years will soon be behind you, etc.). So, to begin the analysis, you must first be willing to be completely honest with yourself…”

I thought about Grant—did he have any traits that were “a poor fit” for me? I couldn’t think of any major ones. He was sophisticated and charming, bright and funny. Though, I had to admit, we hadn’t had much unstructured time together. He was busy, but I didn’t get the sense that he was covering up any other activities (or women) just because he wasn’t always around. He was running an internationally known company.

So, of course someone like Chance would seem by comparison much more…accessible, for lack of a better word. And watching him eat that piece of
spanakopita
today was pretty hilarious. The expressions that flitted across his face! I laughed just remembering.

Why was I so fascinated with him? A relationship between us couldn’t go anywhere and, sexual chemistry aside, it was just idle curiosity that kept me wondering… It had to be.

But why did I think of Chance every time I was
trying
to think about Grant? Why did I keep comparing the two men in my mind when, really, there was no question that Grant was the bigger catch.

The guy was a mega-star in the business world.

I’d known him for a while and enjoyed his company.

He’d asked me out several times.

He’d already told me he “really liked” me, and I said the same to him.

And he was willingly going to meet my family in two days, which was a sign of “commitment readiness.” (At least according to the checklist on page 27 of the pink book.)

It had to be a case of nerves on my part, just like the book suggested. Fear that I might be close to reaching the end of my dating journey. That I may have really found “The One.”

Which made me feel a lot better than some of the other alternatives—like attributing my sudden doubts about my big-city boyfriend to the far more uncomfortable possibility that Chance just turned me on a helluva lot more than Grant did.

Chapter Five

~ Nia ~

I should have known Chance would make Friday’s workout session as difficult on me as humanly possible.

“You need to keep your back straight when you’re doing this pull down, Nia,” he informed me for probably the fifth time, an edge of frustration working its way into his usually calm voice. “Your posture is particularly important during this exercise.”

Finally, I snapped. “Look, if I could keep my back straight, I wouldn’t be having so many problems with it.” I let go of the overhead bar, and it swayed above me in a dangerous arch. “I’m trying, but it hurts to do this, okay?”

He grasped ahold of the bar and steadied it. “Okay, I’m sorry. I was pushing.” He exhaled. “Let’s see if we can try something else that might still work that same muscle group.”

He came up with an exercise—“lateral presses” or some such thing—where I was pushing only against his hands instead. And, while it was easier to maintain correct posture now, it was hell on my concentration.

Chance had a clean but masculine scent, like he’d just showered in some kind of pheromone musk.

His hands were warm and rough and strong and sensual. All at once. It took no imagination whatsoever to picture what he could do with those long fingers.

And don’t get me started on his lips. He wasn’t quick to smile, but when he did, his mouth looked so kissable that I could barely breathe for wanting to press my lips against his.

So, I tried to focus on everything in the gym but him. It wasn’t working.

“You seem distracted today,” he observed from above me, a puzzled look crossing his handsome, chiseled face.

You’re a regular Sherlock,
I wanted to say. But I didn’t.

I’d read half of that pink relationship book in the past two days, though, and I knew my attraction to Chance must just be a reaction against the serious step of introducing Grant to my family. So, I exhaled slowly, forced myself to meet Chance’s eye, and said, “Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind today.”

“Because of your big date tonight?” he guessed.

I nodded. “If I can last long enough to make it to Bangkok Gardens at seven-thirty, I’ll be good. But until then…” I sighed. “I have a loving but very involved family. I get nervous about introducing anyone to my parents for the first time.”

He didn’t say anything, but a glint of some emotion flashed in his eyes and the brackets around those kissable lips of his tightened.

“What?” I asked.

It was rare to see a crack in his estimable control but, for a second, his golden eyes betrayed him, revealing an array of feelings. And this time I could identify what a few of them were: Sadness. Compassion. Wistfulness. Pain. One following the other, like cascading dominoes.

“I—um… I’m a little jealous,” he said, which wasn’t one of the emotions I thought I’d recognized. “I wish I could do what you’re doing. Bring someone home to meet my parents. They both died too young, so…” He shrugged.

“Oh, Chance, I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

He smiled at me, a devastating smile that pierced my soul with its beauty and its heartbreak. “It’s okay. It’s been a while since it happened,” he said, and I remembered that it had been over five years since Mrs. Michaelsen had died unexpectedly from a stroke. I could recall my parents talking about it. They’d said her husband had passed away just a couple of years before that, too. Stomach cancer.

“I’m sure the sadness never leaves you,” I said.

“It doesn’t,” he admitted, “but they gave us all a lot of good memories while they were alive.” He paused. “So, I hope everything goes well for you tonight. Enjoy having a reason to be nervous.”

Never had I wanted to throw my arms around someone more, and not just so I could kiss him. I wanted to hug Chance Michaelsen. Hug the young man he was seven years ago when his dad died. If he was twenty-eight now—just two years older than me—he would have been only twenty-one then. Barely a man. And then, at twenty-three, to have lost his mother, too.

I wondered for the first time how much his parents’ early deaths must have impacted him. Wondered if this was part of his reason for becoming such a health fanatic. Was he trying to outwit the Grim Reaper and earn himself a few extra years of old age? If so, I couldn’t blame him.

His words—“enjoy having a reason to be nervous”—stayed with me for the rest of the day, though. His perspective was one I hadn’t expected, and I played over and over again the various shades of meaning inherent in that phrase.

I went back home to shower and get ready for the evening ahead. Until very recently, I’d considered only the practical advantages of still living with my parents. Aside from the traditional and cultural aspect of staying there, working with them at The Gala made it convenient and economical. But, maybe, too much togetherness wasn’t always a good thing, eh?

“Hey, I need to get in the bathroom sometime this century,” my brother Dimitri called out, banging on the door a couple of times like he used to when we were in high school. He was a year and a half older than me (and, yes, he also still lived at home) but, in my opinion, he acted like a teenager most of the time.

“I’ve only been in here ten minutes,” I called back, irritated. “I’m sure you can find something useful to do for ten minutes more so I can dry my hair.”

I heard only grumbling and a few curse words on the other side of the bathroom door, but I knew better than to let Dimitri come in until after I was completely done. He hogged the mirror, messed up the countertop with blobs of hair gel, and primped and preened like a sixteen-year-old girl before prom. I was the one with the big date tonight, not him. I needed space.

I’d just finished blow drying when my brother pounded on the door again. “Better hurry up, Nia, your cell phone is going crazy.”

Oh, no. Was Grant cancelling?

I opened the door and Dimitri pushed his way in. I grabbed my hairbrush and left to check my phone. No voicemails or texts from Grant. Whew. But there were several missed calls from Donna.

I called her back. “Hi, what’s up?” I asked.

“Just checking in with you,” she said, slightly out of breath as usual. The ambient sounds in the background struck me as familiar, though. Was she calling from Harbor Fitness?

“Are you at the gym?” I asked.

“Yep. On the elliptical,” Donna said, puffing. “Just saw Mr. Stonyface wandering around the place and thought of you. How’s the training with him going?”

It had been a while since I’d thought of Chance as anything but a hot-blooded American male, despite his cool, sculpted appearance. His facial expressions were more subtle than most, but his eyes were rather eloquent if you looked carefully enough. I elected not to mention this revelation to Donna, however.