Chasing Frost by Isabel Jolie
Twenty
Sadie
A heavy, warm body presses on top of mine, comforting and cozy. I snuggle back against the heat source. A hotel room, Cedar Falls, the wedding, last night. Chase. I’m not wearing clothes, and while my naked back is to his front, without visual proof, there’s strong evidence he’s not wearing any clothes either.
The pleasant warmth his body emanates increases to the intensity of a furnace. I inch forward to separate us.
Bright golden light breaks through the edges of the drapes, providing little hint as to time. We’re all supposed to meet downstairs at ten for breakfast, then we’ll head home at, I suppose, whatever time we make it to the tarmac. The hotel room’s digital clock can’t be seen from the pillow level, but I always wake early. We should have plenty of time before we need to meet the others.
I lie still on my pillow, not wanting to wake Chase. One arm is draped over my waist, keeping me near. This warm intimacy is what I’ve been craving for a long while. Not just physical intimacy, but someone to depend on, to be close to.
When I completed my paperwork for my apartment lease, it asked for an emergency contact. Why, I’m not sure. I suppose they need a number to call if they find a body. I listed my sister’s number, and the twenty-three-year-old squinted and said, “That’s international.” She pushed the paper back to me. “It’s much smarter to have someone local.”
Yes, I moved to a new city, and most people in my situation wouldn’t have a local emergency contact either. But here’s the thing. I lived in D.C. for years and had one person I counted as a friend I could use as an emergency contact. One.
Is that what last night was about? Me being lonely? Did all it take is some alcohol and a sweet wedding for me to throw my inhibitions out the door and forget I’m on an assignment? Once my carefully constructed wall came down, I practically threw myself at Chase.
He doesn’t know my real name. There’s a good chance I’ll be off the case tomorrow, or at least off UC, and then what? I admit to my boss I let myself get involved with the prime suspect? My heartrate quickens as the reality of what I’ve done bears down on me.
Yes, we cleared him. And he’s a good guy. But I’m on a job. He’s not even my type. I tend to surround myself with rule followers, Type A competitive leaders. Not t-shirt wearing nonconformists.
Chase’s top priority is to enjoy life, and I have to admit, it’s a draw and completely different from anyone I’ve known, but that doesn’t make any of this right. Breathe. It doesn’t matter. Chase is not something I need to wrap my head around. Chase’s priority is to enjoy life, and as such, he’ll be on to his next conquest within a week. When I don’t show up at the office, he probably won’t notice because he’ll be actively avoiding me after our hook-up. At least, that’s the behavior I predict, if I know his type. And I think I do.
Last night was fun. A release that I needed. The sexual tension between Chase and me had been escalating, and that back yard wedding was so lovely. I bet every couple there got back home and did…well, things. Probably more than once, just like Chase and me.
I hope this hotel washes the comforters that lie on these beds between guests because ours needs a good wash. And these sheets, let’s just say there’s UV light evidence that we rejoined during the night, making love. Making love? It might’ve felt like that, but it can’t be that when he doesn’t even know my name.
Chase’s thumb brushes my nipple, and the areola swells. Gentle kisses trail my shoulder.
“Morning, sexy.”
Goosebumps rise on my arms, and my spine tingles. He presses his back against mine, and a certain part of his anatomy I came to know last night presses against me, letting me know he’s now fully awake. One last time…tempting but probably not smart.
I push myself up and sling my legs over the side of the bed. The blaring red numbers of the digital clock on the bedside table read 9:02.
“It’s nine.” Shocking. Never do I ever sleep that late.
Chase leans back on the pillow, hands behind his head, smug. “We didn’t sleep much last night.” He reaches out for me, trailing his fingers along my back. “Why don’t you slip back in bed, sexy?” I have this vision of him using an adaptation of that line on one of the scantily clad women at his sex club, and I shiver. There’s something about the way he says it that makes me feel like it’s a line he’s used a thousand times.
My mouth feels rancid, and a dull pain resides in my frontal lobe. I need water, toothpaste, and a shower, stat. My dress from last night hangs from a lampshade on the dresser, his pants are flung over a chair across from the bed, and his shirt lies in a crumpled pile on the floor. I reach for it, as it’s closest, then change my mind. He’s seen everything.
Naked, I walk with determination to the bathroom. “I need a shower.”
“Would you like company?”
The shower is a narrow bathtub with an overhead nozzle and a plastic shower curtain with a hint of mildew along the bottom edge. I almost fell yesterday on the slick porcelain surface. Two people would be flat out dangerous.
“No, thanks. I won’t be long.” That’s what I say, but it’s almost thirty minutes later when I emerge, fully scrubbed clean. He’s sleeping peacefully on his back, and the comforter rests along his waist. I stop and stare at his athletic chest and his abs and the dark curly hair scattered over his pecs and the narrow happy trail leading down.
“Come back to bed?”
His deep voice startles me, and I almost drop the towel. I breathe a calming exhale, then head with purpose to my suitcase.
“Shower’s yours,” I say with my back to him and my head down, busy pulling out my outfit for the day.
The bathroom door shuts, and the sound of the lock clicks.
I dress quickly in case he comes back out, run a brush through my hair, and peer into the dresser mirror to swipe on some blush and cream eyeshadow. I’ve repacked my suitcase, except for my toothbrush I left in the bathroom. He has yet to turn on the shower.
I gather his clothes from around the room, fold them neatly on the edge of the bed, and toss the throw pillows back in place. The toilet flushes, then the sink runs. He’s probably brushing his teeth. He’s been in there ten minutes and has yet to turn on the shower. We’re going to be late meeting everyone.
I sit in a chair and open my handbag. I check my BB&E phone and have zero emails. The shower finally sounds, and I pull out my personal cell. My finger hovers over Jemma’s name, my DC emergency contact. We met during basic field training, then went our separate ways. She went on to be an intelligence analyst. With my MBA and CPA, I could have gone on to be a forensic accountant. Could have skipped basic field training. But that wasn’t my dream. No, I wanted special agent. And here I am.
Chase’s voice sounds from the shower as he sings a song I don’t recognize. He sings in the shower. I tap Jemma’s name.
She answers, out of breath, huffing loudly into the phone. “Hotshot!” she screams. Back at Quantico, some of the guys came up with the name, but she’s the only one who still uses it.
“Squirrel,” I say back, mainly because I know she hates her Quantico nickname, and it’s my passive-aggressive way of punching her back.
“How’s New York?” She’s still huffing into the phone.
“Why are you breathing so hard?”
“Sunday morning long run. Thank god you interrupted it.” I smile. Jemma and I bonded during the physical training at Quantico. It’s safe to say we both run out of necessity. The shower drones on, but I know I don’t have much time.
“I screwed up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had sex with a suspect.”
“You’re UC?” Her tone drops an octave, and I imagine she’s separated herself from any other humans on her jogging path, possibly standing away from the trail near trees.
“Yes. For this assignment.”
“Is he gonna do jail time?”
“No. We’ve cleared him. He’s no longer a suspect. But he doesn’t know—”
“That you’re FBI?”
“Right.”
“Well, he’ll be shocked when you tell him, but then after that, he’s just gonna think you’re a badass.”
“Jemma, I don’t know what I’m doing.” I stare at the two queen beds, one rumpled and half-done, one well made.
“You sound like you’re referring to more than a guy you hooked up with.”
“I am.”
“Special Agent not cracked up to be what you thought it would be?”
“It is, but it isn’t.”
“How long have you been UC?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“You realize you moved to a new city and went undercover, all at the same time. I’m gonna guess you’re feeling lonely.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “And hence the bad decisions.”
“Was the sex bad?”
I grin, reflecting on my multiple Os. “No. It was good. Bangin’, as my university roommate used to say.”
“Then not a bad decision.”
The water turns off, but Chase continues belting out the song I’ve never heard before.
“I gotta go.”
“Hey, remember, there are lots of career options within the FBI. UC might not be your thing. Call me tonight, okay?”
I end the call. Leave it to Jemma to focus solely on work. Is work what has me down? Is she right? Is it the drain of being UC twenty-four-seven for the last couple of weeks that’s affecting me? Or is that I am on assignment and did something that’s unthinkable? My chest tightens. When I get home, I’ll call Hopkins. I’ll probably be off the case. This will be a mistake no one needs to know about.
I zip the interior pocket of my pocketbook, effectively hiding my personal phone, just as the lock clicks and the bathroom door opens. A freshly shaven, baby-faced Chase greets me with a white bathroom towel wrapped below his trim six pack.
He points an index finger at his mouth. “Freshly brushed, minty fresh. Get over here.”
He wiggles his index finger, telling me to come to him. I shake my head, more at me because instead of telling him last night shouldn’t have happened, like I should do, I rise and in three steps stand before him.
He bends and gives me a good morning kiss that has me pressing against his crotch and lifting my ankle in the air like some starlet in a 1940s film. A part of me does want to throw him back on the bed for a repeat of last night, but no.
“We’re supposed to meet everyone in five minutes.” I point at my wrist to emphasize and scold.
He tilts his head, smirks, and wiggles his thick eyebrows. “We can be late.” He pinches me. “I can be quick.”
I laugh. “I don’t do late. Hurry.” I push him to his suitcase and slip into the bathroom to grab my toiletries and commence the search for any lost items before zipping up my suitcase.
Within three minutes, he’s dressed, and his suitcase is zipped. I open the door to the hotel room, and he wraps an arm around me and pulls me back for another kiss. It’s a slow, sweet, minty kiss.
“What was that?”
“I just like kissing you.” He opens the door wide for me.
When I reach down for my suitcase, he swats my ass playfully and says, “I’ve got it. Go, Miss Punctual.”
We’re the first ones down and have almost completely finished eating before anyone else joins us. The situation does not go unnoticed by Chase.
The jet ride back is quiet, almost subdued. We’re coupled off the whole way back, and somehow, I fall asleep only to be woken by a soft kiss.
“We’re home.”
He’s been sweet and thoughtful all morning. Not the way I would’ve thought he’d be after a conquest. I shrug it off as him being around all his friends, and there not being any other single ladies in the vicinity. I’ve gone with the flow and held his hand, and snuggled against him on the plane, enjoying his touch and proximity, with full knowledge it will come screeching to a halt soon. Either I’ll never see him again because I’ll be pulled off the case, or he’s going to put distance between us at the office so I don’t mistake what’s going on between us as more. I recognize his behavioral traits, or in FBI speak, his profile. His friends already said as much.
When the car service pulls up to my apartment, Chase jumps out before the driver and picks up my suitcase and meets me on the sidewalk. He follows me to my apartment building’s door and brushes his thumb across my lower lip. The way he looks at me, the way he touches me, everything says he’s genuinely into me. He could win an Oscar.
“I had a good time this weekend. A great time.”
“I did, too.” It’s the truth.
“I have tickets to a show Tuesday night. Would you like to go with me?”
“What kind of show?”
“It’s a DJ. Tickets came through work, so it’s possible some clients might be with us. But I have extras. Thought I might ask some of this crew too if you’re up for it. If you like hanging with them.” He pulls me close, running his fingers through my short hair before tucking it behind my ear. “I like hanging with you. I want to see you again. Soon.”
It’s ridiculous, but my heart speeds along as if this is real. And this is where it’s all confusing and probably why I have up and down emotions whirling inside because when I tell him I want to see him, too, it’s the truth.