Page 28 of The One Timer

Not because I wouldn’t want to, at least on some level, but because it’s so impossible on so many levels.

I hastily put on my clothes, and quieter than the soothing sound of the surf outside his window, I slip out of his bedroom. Passing through the kitchen, I pause, biting down on my bottom lip and the urge to write a goodbye note.

But I can’t. I need to make this a clean break because I’m never going to see him again. I don’t know what he’ll think of me when he wakes, but it won’t matter because he and I were never meant to be more than a one-timer.

One night of bliss for my birthday celebration, which, as it turns out, will live in my memory forever—probably making the top ten. Hell, if I’m honest, last night and everything about Chase may end up being my top all-time cherished memories.

Because, face it, when will I ever meet another man so perfect, who has everything, from the body of a well-honed athlete, the face of an idol, and the heart of a saint? Shit. I am so crushing on him. I can’t wait for the light of day to splash some cold water on my crazy idolizing.

The realization that I need to get to work at the Whittier mansion in Louisburg Square in Boston’s charmed Beacon Hill in one hour and twenty-two minutes starts to cool me off. But not really.

Pushing myself forward, I shrug into my jacket and head for the door. Unable to resist, and risking him waking up to stop me any second, I take one more glance around the space and at the view of the Atlantic Ocean through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

When I spot the photo of us at Regina’s, I snatch it up and shove it in my purse before my conscience knows what I’m doing. Allowing a deep regretful sigh, I force myself to the door and open it just enough to let myself out. Then I close it as softly as a mouse peeing on cotton while I lose a little piece of my heart.

You see? This is what happens when you allow yourself even a small distraction.

Out in the hallway, I hurry to the stairwell, too impatient to wait for the elevator. As the reality of the day ahead takes over, I work on getting myself out of the tight pickle I’m in—not as tight or as pleasant as last night—but I have to escape back to my world unscathed, even if I’m not unchanged like Cinderella with my pumpkins expired. Or more like the pumpkin.

Luckily, I still have both shoes. As long as I can get back to Boston in time for work, Mrs. W will never know about last night, and Chase will never know who I am. It’s not like he’ll bother to look for me, let alone find me. Unless he pops into his grandma’s for a surprise visit while I’m there. Shit.

But it’s not like he’s ever visited his grandma in the three months I’ve been working there, so what are the chances?

And if he does decide to visit, I will find a way to avoid him, to hide. Why does that sound a lot like cowardice?

Shaking my head in denial as I reach the bottom of the stairs, I pull out my phone to get an Uber. It’s a long drive back to Boston, which will cost me dearly. Half my savings now that they’ve dwindled after I help Aunt Bea pay for Penny’s ball gown.

But I’m desperate to get back to Mrs. Whittier’s house before it’s too late. Pushing back at my overextended conscience, I refuse to feel guilty for one minute of last night.

After all, I’m allowed one night. Because it was only one night.

I instruct the Uber driver to drop me a block from the Whittier house, just outside the square. Looking down at my outfit, I realize I miscalculated my escape slightly. I should have left myself enough time to go home first to change clothes. Shit.

I can’t let Mrs. Whittier see me wearing the Whalers T-shirt with Chase’s number on it, so I duck into a dip in the hedges and slip it off. That leaves me wearing the exact same thing I wore yesterday—the old Gans for Tires T-shirt. There’s only one thing I can do to hide it—wear the PCA—Personal Care Assistant—uniform coat that I was originally given by the agency for the job.

It’s still in the mudroom, and if I’m quiet and quick, I can throw it on before Mrs. W notices I’ve arrived.

The only problem with that plan is that Mrs. W hated the uniform and asked me not to wear it within one week of my start. Then, she promptly hired me away from the agency at double the hourly wage I was getting. Shit. I don’t want to offend her.

Hurrying along the street, I duck into the back alley where the garage, patio, and kitchen entrance is located. By the time I get to the back door, I’m still undecided about what to do, but I turn the key in the door, take a deep breath, and step inside.

Mrs. W is standing two feet from me in the mudroom, coffee in hand, as if she were waiting for me.

“Good morning, Emery. Did you have a good birthday celebration?” She smiles, and I wonder if she knows.

But that’s impossible, right? Shit.

Chapter Nine

CHASE

As I wake, the aches and pains of yesterday’s game come to life, and something else, a contented feeling of well-being. The sunrise begins to glow through my windows, though it feels like I’m basking in a pool of golden energy, buttery and soothing.

Then, my memory blooms fully as I take in the sweet scent of Emery and our love-making. I grin as I reach to my side for…turning to find…nothing. Sitting up, I glance around my bedroom and to the wide-open bathroom door and listen. Silence.

She’s gone.

Fuck. And like the nasty snap of a broken bone, the feeling of well-being is destroyed. Jumping from the bed, I stalk around the room, retrieving clothes and looking for some sign of her, a note maybe, or hell, a forgotten sneaker that fell off in her haste to run away.