Page 33 of Out of the Gold

Chase

The engaging womanacross from me bites her lip. Then dips her spoon into her gelato again. “You mentioned before that your parents were too caught up in building their careers to pay much attention to you and your sister when you were growing up.”

My fingers slice through my hair. “Yeah. And I was too busy hanging out with my friends to deal with her. So, I guess you could say, we both raised ourselves.” Although Lindsay bore the brunt of it. I swallow the smothering guilt over my part in all her issues with my sparkling water. It was only due to fantastic emergency room doctors that she escaped death—twice.

“That kinda explains a lot.”

I don’t bother to decipher her comment but redirect our conversation. “That was ages ago. So tell me, where did you get your costume design experience? You certainly have a great eye for clothes.” My eyes drop to the bag with her new dress. “Not to mention you can sew me into my leggings like a superhero.”

Her cheeks pinken. “Thanks. I graduated from NYU with a degree in costume design.”

“Great school.”

She nods. “It is.” She looks down. “I don’t want to brag, but I graduatedmagna cum laude.” Her voice takes on a harsher edge. “Even though I’m turning twenty-five, I have a lot of experience behind me.”

I cock my head. “I never said you didn’t.”

“Sorry. That must’ve been my chip.” She swipes her shoulder a couple of times, causing me to smile. “I need to remind myself not everyone thinks I got my job onLadies of the Abbey—and, hence, this one—because I’m Braxton Hunte’s daughter.”

My head pushes back. “Really? People say that?”

“You’d be surprised,” she replies, the pink of her tongue licking the last of the gelato off her spoon.

Relief courses through me. I’m not sure what I’m more grateful for, though—the ice cream being gone, or her tongue being hidden again from view. I frown.She’s your dresser. I push away from the table and grab her empty cup.

Tossing it into the trash, we walk side by side through Positano. As we travel through the little alleys, I study her patrician profile. Her nose and cheekbones beg for my touch, which causes me to scrub my hands on my thighs. She’s not traditionally gorgeous, like Jessa, but has a true vitality about her. Nothing has been enhanced surgically. Our conversations are refreshing. And unique.

Her comments back in the gelateria run around my head. As we leave a jewelry boutique where she bought a bangle bracelet, I blurt, “You shouldn’t wonder why you were hired, Melody. You’re very talented and dedicated. Plus, you’re a hard worker.”

She stops like she hit a brick wall. Her hand flies to her bun and she removes the knitting needles, fluffing her silken hair. I bury my desire to touch the spun gold in my pockets.

“Thanks.” She tilts her chin upward. “I know I am. And I’m working very hard to prove it to everyone.”

I smile at her confidence. “You’ve won my vote.”

Her eyes shine. “Thank you, Chase.” She pauses, giving me a speculative look. “Charles.”

I freeze at her use of my real name. “No one calls me that anymore.”

She bounces her bags of purchases against her leg. “Well, you’re not Charles when you’re on set. There, you’re the movie st—actor—Chase Wright.” She licks her lips. “But now, here with me, you’re the real person underneath all that”—her free hand waves around—“stuff.”

Her words lodge in the back of my throat. With difficulty, I swallow over the large lump. “You know, you may be right. With you, I’m more of myself than I’ve felt in ages.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why.”

“Maybe ’cause we’re two Chicagoans.” She bumps her shoulder against my arm.

“That must be it,” I lie. No, geography certainly isn’t the reason why I’m so comfortable around this woman. She doesn’t want anything from me—she already has a great career going for herself, tons of money thanks to her father, and with her looks, I can’t imagine she’s lacking for male attention.

Fists form as she flips her hair, once again halting my inclination to verify its softness. Her next words catch me off guard. “You mentioned before you like to perform on stage.”

And that’s something I haven’t shared with anyone. Ever. But I did with her. I try to make light of yesterday’s confession. “When I was in college.”

“But a bug like that can’t be squashed,” she persists.

I shrug. “It was good training.”

“For Broadway.” She fiddles with one of the knitting needles. “Sorry. You can tell me to shut up if I’m getting too much in your business.”

The two words play on my lips, but I can’t bring myself to say them. I sigh. “I’ve been thinking about the theater a lot lately.”

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