Page 20 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Emma

Chapter Eleven

“ A re you sure about this costume?” I tug at the hem of my dress, which barely covers the essentials. “I feel like I’m auditioning for a Halloween porno.”

Maya looks up from applying her cat makeup, her brown eyes critical as they sweep over my outfit. She’s painted whiskers on her dark cheeks and somehow managed to make her natural curls look perfectly feline. “You look hot. Stop fidgeting.”

“Hot wasn’t the goal,” I mutter, turning sideways to examine my reflection. “Believable couple costume was the goal.”

When Maya suggested we coordinate costumes, I’d imagined something cute but modest. But Maya, with her unerring talent for pushing me out of my comfort zone, had other ideas.

Which is how I ended up as a very slutty Little Red Riding Hood to Chase’s Big Bad Wolf. The tattered red dress—if you can call this scrap of fabric a dress—hugs every curve I possess and a few I didn’t know I had. The matching red hood sits askew on my blonde hair, completing the look.

“Stop overthinking it.” She appears behind me, adjusting her cat ears. “It’s Halloween. Everyone dresses slutty.”

“You’re dressed as a cat,” I point out .

“A sexy cat,” she corrects, striking a pose that makes me laugh despite my nerves. “Besides, this is perfect. Tyler will lose his mind seeing you with Chase in matching costumes, and Chase won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”

“He’s supposed to be acting like my boyfriend, not mentally undressing me all night.”

Maya gives me a knowing look. “You sure that’s not exactly what you want?”

“Positive,” I lie, ignoring the flutter in my stomach.

The truth is, despite all my protesting about professional boundaries, I’m looking forward to tonight more than I care to admit. To seeing Chase outside the constraints of our PT sessions. To playing the role of a couple without constantly looking over our shoulders.

And yes, maybe to making Tyler jealous. Just a little.

My phone buzzes.

Chase: Party is in full swing. Tyler arrived with Carina. Both looking miserable. Perfect timing for our entrance.

Me: On our way. ETA is 15 minutes.

I smile before tucking my phone into the small basket prop that completes my costume.

“Ready?” Maya asks, grabbing the house keys.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Donovan’s house is massive—a sprawling lakefront property that screams “professional athlete salary.” Cars line the long driveway, music and laughter drifting through the air.

“Text Chase,” Maya says as our Uber pulls up. “Tell him to meet us at the door. I want to see his face when he gets a load of you in that dress. ”

I do as instructed, nerves building as we approach the house. This is it—our first real public appearance as a “couple.”

“Emma!”

I look up to find Chase waiting by the front door. He’s leaning on one crutch, and even with the injury, he manages to look devastatingly handsome. His wolf costume is subtle but effective—distressed jeans, a fitted gray henley, and wolf ears nestled in his tousled brown hair.

His eyes widen appreciatively as they sweep over my costume, lingering on the expanse of leg exposed. “Wow.”

“Eyes up here, wolf boy,” I tease, but I can’t suppress the pleased flush that rises to my cheeks.

“Right. Sorry.” He grins, not looking sorry at all. “You look amazing, Blondie.”

“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I admit, ignoring Maya’s smirk beside me.

Maya excuses herself to find drinks, leaving Chase and me alone at the threshold. He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear.

“Tyler’s by the fireplace with Carina,” he murmurs. “They’ve been watching the door for the last twenty minutes.”

“Shouldn’t keep them waiting, then,” I reply, taking his hand.

His smile turns almost predatory, fitting his costume perfectly. “Let’s give them something to talk about.”

We enter together, and before we even make it past the front door, he ditches one of his crutches, leaning it against the wall.

“I’ll behave,” he murmurs when I shoot him a look. “No full weight on the knee, promise. Just needed a hand free for this.”

His hand settles on my waist, warm and steady. The party is in full swing—elaborate spider webs hanging from light fixtures, flickering jack-o’-lanterns casting eerie shadows, smoke machine creating ghostly fog.

“Wow,” I say, taking it all in. “Donovan goes all out. ”

“Hockey players are superstitious,” he replies, guiding me deeper into the house. “Halloween’s a big deal. Good party means good luck for the season.”

We make our way toward the main living area, and I can feel eyes tracking us. I fight the urge to fidget with my costume, reminding myself that attention is the whole point.

“Mitchell! Anderson!” Donovan’s voice booms over the music as he approaches, dressed as Gomez to Anna’s Morticia. “About time you showed up.”

“Had to make an entrance,” Chase replies easily, his hand warm against my side. “Great party, man.”

As Donovan and Anna move on, Chase leans down again, his lips brushing my ear. “Target acquired. Three o’clock. Don’t be obvious.”

I casually glance in the direction he indicated and immediately spot Tyler and Carina by the massive stone fireplace. They make an attractive couple—both tall and athletic, dressed as some kind of Viking pair.

But neither looks particularly happy.

Tyler’s gaze is fixed on us, his expression darkening as he takes in Chase’s proximity and my revealing costume. Carina is speaking to him with obvious agitation, one hand gripping his arm.

“They’ve seen us,” I murmur. “Now what?”

“Now we enjoy the party,” he suggests, steering me toward the kitchen. “Let them stew. First rule of psychological warfare: make them come to you.”

“Is that a real rule?”

“No idea, but it sounds good.” His dimple appears as he grins down at me. “Want a drink? I saw Anna mixing something called ‘Witch’s Brew’ earlier.”

“God, yes. Liquid courage sounds perfect right now.”

The kitchen is slightly less crowded. He navigates us toward a large punch bowl filled with an ominous purple concoction, complete with dry ice .

“One Witch’s Brew,” he says, ladling the mixture into a plastic cup. “Fair warning: Anna’s heavy-handed with the vodka.”

I take a cautious sip and nearly choke. “Jesus. Is there any mixer in this at all?”

But I take another sip anyway, welcoming the burn and the immediate warmth that spreads through my chest.

For the next hour, we circulate through the party, playing our roles. He introduces me to people I haven’t met yet, his hand never leaving the small of my back. I lean into him when we laugh, touch his arm when he speaks, all the little intimacies of a new couple.

It feels surprisingly natural, as if we’ve been doing this for months.

Several drinks in, the Witch’s Brew has done its job, softening the edges of my anxiety. The party has grown rowdier, the music louder, the dance floor more crowded.

“Dance with me,” he requests, nodding toward the sunroom where bodies move in the dim, colored lights.

I hesitate, eyeing his crutch. “Should you be dancing with that knee?”

“I can manage one slow dance,” he insists. “Besides, Tyler and Carina just headed that way.”

Of course they did.

“One dance. And no weight on that knee.”

The sunroom has been transformed—furniture pushed aside, colored lights casting red and purple shadows across the writhing bodies. The music pulses, something low and rhythmic with a heavy bass that vibrates in my chest.

He finds us a spot near the edge, where he can lean against a pillar for support. He tucks his remaining crutch beside it, then pulls me toward him, his hands settling on my hips.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice low, barely audible over the music.

I nod, slipping my arms around his neck as we begin to move together. It’s not really dancing, more like swaying in place, but it’s enough. And people are definitely watching—I can feel curious gazes on us, including Tyler’s burning stare from across the room .

“He’s watching,” I murmur, my lips close to his ear. “Looking murderous.”

“Good,” he replies, his breath warm against my neck. “That’s the point, right?”

“Right,” I agree, though in this moment, with his body pressed against mine, Tyler is the last thing on my mind.

The song changes, something slower but more intense, and his hands slide from my hips to the small of my back, drawing me closer.

We’re pressed together now, my chest against his, our faces inches apart.

I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes.

“Still okay?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice—a roughness, a question beyond the simple check-in.

“Still okay,” I confirm, though my heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with our audience.

We move together, finding a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing. This close, I can feel every plane of his body, including the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressed against me. My breath catches, heat pooling low in my belly.

He notices—of course he does—and there’s a moment where I think he’ll pull away, apologize, maintain the fiction that this is all for show. Instead, his eyes darken, his grip on my waist tightening slightly.

“Problem, Blondie?” he murmurs, a challenge in his voice.

I should say yes. Should create distance. Should remember all the reasons this is a bad idea.

Instead, I press closer. “Nope.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Good.”

The music shifts again, the beat faster now, and around us, the dancing becomes more energetic, more suggestive. Bodies grind together, hands wander, inhibitions lowered by alcohol and darkness.

Including Tyler, I realize, who’s now on the other side of the dance floor with Carina, both looking too drunk and caught up in an argument to care what we’re doing .

I should tell Chase. Should remind him we don’t need to continue the show if no one’s watching.

But then he shifts against me, his good knee pressing between my legs, and every coherent thought scatters.