“Wesley claims he’s too old to sleep with his mom.” Nichole fluffed a pillow. “During renovations at my grandparents’ house last summer, we shared a room. This was his solution.”
“And if I cross the barrier?” Wrong question. He didn’t want to know.
“I get to wake you up, then steal all the covers for myself.” She laughed and adjusted the electric blanket over the bed. “Wesley’s terms.”
Chase could have terms, too. If he wanted more with Nichole. “I accept.”
She fumbled with the cord on the electric blanket. “It’s a big bed. We’ll both have plenty of room.”
“Now that sleeping arrangements are solved...” The fire worked too well. Heat spread through him as if he’d wrapped himself in the electric blanket and set it on scalding. Chase dropped his jacket on the chair. “Let’s concentrate on dinner.”
“I vote grilled cheese, soup and hot chocolate for dessert.” Nichole walked to the door and glanced back at Chase. “And yes, we have everything we need, even marshmallows.”
Chase rushed after her, escaping the warmth and welcoming the slap of cold air. “I’ll take the grilled cheese. You heat the soup.”
She opened drawers until she located the can opener.
“This is going to be a grilled cheese experience, courtesy of Nonna’s recipe.” He pulled a cutting board from a cabinet and cut thick slices of bread. “One you’ll want to repeat again and again.”
Nichole looked at him, her gaze searching. Chase resisted the urge to pat himself down to make sure he hadn’t removed his shirt too. The more her gaze probed, the more exposed he felt.
Finally, she blinked. “I’ll be the judge of the grilled cheese experience.”
After the dishes had been washed and their hot chocolate mugs emptied, Nichole declared Chase’s grilled cheese the best she’d ever tasted. Nichole decided she’d ask Nonna for her recipe after Chase had claimed for the fifth time he couldn’t reveal family secrets.
Chase added more logs to the fire, waited for the flames to build. The night pushed in against the windows. The pain in his shoulder pushed against his nerves, pulsing deeper. He stacked several pillows, restacked and repositioned them again.
Nichole curled under the blankets and stared at the fire. The quiet would’ve soothed if not for the escalating throbbing in Chase’s shoulder. His gaze fell on Nichole. Her light brown hair fanned across the pillow, one strand curved across her cheek. He wanted to curl his fingers through her hair, absorb the softness. The ache in his shoulder eased. “Can I ask about Wesley’s real dad?” His curiosity had gotten the better of him.
Nichole rolled onto her side and studied him. “Only if you’ll tell me about your shoulder injury.”
“I’m good.” He hadn’t really wanted to know about Wesley’s father. Chase stretched his shoulders, clenched his teeth and stifled his wince. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You’re right-handed yet you rarely used your right hand to drive today. You wince before your other hand even touches your right shoulder. Every so often, you reach toward your shoulder as if you want to test the pain.” She scooted over and set her cheek on top of the pillow wall. Her gaze landed on him, concern in the hazel depths. “I watched the game, saw the tackle.”
“Then you know it wasn’t that bad of a hit.” Chase folded his left arm behind his head as if to prove he could relax through the discomfort.
Nichole’s gaze drifted to the fire and away from him. In that moment, Chase lost something. Something he wanted back. But he was fine alone. Better. He didn’t want her pity. If he wasn’t a football player, what could he offer her? Certainly not a heart too afraid to ever trust in love.
“Wesley’s biological father is nothing more in our lives than that—a sperm donor.” She slipped her hand underneath her cheek to prop herself up.
Perhaps the guy was no one in Wesley’s world. But Chase heard the anguish in her low tone. Like his shoulder, there was much more beneath the surface.
But Nichole blocked him out. As it should be. He’d stonewalled her too. Their arrangement was only temporary. “The hit to my shoulder was not bad. Or it wouldn’t have been bad if I hadn’t already had multiple surgeries on it.”
Her gaze drifted back to him. Again, that compassion and concern settled on him as if he deserved the kindness. As if she truly cared about him. Like he suddenly wanted her to.
“What does Mallory think?” she asked.
Chase blinked. “My sister?”
“Of course. Mallory. Who else?” Nichole pushed on his leg and sat up. Her hands waved around her as if she wanted to catch the words spilling out. “Don’t tell me you stopped asking Mallory’s opinion now that she’s an actual licensed doctor. Because that never stopped you in high school or college. Every time you got injured, you’d tell me, ‘Well, Mallory thinks... Mallory believes...’ You never once mentioned what the doctors told you.”
Chase leaned into the pillows and his memories. Mallory had a first aid kit in elementary school. By middle school, his sister had known she wanted to be a doctor. By high school, she’d started volunteering in a local physician’s office. Chase had always gone to his sister. First for Band-Aids and ice packs. Then to ask if he needed stitches and to try to convince Mallory to do the job herself. He still relied on his sister’s opinion.
Until recently. After Mallory had insisted that he have another surgery. Would Nichole take Mallory’s side or his? “Physical therapy got me through the season and the playoffs. After the last hit, I increased my physical therapy to every day and added extra rest to the regimen.”
Nichole assessed his shoulder as if determined to make her own diagnosis. “How do you plan to do your therapy here?”
He hadn’t planned. He’d canceled his physical therapy sessions against JT’s advice. JT had asked to join the ski-moon party, but then Chase risked Nichole and the others learning the true depth of
