Page 25

25

HONOR

I’ve officially dubbed this getaway Chase’s Wildcard Retreat. Three days in, and the man’s still pulling out surprise after surprise. Whatever the plan, though, he’s made pampering me his full-time job. And Marianne? Sweet as pie, popping in with that almost ‘mother-in-law’ grin, clearly loving every second of checking in on us.

Right now, though, I’m on the phone with Oakley.

“Yeah, the twins have been keeping us on our toes. But hey, that just means I’ll be ready for Laramie. You might even want to consult me now—I’ve got experience,” Oakley says, his tone halfway between pride and mischief.

“I think I will,” I reply, glancing back at Chase. He’s waiting patiently, not saying or gesturing anything, but there’s a weight in his stillness. “Hey, Oak, I’ve got to go. Keep up the good work, okay? You’re crushing it. And tell the Connors I’m thinking of them.”

“Okay. Love you, Honor.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up and turn toward Chase.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice casual.

“Yeah. Apparently, Oakley is now a certified llama trainer, and a toddler whisperer,” I say, shaking my head.

Chase’s lips curve into a smile. “That kid really does it all, huh?”

“Yeah, next thing I hear, Boston the llama will be running for mayor.” I roll my eyes, and Chase laughs—a genuine, easy laugh—but there’s something beneath it. I lean forward slightly. “Actually, I should be asking you—are you okay?”

He pats the seat next to him on the porch. “Sit with me.”

I do, folding my hands in my lap as I wait.

“It’s the Stones,” he reveals.

My stomach tightens. “What? Did they find out where Oakley is?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, nothing like that. They’re in custody.”

I blink. “Mira and Damon?”

“Yeah,” he confirms. “Bozeman PD Major Crimes finally managed to get them. But not for drugs or trafficking. They’re too smart to get caught on that.”

“Then what? Murdering their neighbor’s cat?”

“Close,” he scoffs. “It is murder.”

“Shit,” I drawl.

He nods grimly. “Nothing ties it to the Circle’s operations. Neither of them is talking. Captain Freeman—my contact at Bozeman PD—thinks it was a crime of passion. Drugs were involved, but only on a personal-use scale. Most likely? Damon caught Mira with another man.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to process. “I guess that’s… good news?” I want to believe it, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that they won’t stay locked up for long.

“Hey,” Chase says, his hand brushing mine. “Let’s not dwell on it. I just wanted you to have the update, that’s all. A little peace of mind can’t hurt, right?”

I glance at him, arching a brow. “You’ve got something else on your mind?”

His grin slides into place. “I’ve got another surprise for you.”

I groan, but there’s no real bite to it. “You and your surprises. Should I be worried this time?”

“Come on, have I ever let you down?” His eyes glint with that maddening spark of his. “Trust me,” he adds, leaning in just enough to make me suspicious. “You’re going to love this one.”

“Okay,” I say, unable to hide my curiosity. “Show me.”

“We’re going out.”

I sigh, glancing down at my dress shirt. Not exactly California chic. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think before standing. “Well, those black Wranglers you just grabbed off the washing line—they look seriously hot on you. Actually, you’re hot in them.” His hands tug me up from my seat, and before I can react, they settle firmly on my ass.

“Really?” I ask, arching a brow. That was… unexpectedly uplifting.

“Really. Yeah.”

“And the top?”

“That red lumberjack,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up to squeeze my waist, “with the hem tied around.” His eyes dip briefly, making his point.

“Right. I’ll put them on then.”

“Good.”

I narrow my eyes. “And I’m not about to walk out and find you in one of your flawless suits, am I?”

“Absolutely not,” he convinces me.

“All right, now leave me in peace to beautify myself,” I say, reaching for my pocket mirror. My makeup stash is sparse, but I can still pull something together. Even in a cowgirl look, a touch of red lipstick won’t hurt—it might even give the whole outfit a little flair.

* * *

Chase isn’t kidding when he says he likes me in my everyday outfit. It’s nothing remarkable—a red lumberjack shirt and snug, classic denim—but the way he looks at me, you’d think I was draped in couture. I excuse his frequent glances at my cleavage, thanks to my bra fastened one hook tighter. And judging by how often his hands find their way to my hips, waist, or… lower, I’d say he’s more than a little obsessed.

As for his attire, he almost matches me—a darker blue lumberjack shirt paired with loose Levi’s. Loose doesn’t mean drab, though. Those jeans hang low, practically declaring, “Check out what’s back here!” And from the front? Let’s just say Elvis himself might’ve paused to take notes.

Chase keeps the destination a mystery as we drive. The grin plastered across his face makes it clear he’s loving this far more than he should.

“Come on, tell me,” I try to pry the answer out of him. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he says, his tone infuriatingly smug.

“Santa Sophia?”

“Nope!”

“Give me a hint!” I almost beg.

“Fine.” He pretends to think, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s a place where your Wranglers will fit right in.”

“Chase, that’s not a hint. That’s geography.”

He laughs, his shoulders shaking with it. “Okay, okay. It’s somewhere with character. And no, I don’t mean me.”

I groan. “So, we’re either headed to a saloon, a rodeo, or some cowboy karaoke night, aren’t we?”

“You’re warm.”

I turn to him, narrowing my eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re guessing wrong,” he shoots back, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.

Before I can argue further, we pull into the lot of a quaint western bar. Its weathered wooden exterior glows under the string lights draped along the porch. The sound of country music drifts through the air, mingling with bursts of laughter from inside. A small sign above the door reads The Rusty Spur.

I blink, taking it in. “No way.”

Chase grins as he steps out and rounds the truck to open my door. “Surprise.”

The moment I step inside, I’m hit with the smell of barbecue and old leather. The place is packed but not overwhelming. There’s a jukebox in the corner, a small dance floor to one side, and an eclectic mix of people—from ranchers in dusty boots to a guy in a Hawaiian shirt arguing with the bartender over a game of pool.

“Unreal!” I say, spinning to take it all in.

“Well,” Chase says, sliding a hand to the small of my back, guiding me further inside, “the buffalo wings are to die for.”

We find a table in the corner, tucked just far enough away from the jukebox to avoid the full blast of the country tunes but still close enough to enjoy the lively energy of the bar.

The waitress arrives, her cowboy hat tilted back, a pen tucked behind her ear. “What can I get y’all?”

I eye Chase, gesturing that he’s in charge.

“Buffalo wings, fries—make it two orders—and fried pickles. Oh, and two whiskey sours.”

The food arrives quickly, a chaotic spread of golden, crispy glory. The wings are slathered in sauce, the fries perfectly salted, and the pickles… heavenly.

Chase dives in, immediately grabbing a wing and tackling it like it’s a personal challenge. “You know,” he says between bites, “there’s a method to eating wings. You twist the bone just right, and boom—the whole thing slides off clean.”

I raise an eyebrow, popping a fry into my mouth. “Wow, you should teach a class. ‘Wing Eating 101 with Professor Chase.’”

“Hey, don’t knock it. This is a skill.” He holds up a bare wing bone triumphantly, then gestures to my plate. “Go ahead. Give it a shot.”

I grab a wing and twist. Or at least, I try to. Instead, the bone snaps, sending a piece of chicken flying. It hits Chase’s arm before landing unceremoniously on the table.

“Impressive,” he deadpans, wiping his sleeve. “You’ve got a real knack for chaos.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, laughing as I grab a napkin to clean up the mess.

He smirks. “Hey, at least you didn’t hit the guy in the Hawaiian shirt over there. That’s progress.”

“Progress? I’ll show you progress,” I mutter, grabbing a fry and flicking it at him.

He catches it midair, pops it into his mouth with a smug grin, and says, “Nice try. You’re up against a pro.” Then he freezes, his eyes locked on me, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“What?”

He bursts out laughing. “No offense, but you look like a walking Picasso.”

I glare at him, snatching another napkin to wipe my face. But then I catch a glimpse of myself in my pocket mirror and groan.

“Oh my God.”

My red lipstick is everywhere—smeared across my mouth, chin, and, somehow, my nose. I look like a clown who went ten rounds with a bucket of wings and lost.

Chase, ever the gentleman, offers to help, but I know better. His idea of help would just make things worse. I snatch the napkin from his hand and furiously scrub at my face.

Goodbye, red lipstick. We had a good run.

Eventually, I settle myself, sitting up straight as if nothing happened. This is my attempt at cowgirl cool—though, let’s be honest, it’s less Yellowstone and more I Love Lucy with a side of hot sauce. Chase leans back, appraising me.

“Do I look okay?” I ask.

He flashes a crooked smile—a little too charming for his own good. “You’re all right.” Then he stands and extends a hand. “Ready?”

“Ready for what?” I narrow my eyes, catching the faintest glint of mischief in his.

“Dance with me.”

I pull back instinctively, shaking my head. “No way!”

“Please,” he says, with just enough charm to make me consider it.

“At the end of the first dance, your feet will be as flat as a beaver’s tail,” I warn.

Chase throws his head back, laughing. “Lucky for you, my feet are indestructible.”

I glance down at the literal boats he calls boots. Okay, he has a point. Still, I hesitate.

Before I can protest further, he grabs my hand and pulls me up, his grin practically daring me to argue. He leads me to the small dance floor near the jukebox, where a slow, twangy tune plays.

Chase’s hand rests against the small of my back, and for a moment, I notice how it fits there—like it was made for the space. His palm presses gently. Holy cowboy! I’ve never thought much about a man’s hands before, but his? They feel like they could bench press a truck and still have room to hold me.

His other hand takes mine, his fingers curling gently. There’s no hurry, no demand in the way he holds me—just patience.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“You’re doing fine.”

I glance up at him, catching the curve of his lips. Just as I start to relax, my foot crashes onto his boot again—this time with the grace of a falling anvil. I wince. “Told you it was a bad idea!”

Chase’s grin holds, but something shifts in his expression—determination, maybe. “Let me try one last thing. I swear, you’ll have fun.”

I want to argue, to point out that messy wings are my version of fun, not this disaster-in-motion. But he’s trying so hard, so I sigh and nod, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Here,” he says, his tone easy. “Ride on my feet.”

“Excuse me?” I blink at him. “I’m not five!”

“Just trust me. Step on.” He wiggles his boots like they’re some sort of dance invitation.

Against my better judgment, I do as he says, balancing awkwardly as he steadies me with both hands. And then, we’re moving. His steps are slow, his hands keeping me steady as we sway across the floor.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, but I’m laughing so hard I can barely get the words out.

“Ridiculously fun,” he counters, his grin growing wider.

Somehow, the awkward clumsiness fades into something easy, something that feels… right. His laughter mixes with mine, and for the first time, I realize just how much at ease I feel with him.

“See?” His voice turns delicate, his steps slowing. “Not so bad.”

I lean into him just a little, my cheek skimming his shoulder. “Not bad at all,” I admit, even surprising myself. Who knew clutching a guy’s neck—seriously, where do they make necks like this?—while being twirled and spun could be exhilarating.

For a few moments, it’s just us—laughing, swaying, being.

Then he looks at me, and there’s an intensity in his eyes I’ve never seen before.

“What?” I ask, unease tightening my throat.

“I’m about to say something that might ruin this moment,” he admits.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s important,” he says simply. “If it does ruin the moment, just… put me down gently, alright? Take me back to the table, and we’ll forget it happened.”

I exhale, already deciding nothing he could say would ruin this. “Okay. Say it.”

He pauses, his gaze steady, unwavering. “Let me love you.”

The air rushes out of me, leaving a hollowness that’s somehow too full. It doesn’t ruin the moment—it shifts it, tilting everything on its axis.

Let me love you. Not I love you . It’s not a bold statement but a quiet offer. It’s not a declaration, but a request—a promise wrapped in permission, as if he’s offering his heart and waiting to see if I’ll take it.

I bow my head, letting the weight of his words sink in, their meaning settling deep. We keep swaying, his hold unyielding. The motion grounds me, even as my thoughts scatter in a hundred directions.

“I know this is sudden,” Chase continues. “So I’ll understand if you don’t have an answer for me.”

“Who doesn’t want to be loved?”

His eyes cut through every defense I have. “I’ve got a feeling you don’t.”

Silence stretches between us, but it’s not empty. It’s heavy, magnetic. I lean deeper into him, his breathing speaks to me. Yeah, I feel it—his love. But is it mine to take?

“Maybe I don’t,” I whisper.

“Let me love you, and you might just change your mind.”

I lift my gaze to his. “Well, you can try.”

“Is there a chance you’ll ever love me back, Honor?”

I close my eyes, letting the weight of his question settle in my chest. “I want to,” I admit.

His lips twitch into a faint smile. “That’s a good start.”

I draw back slightly, not to pull away but to see him fully. “Intentions, Chase, they’re like honeymoons—you’re on cloud nine, full of hope. But commitment? That’s an unbroken horse. You might tame it and go far, or it might throw you and leave you in pieces.”

His expression hardens. “I’m not scared of wild things,” he says. “Sometimes the tame ones betray you.”

I sigh, my resolve faltering. “Honeymoon. That’s all I can give you right now.”

He nods, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Then that’s what I’ll take.”

I hug him tighter, my arms wrapping around him like he’s the only solid thing in a world. Fear? Gone, like it never existed. I breathe deep against his chest as the jukebox sputters, the music fading into silence.

When I finally lift my head, he offers a small, lopsided smile. “Drink?”

“Please,” I say, letting him guide me off his feet and off the dance floor, back to the table.

“I’ll bring it to you.” He brushes a kiss against my temple before heading to the bar.

Across the bar, I spot her first—tall, blonde, with nails so manicured they could probably double as weapons. She leans in close to Chase, her laugh too loud, her hand grazing his arm like a cheap prostitute. My stomach tightens, and I’m not sure if it’s the whiskey or the sudden rush of something I don’t want to name.

Chase notices me watching and straightens immediately, brushing her hand off with an easy charm. “Oh, you don’t wanna do that,” he says, glancing my way. “That’s my girlfriend over there.”

She laughs, tossing her hair like it’s a performance. “You two were hilarious on the dance floor,” she says, but her tone changes, turning sly. “She’s got three left feet, doesn’t she?”

I’m out of my seat before I realize it, closing the distance between us. I don’t even have a plan—just this rising heat in my chest and a sudden urge to see how that dainty wrist of hers would feel twisted just a bit too far.

Chase steps in quickly, intercepting me before I can get too close. His body moves between us, his hand touching my arm. “Drinks are here,” he says, his tone casual. He motions toward our table, but I barely hear him.

Instead, I grab his shirt and pull him down, kissing him like I mean it—because I do. My fingers curl into the fabric as if holding on to him might steady the storm brewing inside me. When I finally let go, her presence has vanished, and I don’t bother looking to see where she went.

Chase raises an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Jealous much, Huckleberry?”

My face twists into a scowl. I’m not even sure which part of his question to tackle first—the jealousy or the Huckleberry.

I settle on the more urgent one. “Jealous? Not even a little.” I brush my thumb over my mouth. But the burn in my chest refuses to die down.

“It wasn’t about the three left feet, was it?” he teases, clearly enjoying himself.

My eyes roll before I can stop them. “All right, maybe a little. But don’t you dare read into it! And what’s with this Huckleberry thing, anyway?”

He laughs, flashing a deliberate point, like he’s nailed it. “Exactly that.” He follows it up with a few teasing jabs at me. “Rugged with a touch of sweet—or maybe the other way around, depending on your mood.”

“At least it’s original.” I exhale. “Better than the usual clichés, like ‘Honey.’”

“I’d never call you that.”

“Or ‘my dear,’” I keep at it.

He grins. “Well, in my head, you were always Huckleberry. But since that wasn’t quite appropriate yet, I figured ‘my dear’ wouldn’t offend you too much.”

I nudge him under the table with my foot, lighthearted but intentional.

Just as I think the whole jealousy topic is behind us, he grins, sing-song and insufferably playful. “You do love me.”

“Samson, don’t.” I shoot him a warning look, but it only makes him laugh harder.

We return to our table, and the smoky bourbon waiting for us helps ease the tension. The warmth of it spreads through me, but not as much as Chase’s grin still aimed my way.

“Are you sick of surprises yet?” he asks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

I raise an eyebrow. “Kind of.”

“All right then, two words for you.” He pauses for dramatic effect, his grin widening. “Santa Sophia.”

“Finally!” I say, sitting up straighter, hoping the place that’s been under wraps for so long just houses the two of us, no spectators, no third party. “What is it? Where is it?”

“It’s my boat,” he says, the pride in his voice unmistakable. “It used to be my dad’s. I sailed around the world with it after I left the Navy. Mom loves it too, but she’s happy to let us have it for a few days.”

A boat. Just us. My mind runs wild at the thought, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much it excites me. “Well then,” I say coolly, “surprise me.”

Chase stands and takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. His hands slide to my hips, holding me with an ease that feels natural, inevitable.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs, his lips grazing the curve of my ear. Then his mouth claims mine, slow and sure, a kiss that doesn’t ask—it declares.

By the time he pulls back, his eyes holding mine, I realize: this man isn’t just hoping I’ll love him—he’s showing me why I already might.