Page 145 of The Convict Gets His Girl

"See that's the thing, my Jewel," he said, his voice low and raw. "What you see is what you get."

Each word felt like a weight, dragging something deep and painful to the surface. The shower's steady rhythm seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, with the vulnerability he was about to expose.

"I like what I see," she said softly.

He just shook his head, lowering it in defeat. "Tonight, I realized that you might never love me the way I love you." His voice cracked slightly. "And I—I don't know that I'm okay with that anymore."

He saw her jerk out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn't watch, couldn't turn to look at her and meet that terrified look in her eye again.

The confession hung in the steam, more naked than his body beneath the water. Years of walls, of protection, of survival—all stripped away in that moment. Chase waited, muscles tensed, for her response. Perhaps she had already run away.

The water's hot spray pelted his shoulders as he reached for the shampoo. His movements were mechanical, programmed, while his soul roiled with unspoken emotions.

The smoke still clung to him, a phantom scent embedded in his pores. Each scrub felt like an attempt to wash away more than just physical grime—layers of history, of unresolved tension, of the complicated geography between them.

The bathroom filled with steam, creating a space that felt both intimate and dangerous. Chase's fingers worked methodically through his hair, removing ash and memory, his back a tense landscape of muscle and vulnerability, scars and fresh burns.

He didn't hear her approach, but he felt the shift in air pressure, the subtle change in the shower's acoustic environment. Then—the shower door opened and closed behind him, a soft click that made every muscle in his body go rigid.

Her soft hand touched the small of his back, and Chase froze. Completely. Utterly. A single point of contact that seemed to short-circuit his entire nervous system.

Her breath came soft and warm against his spine, sending a ripple of goosebumps across his skin. The intimacy of the moment hung suspended, fragile as glass.

"When we were young," Jewel's voice was low, almost a whisper, "I was so fucking scared of how intense these feelings were between us. When I found you in the barn that day, I pressed you against the wall next to the bathroom, the hallway too dim to see clearly. But before I even unzipped your pants, I—I knew it was you."

The confession hung in the steam-thick air. Chase's back remained turned, muscles coiled tight like steel cables. He wanted to see her face, but didn't want to startle her. Her words were a confession, a vulnerability he'd never expected to hear. The bathroom's humid silence pressed against them, heavy with unspoken history.

He didn't turn. Couldn't turn. Her breath continued to ghost across his skin. The soft exhale sent another wave of goosebumps racing along his skin, a physical betrayal of his emotional guardedness.

Memories flickered—the barn, the dim hallway, the years of tension compressed into this single, charged moment. Her hand remained on his back, a point of contact that grounded him in the moment.

"Hunter and I had been over since before I graduated," Jewel continued, her voice finding a steady rhythm. "We only talked face to face when I came to the ranch, probably because of his dyslexia. I was lonely and on some level, I always knew there might be more between us."

Chase listened, each word peeling back layers of their complicated history.

Her hand moved, tracing a memory across his back. "The way you rescued those chickens for me," she whispered. "The way you gave me that jewelry box you made with your grandpa, but your brothers gave it to your mom. The way you gave me a Valentine's Day sucker every single year in elementary—" She paused, and Chase could almost hear her searching for the right memory.

"The way I what?" he rasped, his throat still raw from smoke.

Her palm spread flat against his skin, soap creating gentle circular motions. "The way you always saw me. Really saw me."

He leaned his head against the cool tile, suddenly exhausted. The water continued its steady stream, washing away the night's chaos. Her hand fell away momentarily, and he wanted—desperately wanted—to turn around. But something kept him fixed, vulnerable, waiting.

Then her hand returned, lathering sweet-smelling soap in slow, soothing circles across his back.

"When I was in high school and you were still in middle school, your brothers took you to the community pool one day. Gemma and I were so excited to see y'all. I wanted an ice cream cone but had already spent my money."

Chase remembered that day. The blazing summer heat, the concrete scalding beneath his bare feet, the desperation of wanting to do something—anything—to impress her.

She continued, her hand still moving across his back, "You sat out of the pool for so long, begging nickels and dimes from people after they hit the concession stand... And you brought me an ice cream."

His muscles tensed. Each memory was a fragment, a sharp-edged piece of their shared history.

"I think I knew then that you had a crush on me," she said, almost to herself.

His mouth was dry, sore from coughing. He croaked out the words he'd been holding back. "And that day in the barn?"

Her soapy fingers paused. The water continued its steady rhythm against his skin. Chase waited, every muscle coiled, knowing the next words would change everything.

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