Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,10
rain on the roof is the persistent buzzing of Green Eyes’ cellphone, which he pointedly ignores after one short glance at the screen. Whoever’s calling seems to piss him off — a dark scowl contorts his face as he shoves the cell roughly back inside his pocket without bothering to answer.
I shoot a furtive glance at him, fighting off a blush. He’s the embodiment of composure; I’m the epitome of chaos. My hair is dripping steadily, soaking the fabric of his jacket. There’s a legitimate puddle forming beneath me on the leather seats. I don’t even want to know what my makeup looks like, at this point – if there’s any left on my face, that is.
“God, I’m a mess,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m really sorry, I’m probably ruining your seats…”
“Gemma.” His voice is steady. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Chrissy and Mark are going to kill me when I show up like this, still pissed off and embarrassed. It’s going to stress them out… which is just about the last thing they need, right now. Chrissy’s pregnant and it’s sort of high risk, I guess — bed rest, the whole shebang. Let’s just say, they’ve got enough to worry about, without adding my drama to the list.” I sigh, guilt stirring in my gut. “Am I the worst friend ever for imposing on them? ”
He pauses for a beat, staring at me like I’ve just asked him to run naked through the streets of Boston.
“Never mind,” I mutter. “You don’t have to answer that. I’m an idiot.”
His brow creases in confusion. “What?”
“The way you’re staring at me…” I shake my head and trail off. “Sorry, just ignore me.”
Comprehension flares in his eyes. “I’m not staring because you’re an idiot; I’m staring because in the last hour, you’ve been pushed around and insulted by that asshole—“ His jaw clenches. “—you’re soaked to the bone, shivering with cold, and stuck in a car with someone you barely know…. Most people would be happy to impose on their friends, after the night you’ve had. But you’re more concerned with stressing them out than making yourself comfortable.” His eyes are fixed on my face in such an intent study, I fight the urge to squirm in my seat, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I’m staring because you surprised me, and people don’t often do that.”
I don’t say anything; I just stare back at him, at a loss for words.
“And, for the record,” he adds, his voice dropping lower, “I don’t think I’m capable of ignoring someone like you. Anyone who does… well, they’re either blind or stupid.”
“Oh,” I whisper, shocked and embarrassed by his words.
Without looking away, he calls to the driver. “Evan?”
“Sir?”
“Change of plans. Take us in a loop, along the river. We’re going to give Gemma a little time to dry out, before dropping her off.”
“Yes, sir,” Evan says, steering the car into the exit lane. Seconds later, he pushes a button that triggers the partition between the front and back seats, to give us some privacy.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper, once we’re alone. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your night.”
“Not really,” he says, shrugging.
“Well… thanks.”
“It’s no problem.”
“I don’t even know your name,” I say, as my eyes move over his features.
His lips twitch, as though he finds that news vastly entertaining. “I know.”
“And, from your expression, I’m guessing I should know your name?”
He shrugs, not giving anything away.
“You’ve got courtside season tickets and a chauffeur. Only important people have chauffeurs – there’s a rule about it, somewhere.”
“Uh huh.” He grins.
I narrow my eyes on him. “So, who are you?”
“Who do you think I am?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” I sigh. “Give me a hint.”
He shakes his head, amused.
“Oh, fine!” I grumble, staring at him. “I’ll guess. Even though I’m terrible at this stuff.”
He chuckles softly again, and the sound makes me smile despite myself. Lifting one hand to stroke my chin, I adopt an expression of deep contemplation and pin him with a narrow-eyed stare. My eyes scan his jeans and t-shirt — which, at first glance appeared casual but after another look are clearly well made, likely designer — then move to the watch at his wrist, an expensive-looking silver Rolex that gleams even in the car’s low lighting.
Hmmm.
“Well, you’re attractive in a clean-cut, rich-dude kind of way,” I say, which makes his lips twitch again. “Not rough enough around the edges to be a rock