Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,111
man — stare down the people who’ve been judging him mercilessly all night.
“I may not be your choice. I may not even be the best man for this job. But it’s mine.” His eyes find mine again, and my breath catches at the intensity of his gaze. “And I protect the things that belong to me. Always.”
Always.
His final word is still reverberating from the speakers when Chase turns his back on the crowd, crosses to the table, and tugs me to my feet. I don’t even have time to ask what’s going on because, before I know it, he’s pulled me off the stage and is leading me through the ballroom so fast, the people at the tables around us are nothing more than smears of color in my peripherals.
“Chase,” I hiss.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, his pace increases.
Just before we hit the atrium, I look back over my shoulder at the Croft table. Brett’s eyes, still and watchful, lock with mine, and the look in them makes all the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. His gaze holds a promise.
Chase may’ve won this battle, but don’t believe the war is over. It’s just beginning.
I force myself to look away from him and catch Phoebe’s eyes one final time. Still in her seat, she’s laughing and shaking her head at Chase’s caveman-esque exit. The last thing I see, before the ballroom fades from sight, is her amused grin.
As we step out of the building, race down the red carpet, and slide into the back of the limo Evan’s just pulled to the curb, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see her again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Loon
The elevator doors slide shut behind us as we step into the dark loft. The ride back to Croft Industries was silent — neither Chase nor I spoke a word as the limo glided through the streets, each entirely consumed by our own thoughts. Turning the sun necklace over and over in my palm, I spent the ride trying to sort out whose family is more messed up — mine or his. For the life of me, I couldn’t decide on an answer.
On the left, we’ve got infidelity, an accidental love child, inescapable half-siblings, and an impending media crises.
On the right, we’ve got sociopathic tendencies, fatal alcoholism, scheming socialites, and a case of murky parentage.
It’s a toss up, honestly.
Chase shrugs out of his suit jacket, walks to the kitchen island, and lays it over the back of a barstool. I’m silent as I sidle up beside him and set my clutch purse on the counter, my elbow bumping lightly against his. He doesn’t say anything — he just leans toward me so his heat presses into my side, the length of our bodies resting together like two playing cards in a pyramid, each holding the other upright. My eyes slide shut as I absorb his strength.
I’m not sure how long we stand there in the dark, leaning on each other. But eventually, I feel his body start to shake — slowly, at first, then faster and faster, until my teeth are rattling with the force of it. My eyes fly open, heart pounding in my chest as I’m consumed by real, genuine fear. Because if Chase is falling apart — if this strong, composed man has been brought to tears — I don’t know if I can keep from breaking down right along with him. I don’t know if I can be strong enough for us both.
His shoulders shake harder, silent sobs wracking his entire frame. Fearing the worst, I burrow into his side, slide my arms around his body, and force myself to look up into his face….
“Wait… You’re… you’re laughing!” I yell, my voice filled with disbelief as I see he isn’t crying at all. Quite the opposite. “Laughing?”
He only laughs harder at my outrage, until he’s turning red in the face from lack of oxygen. Until he’s doubled over, clutching his stomach; gasping for air with tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
“Chase!” I smack him on the arm, fighting off my own round of incredulous giggles. “How is anything about this funny?”
He looks at me, shoulders still shaking with mirth, and grins so wide it splits his face in two. “It just is,” he manages to gasp between chuckles.
“How?” I demand, trying not to laugh myself. I can’t help it — watching him like this, near giddy, is enough to trigger my own hilarity.