Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,11
star. Arrogant, but not in that loves-his-own-reflection way that models and actors have.”
He laughs outright, when I say that. “I thought you were an artist, not a shrink.”
“People watching is kind of my thing,” I say, grinning. “Well, that and cannoli from Maria’s in the North End. Those are also my thing.”
His eyes join in the smile, crinkling at the corners. “I think Maria’s cannoli are everyone’s thing.”
“Ah, so he likes Italian… is that a clue? Oh! I’ve got it – you’re a mob boss.”
“No.” His grin gets wider. “Though I probably wouldn’t admit to it, if I was.”
“Okay…. You’re a news anchor!”
“Try again.”
“You’re the mayor!”
“You don’t know what the mayor of Boston looks like?”
“Shut up.” My cheeks heat. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No, I’m enjoying your guesses.”
“Okay.” Fighting off a laugh, I force my face back into a serious expression. “You don’t have a scruffy beard, so you can’t be a Red Sox player, and while you’ve got some nice muscle action going on there—” I gesture vaguely at his chest and abdominal area. “—you don’t look like a Patriots linebacker, that’s for damn sure.”
“Are you insulting my manhood?”
“Only a little, tiny bit.” I laugh. “So, I’m guessing….”
“The anticipation is killing me,” he says drolly.
I shoot him a look. “You’re either a Kennedy, one of the Wahlberg boys, or Tom Brady’s secret younger brother.”
“Wow,” he says, his eyes wide.
I feel my heartbeat pick up speed. Am I actually right?
That never happens!
“What?” I ask breathily.
He snorts. “You’re an absolutely terrible guesser.”
“Hey!” I protest, offended. “It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”
“It’s all right, I won’t hold it against you.”
“How benevolent of you,” I mutter sarcastically. “I bet you can’t do better.”
His eyes gleam. “You’re an artist.”
“That’s cheating!” I protest. “You overheard Ralph trashing my paintings at the game.”
A dark look moves over his face when I mention this. “True enough, but I would’ve known you were an artist anyway.”
“How?”
“You’ve got paint splatters on your shoes and there’s a smear of green by your left elbow.”
Oh, great. That’s not embarrassing, or anything.
“Damn.”
He laughs. “Do you do that around everyone, or just me?”
“Do what?”
“Blush like that.”
My cheeks get even redder. “Oh, around everyone,” I lie shamelessly.
His grin gets bigger, like he knows I’m full of shit. “Uh huh.”
“You know, I think I’m feeling better,” I say decidedly, folding my arms across my chest. “You can take me to Chrissy’s, now.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s cute as hell.” He leans closer and my stomach clenches in response. “Most women I meet are so busy being sophisticated, they forget to be real.”
I stare at him. “Maybe you’ve been hanging around with the wrong women.”
“Maybe,” he agrees softly, reaching out to brush a wet strand of hair off my cheek. As soon as his fingers make contact with my skin, my mouth parts as a breath of air slips out. I’m nearly in a daze when he adds, “But I’d be no good for you, Gemma.”
Pulling back, I stare at him. I’m so startled by his words, I forget to be embarrassed. “And why is that?”
“You’re much too sweet for me.”
“I’m not sweet. I’m tough.”
“Said the girl who doesn’t like contact sports and, last time she went to the gym, sprained her va—”
“Ah!” I yell, cutting him off. “Okay. No need to go into details.”
He grins again and my stomach squirms at the sight.
“You’re cocky. And gloating. Some might even say annoying,” I tell him, my eyes narrowed on his smiling face. “I’ve decided I don’t like you.”
He leans even closer, and my heart starts to pound in my chest. “Oh, you like me,” he whispers. “That’s exactly the problem.”
“You only date women who don’t like you?”
His eyes glitter. “I don’t date at all, Gemma.”
“Oh,” I whisper, my mind reeling at all that his words imply.
Everything about this man, from the way he kisses to the way he looks at me to the sexual energy practically pouring off him, screams he’s not one to go without female company for long. So, he may not date, but he certainly….
Makes love?
No, that’s not the right term.
He…
Fucks.
This is a man who fucks.
The thought alone is enough to give me heart palpitations.
“Stop looking at me like that, Gemma,” he says, his voice so low, it sounds like a threat. Probably because it is one.
“Like what?” I ask defensively, my eyes locking with his.
“Like you’d like to see what not dating me entails.”