In Deep: Chase & Emma (All In Book 1) Read online

  IN DEEP

  by callie harper

  Copyright © 2016 Callie Harper

  Cover Design by Perfect Pear Creative

  All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations used for review. If you have not purchased this book or received a copy from the author, you are reading a pirated book.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.

  This book contains mature content, including graphic sex. Please do not continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of content is disturbing to you.

  CALLIE HARPER’S BOOKS

  The Beg For It Series

  Note: these standalone novels

  can be read in any order

  Book 1: Unleashed (Declan & Kara)

  Book 2: Undone (Ash & Ana)

  Book 3: Untamed (Heath & Violet)

  Book 4: Unbelievable (Colt & Caroline)

  Book 5: Undeniable (Dom & Gigi)

  The All In Series

  Book 1: In Deep (Chase & Emma)

  Off Limits: A Stepbrother MMA Romance

  CHAPTER 1

  Emma

  I’d thought I was a pretty experienced physical and massage therapist. I’d earned my dual degrees and worked full time for a few years now. I’d dealt with a wide range of clients. I thought I’d seen it all.

  I was wrong.

  An Olympic swimmer’s body was next level, with defined muscle everywhere you looked and huge, broad shoulders tapering down into an insane V. Abs to make Superman cry with envy. Long, strong thighs and slim hips which were currently wrapped in nothing but a tiny white towel.

  “Mrph!” I greeted my new client. I’d meant to say “hello” but the words weren’t forming right.

  He stood there, all six foot three glorious inches of him, scrutinizing me. We were going to be spending a lot of time together over the next four weeks, leading up to and then through the Olympic Games in Rio. I would be responsible for keeping him injury-free, relaxed and ready to push himself to the extreme physical limit.

  I just hadn’t planned on him being so freaking hot.

  “You’re my physical therapist?” His head tilted slightly to the side, his brow furrowed. He looked confused by my role.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. I’m Emma Nelson.” I stuck out my hand with the intent to establish professional control over the situation. But then he slowly wrapped his large, warm hand around mine. I honestly had to lean a bit against the countertop at my side. Casually, I hoped. Swooning was not in the guidebook of establishing good client rapport.

  I drew my hand away, looking down, trying to focus. Deep breaths. I could do this. I’d better be able to do this. I’d spent the better part of the past six months wrangling for this job. Everyone and their cousin wanted to be a part of the Olympic Games. It was the ultimate athletic competition. Nothing could match the excitement, the dizzying emotional highs and the triumphs over incredible obstacles. I’d been a fan my whole life. Now I had the chance to actually be right in the middle of it, working side-by-side with one of the world’s most famous athletes in peak physical condition, rumored to win up to nine medals in the games. That was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  And it wouldn’t just be a huge break for me as a therapist. It would also take my blog to the next level. My best friend Tori and I had started it years ago, back when we were in high school: Scoop’d. We told stories, interesting ones about interesting people. She specialized in the trashy ones that, I’ll admit, brought in the readers. I liked the feature pieces, the focus stories on good people doing good deeds. You could say our blog showcased the best and the worst of people. Together, it worked, and our little endeavor now had about 250,000 followers.

  Tori dreamed of quitting her day job and blogging for a living, and I could see the appeal. Set your own hours, work from home in your PJs, choose your stories and write them however you wanted. I liked working as a physical therapist, but when she talked about it, I could get caught up in the fantasy.

  We both agreed—covering the Olympics could be our tipping point. If we did it right, it would launch us over the top. We were going to cover the games, and we were going to do it in a way no one could match, from the inside out. Tori had gotten herself a job in PR, so she’d have access to all of the athletes at all hours. With her social butterfly personality, she’d be in on all the dirt in no time.

  And me? I was going to go for the gold. The story everyone wanted. The scoop on swimmer Chase Carter, the gorgeous, mysterious favorite to win again and again in Rio.

  Everyone knew the rough sketch of his backstory. At 14, already a promising competitive swimmer, Chase had almost drowned in a boating accident. But he’d overcome the setback, training relentlessly, driven toward one goal. He’d won a silver and a bronze at just 18 in 2008. In 2012, when he’d been expected to ascend to the throne, he’d had to sit out the London Olympics due to an injury. Now, at 26, he was ready.

  But how had he almost drowned? Rumors abounded. I’d heard one about drunken partying, another about him getting into a nasty, violent fight with a friend. What had really happened that night on the boat? And why had Chase returned to swimming with such a vengeance, spending hours in the pool every day enduring legendary, punishingly long and intense workouts, after having nearly died in the water?

  With Chase poised to win big, I wanted to find out the whole truth. The truth he never gave interviews about, had never shared with anyone else. We’d capture the ultimate human interest story, the boy who almost drowned and then grew up to become an Olympic gold medalist. Who didn’t want in on that? We’d have an audience of millions if I pulled it off.

  I had four weeks to scoop Chase Carter. This week we’d be at the U.S. Olympic team’s session in San Antonio, before traveling to the Georgia Tech Aquatic Center in Atlanta. Then Rio, baby. And during those four weeks I’d take care of him, of course. He was a national treasure, practically able to fly through the water. I’d do my best as a licensed and trained massage therapist to help him achieve his Olympic dreams and make history.

  But also, along the way, I would try to get to know him. Befriend him, even possibly gain his trust. I wanted to learn his secrets, on or off the record. I didn’t want to do anything capital-W Wrong, like lie to him about my real identity to get under his tough exterior and learn the real story. But desperate times required desperate measures.

  Chase Carter didn’t like reporters. He didn’t do interviews, stayed notoriously tight-lipped during team press conferences. He focused on his swimming and swimming alone. He couldn’t help it that most of the world’s population had a massive crush on him and treated him like a rock star. At the last team press conference, a woman had tossed him her bra. He’d watched it fall to the floor, then looked up with a coolly arched eyebrow. That photo of him had made it onto a whole lot of covers and front pages.

  It only served to make people more wild about him. The unattainable, inscrutable, superhuman athlete Chase Carter. Standing before me in a tiny towel awaiting a full-body massage. Right.

  “Why don’t we discuss your preferences and past injuries,” I said, tapping a stack of papers on the countertop as if I needed to do it. The papers had nothing to do with him. I just needed a prop, something to do with my hands instead of fanning myself.

  “Didn’t my coaches provide you with my health history? There’s a file ab
out this big.” He gestured with his large hands. It made me wonder what else might be that big.

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat. Bad girl. “I’ve reviewed your files. I know your health history. But I also like to get to know my clients. Especially ones I’ll be working with every day for the next month.”

  We looked at each other, the strange feeling of a face-off between us. Why did it seem like he was having reservations about me as his physical therapist? I must just feel paranoid. I had all the credentials and plenty of experience. I knew I could do this job well.

  “You want to know my preferences?” he asked, and I swear his voice dropped a notch lower. Yes, I did want to know how he liked it. His massage and more. His eyes were such an incredible shade of vivid blue, the type of color you saw on the cover of a magazine and had to wonder if the shot had been air-brushed. Meeting him in person, it turned out he really did have eyes the color of an aquamarine tropical sea.

  “I like it hard,” he said. I knew he was talking about the type of hand pressure he preferred in massages, but my breath caught in my throat. “I don’t like it light and gentle. You have to know how to get in deep.”

  “Yes!” I tugged at my tank top, fidgeting. “Of course. I specialize in sports massage, so…”

  I clapped my hands together. The sound echoed in the room. I’d never felt so awkward with a client. And he hadn’t even taken off his towel yet. That itty-bitty white thing he had wrapped around his completely naked, utterly perfect body.

  I turned to straighten out the sheet on the massage table, giving myself a talking to. I tried to picture my toughest teacher in one of my degree programs. She’d lectured all of us sternly about the importance of professionalism in client-therapist relationships.

  I tried to picture Tori warning me that I had the worst instincts when it came to men. And she had evidence to support her claim. Who’d trusted not one but two sleezeballs sleeping around behind her back? Who’d lent money to her hustler boyfriend always chasing the next big thing that never materialized? That would be me, guilty on all counts. You’d think I would have learned by now. When everything in me said, “Wow, this guy seems amazing!” that was exactly when I should run in the other direction.

  But I didn’t run. I couldn’t. I’d been hired to work with Chase every day of the next four weeks. More than that, I didn’t want to run. I might try to remind myself of the many reasons I should not get pulled in by Chase Carter, the man, the myth, the legend. But all I could picture was Chase Carter’s glorious body, about to be bared completely for me to rub from head to toe.

  CHAPTER 2

  Chase

  I left the towel on.

  I couldn’t tell you how many times I’d stripped down completely in front of strangers. When your body performed like mine, you were used to being treated like a racehorse. Doctors measured your heart and lung function, physical therapists poked and prodded at you, coaches give you pointers and corrections even while you stood buck naked in the locker room. Not to mention the tiny swim briefs I sported all of the time. Modesty was not my middle name.

  But I also wasn’t used to sporting random, massive wood. I was 26, not 16. The time of inappropriate sprung-into-action moments had passed. Except obviously it hadn’t. Because when I walked into the physical therapy room at the swim center and saw her standing there, I stood right up at attention, too.

  She wasn’t wearing anything suggestive, not like some of the fans I attracted. Even then, I was notoriously good at blocking out temptation. You didn’t get to the top of your game by getting easily distracted. If I stopped and got a phone number every time a woman flashed some cleavage at me, I’d never even get into the pool.

  Emma wasn’t showing any cleavage. But I’d like to see it. She wore a simple white tank top, fitted enough so I could see she was slim and fit. I wondered what she did to workout. She didn’t have the classic swimmer’s build, with broad, powerful shoulders. She looked petite, slender and lithe. A runner, I’d bet.

  But I didn’t ask her. I kept to myself a lot of the time, mostly out of habit. But there was also logistical reality. We had a constantly circulating crew of professionals working with our team. It simply didn’t make sense to strike up conversations all the time with every person I met, especially when I knew they’d likely be right on out the revolving door again within days or weeks. It was true, I’d earned my reputation as driven and relentlessly focused. I devoted my energy, all of it, toward one goal and one goal alone: gold.

  Which was why I found it strange that I hesitated before climbing onto the massage table to ask, “How long have you been working here?” I was sure team management had hired only the best to work with us. Three weeks before the games began, we now needed a crew who’d be with us every step of the way, traveling with us, managing the final countdown. But there was something hesitant, maybe a bit shy in her manner.

  “I don’t work here in Texas,” she clarified. “I’m from Florida. Your manager hired me for the next month.” Then she straightened up, shoulders back, posture erect. Like something else under my towel.

  “But I assure you,” she continued. “I’m fully qualified. I’ve been a licensed physical therapist for three years and now have my license for sports massage therapy, too. I’ve worked with a lot of athletes. I’m going to make sure you’re ready for the games.”

  “Is that right?” I cocked an eyebrow, feeling the impulse to tease her a little. There was something sweet about her attempt to reassure me, as if she were trying to reassure herself as well. I didn’t doubt her credentials. What I doubted was my ability to stay cool, removed and professional while she put her hands all over me.

  “Absolutely.” She nodded her head, so serious. I almost expected a military-style salute.

  “So I can just put up my feet and relax for the next few weeks? No more workouts? You’ve got it covered?”

  Her eyes widened, taking me seriously for a moment, before her face relaxed into a smile. She had toffee-colored hair with all sorts of sunshiny highlights blending in, plus golden flecks in her eyes.

  “Glad to know I’m in good hands.” I smiled back at her. “All right, then.” I climbed up onto the table, lying on my stomach. It seemed like the least X-rated option.

  “We only have a half-hour today, so would you like me to focus on your back and shoulders?”

  I grunted my “yes” as she placed her hands at the center of my back, starting with slow strokes.

  “I’ll give you medium pressure to begin, and you tell me how much more to give. I want to get to know exactly how you like it.”

  That sounded good to me. I closed my eyes and tried to release my tension. All the pressure, the years of training, the eyes on me, all leading up to eight days in Rio. Nine events, five individual plus four relays. I wouldn’t let the thought of failure enter into my mind. I could see it all playing out exactly as planned. I ran it like a video in my mind, before I swam, before I slept, on a constant loop, visualizing my success. Always on, always going, always targeted toward my goal.

  I groaned as she kneaded the tired, sore muscles of my upper back. My rhomboid, deltoid, trapezius, how well I knew them all. And she seemed to know them intimately as well, her hands intuitively seeking out all of my aching spots, digging in with exactly the right touch to give me release.

  “More,” I groaned, a few times, guiding her, letting her know exactly how I wanted it. She was good at taking direction. She seemed to know exactly what I needed.

  Over the years, I’d actually had to send some physical therapists packing, usually due to their annoyingly whisper-light touch, but sometimes because they verged on re-injuring me with rough, misguided pressure. A good physical therapist was part art, part science. They needed all the training, the understanding of anatomy and techniques. But they also needed the skill to read their clients, being guided by not only verbal instructions but physical cues.

  Emma fell into sync with me instantly, seamlessly, seemingl
y without effort. I could feel myself relaxing with her, giving myself over to her ministrations, letting my mind go free as she pressed and stroked, kneaded and coaxed the pain and tension from my overworked limbs.

  “OK, that’s all we have time for today,” she said what had to have been only five minutes after she’d began.

  “Yeah?” I asked, uncharacteristically disoriented. I didn’t usually lose track of time. Time, down to the fraction of a second, governed my life.

  “Sorry, tomorrow we have 45 minutes. But today I’m doing sessions with some other members of your team.”

  “No.” The word came out before I realized what I was saying. I hadn’t planned on it, but I knew instantly I did not want those other sessions to happen.

  “What?” she asked, glancing at me, confused. I sat up, keeping my towel wrapped around my hips as I looked down into her eyes.

  “Tell me everyone you’re supposed to be working with.” I knew I could be commanding. Authoritative. Type-A. Show me a top-tier athlete with a passive personality. There weren’t many, and I certainly wasn’t one of them.

  “Um…” After a last, hesitant glance at me, she grabbed a clipboard with her schedule. I took it from her and looked down the roster.

  Chris, I knew it. He was supposed to be on this table next. And Matt. No goddamned way. They were my teammates and like brothers to me, but they fucked their way through women like it was their job. They’d get one look at Emma and it would be all over. They’d be turning on the charm, conning her like snake oil salesmen, doing anything and everything to get inside her pants.

  Fitted yoga pants, to be exact, hugging her lithe, shapely legs. Her round, tight ass. Damn it. I moved the clipboard down into a more secure location, covering up like a high school kid with a math textbook.

  “I’m going to need you a lot more than planned.” I stood, towering over her, close enough I could tell she’d drawn in her breath. Did I startle her? Scare her a little? Or something else? I couldn’t read her, but I wanted to.