Page 89 of The Convict Gets His Girl

Chase felt his neck warming, that familiar nervous tic making him rub the back of his head. He knew Henry didn't throw around compliments lightly.

"The books have never been more organized," Gemma said reluctantly. "And he's got a way of explaining financial strategies that makes complex stuff sound simple. Not many can do that."

Their praise landed differently than his brothers' boasting, feeling more like something he'd actually earned.

Chase felt a surge of quiet pride, his shoulders straightening almost imperceptibly. "I've worked hard to prove myself and show you that I'm more than my past mistakes."

A throat cleared nearby, interrupting the moment. Chase turned, catching a woman's silhouette standing beside their table. Her posture was deliberately neutral, her eyes scanning the group before landing directly on him.

Black hair and dark eyes, skin pale and freckled, her clothes were both edgy and professional. Black slacks and a red silk blouse were paired with biker boots and a leather jacket. She held a helmet in her left hand and nodded and smiled at the table before looking back at Chase.

"Excuse me," she said, her tone soft and hesitant. "I'm Lola and Kendall's social worker. They've mentioned you, and I couldn't help but overhearing—are you Chase Williams?"

The words felt like a sudden pressure drop in the room. Chase's muscles tensed involuntarily, his recent sense of pride evaporating. Social workers always represented potential judgment, potential failure.

Chase's fingers, which had been resting casually on the table, now gripped the edge slightly. His breath caught in his throat, waiting to see what would come next. He'd dealt with a lot of social workers, but he didn't think they'd ever met before.

His eyes flickered quickly to Jewel, seeking some unconscious signal of support, some hint of how to proceed. Her hand slipped to his knee, and he finally took a breath.

He nodded reluctantly, his throat dry, constricted.

The woman extended her hand to shake, and he took it automatically. Her grip was firm, practiced and purposeful. As their hands connected, Chase noticed something shift in her expression. Her face veneer softened, revealing something deeper, more personal.

Her eyes—a complex green that seemed to hold multiple layers of emotion—turned sad. Not pitying. Not accusatory. Just… sad.

"I'm Olive," she said, her voice carrying a subtle tremor that suggested this moment meant more to her than a typical professional interaction. "My sister was Abigail Smith."

The name hung in the air between them before the bomb of her words detonated. Shock pulsed through his body—recognition, dread, a complex cocktail of emotions he couldn't immediately name. His hand, still clasped with hers, suddenly felt like it was conducting an unseen current of memory and consequence.

A flash of the accident flew through him, the newspaper images, the reports from the case.

He licked his lips and stood, his hand still grasped in hers. She was a petite little thing, her black hair in a pixie cut. She squeezed his hand and smiled softly, sadly.

"Ye-yes, I'm Chase Williams," he said, his voice gruff, low and shaking with emotion.

"I was the other little girl in the car that day," she said, each word carefully chosen. Her gaze never left Chase's face, studying him and making him want to squirm.

Oh God, it was finally happening. His past was here, staring him in the face.

ChapterThirty-Three

His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He'd rehearsed this moment countless times over the years, practiced what he'd say if he ever ran into any of her family.

"I practiced what to say to you, but now it seems irrelevant. I can't ever tell you how sorry I am for that night," he said.

She smiled and dropped his hand, shifting to pop a hip in a cocky pose that screamed of false bravado. "I practiced what to say too, but none of it feels right."

Chase shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked onto the heels of his feet. The restaurant's ambient noise seemed to fade, leaving only the harsh rhythm of his own breathing.

"I guess I just wanted to tell you it's alright now," she said, frowning slightly and tilting her head. He waited, and she sighed, her shoulders drooping.

"I still miss her, but if that night hadn't happened the way it did, I never would've become a social worker. I love my job, and I'm doing a lot of good to help troubled kids."

A sense of dread filled him, and he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Why did you become a social worker?"

She pursed her red lips and glanced away then back at him. "Dad couldn't handle the aftermath of losing Abigail. He dove into alcoholism, and Mom split. Dad died, and I ended up in the system."

Chase felt the weight of guilt pressing harder. His shoulders hunched involuntarily, as if physically trying to bear the burden of her words. The ripple effect of that single night altered so many lives.

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