His smirk causes every part of me to tingle in the cold water. “Like skinny-dipping?”
At his rough murmur, my nipples pebble and heat rushes between my legs. He causes that response with just the skim of his eyes, the velvet reach of his voice, when he hasn’t even lifted a finger to touch me.
“Like skinny-dipping,” I confirm with a bemused smile, trying my best to ignore the sensations he raises in me. “I guess I’ve always been afraid to take risks. I like to take adventures in my imagination and in stories, not for real. It feels safer that way. My mom took too many risks. I became her opposite. And when my grandmother got sick when I was in high school, it reinforced all my natural tendencies to retreat from life.”
I tilt my head back, letting myself just feel. The air on my face, the heat of my body beneath the water, the exquisite vulnerability of baring myself in more ways than one. “Have you ever felt like you’ve been sleepwalking through life?” I ask softly. “And worry that if you don’t wake up, ten years will have gone by and you won’t have much to show for it?”
When I turn back to Chase, he’s watching me with an intense look I can’t decipher. “It’s probably just me. I mean, you’ve obviously got things figured out.”
“No, I know exactly how that feels.”
“Really?”
He gives me a ghost of a smile. “I’m human. Not some robot. I have feelings. Mostly I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere.”
“But everyone wants to be around you,” I say, backing away a little. It’s easier to concentrate on his words, easier to ignore the ever present pull I feel toward him, when there’s more space between us.
He shakes his head. “People only want their projected image of me. The real me would disappoint them. They want the red-carpet version, but that’s far from the reality.”
“What’s reality?”
“The reality is that I’m not so different from you. I stay home, probably way too much. I know you’re going to roll your eyes at me when I say this, but I don’t like attention.”
I snort. “Yeah, right.”
“No, really. I didn’t get into this career because I wanted fame. I fell into it because I needed money.”
“Well, what makes you stay? I imagine you have all the money you need now.”
“I love telling a story, giving people something to connect to, somewhere to escape for a few hours.” He smiles. “Don’t get me wrong. I like the money. I just hate the fame that comes with it.”
“Do you ever think about doing something behind the scenes, like directing?”
“Maybe. But in this industry, people put you in a box and don’t want you to step out of it.” He studies me. “I guess I’m like you. I need to step out of my comfort zone.”
“You should, Chase. You can do anything you want. If you choose.”
“I can say the same about you.”
I sigh. “Lately, I’ve been thinking about my choices. It’s like I’m scared to move on and find a life of my own. I live in my childhood home, which I love, but still. I’ve worked the same job since high school. I went to college just ten minutes away. And I write books that I’m too afraid to send to an agent or publisher. I’m hiding away from anything that truly makes me feel alive, anything that feels scary. That’s what these risks are about.”
“Did you always want to be a writer?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I started writing the year my mom died. It was a distraction, I guess. And catharsis.”
“What happened to your mom?” he asks. “You’ve never said.” And then he shakes his head. “Is that too personal?”
“A car accident.”
“I’m so sorry.”
I don’t talk about my mom. But something about the way he’s looking at me, as if he sees and accepts all of me, releases my words.
“My mom loved driving. She drank in the morning while she was writing. Said it helped her process, and then she’d go on these long drives, drunk. Sometimes, when she did, she’d take me. And when she did, she thought everything I did was wrong. I was too quiet. Too boring. Too shy.” My smile is bittersweet. “You should have seen her. She was brilliant. She had red hair and this magnetic personality. And she was a famous writer.”
I slant Chase a look. “You would know her if I tell you her name.” I laugh, but it’s a joyless sound. “She won all sorts of awards for her first book, a memoir about how much being a mom sucked. The critics loved it. And they loved her. Called her bold and honest. Meanwhile, I was mostly raised by Nanna.