Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,120
devious, downright diabolical boyfriend!”
“That’s a lot of d’s, babe.” Knox’s eyes do that crinkle-smile thing, and the sight makes me forget my anger. Only for a second, though.
He arrived about twenty minutes ago and found me freshly showered, with my hair and makeup done, wearing one of my new Shelby-purchased outfits. After the movers left, I spent ten minutes staring from box to box in disbelief before deciding I needed coffee, followed by a long, hot shower. I ticked both of those off my list, before I began searching the boxes — one of which, fortuitously, contained my hair dryer.
Post-blow-out, I grabbed all my clothing from Chase’s closet, carried it out into the main room, and dumped it on top of the stack of boxes. I was in the process of calling my landlord — who blithely informed me there was nothing he could do to fix this mess — when Knox walked in. He made the mistake of thinking, since I looked put together, that I wasn’t coming apart at the emotional seams.
Wrong.
I step closer to him, the candlestick held aloft and my eyes narrowed on his.
“Where is he? Tell me, so I can go kill him.”
“He’s busy.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s in a business meeting.”
“It’s Sunday.”
He shrugs. “Babe, just let it be.”
“No, I will not let it be! Come on, Knox, are you seriously not going to tell me where he is?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“On whether you’re gonna attack anyone with that candle.” He reaches out and plucks it from my grasp. “And whether you’re gonna make a big scene.”
“I won’t make a scene,” I say automatically.
His eyebrow arches dubiously.
“I won’t!” I insist, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Promise.”
He continues staring at me.
“Want me to pinky swear?” I offer.
“Christ,” he mutters to the ceiling. “She crosses her fingers behind her back and offers to pinky swear, like a kindergartener. Chase is fucked.”
“I’m right here, you know.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I can hear you.”
His eyes crinkle again as they return to mine. “Know that, babe.”
“Please tell me,” I beg, my voice cajoling.
He pauses, staring at me.
“Please,” I repeat softly.
“Christ.” He blows out a huff of air. “He’s in his office. Down one floor, take a left. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” I grin at him, grab my purse off the counter, and beeline for the elevator doors.
The whole ride down, I practice what I’m going to say to Chase.
Starting with you’re a crazy person and ending with I’m not moving in with you, ever.
Okay, maybe not ever.
But, not for a long, loooooong time.
When the doors chime open, I step into a hallway I recognize. Sure, last time I was here it was in the throes of a renovation and I was being led around by an aloof blonde named Anita… but it’s definitely the executive suite at Croft Industries.
There are still signs of work being done — unfinished wall sections marked with blue painter’s tape, small piles of plaster dust in the hallway corners, clear plastic drapes protecting the hardwood floors from paint droplets — but for the most part, it looks great. Gone are the garish green tones, the horrid carpeting, the heavy furnishings. It’s been tastefully decorated in what I’m coming to recognize as Chase’s signature taste: practical, pretty-looking furniture, that’s upscale without being uncomfortable.
I wander down the hall and find myself once again at that imposing set of double doors which, this time, I know lead into Chase’s office. It seems like a million years ago that I stood before them in my work uniform, a binder full of artwork pressed to my chest, worrying about meeting whoever I’d find inside.
Little did I know…
I take a deep breath, steady my shoulders, and reach for the handle. As my fingers curl around the knob, I tell myself to stay strong, even if he tries to pull that caveman nonsense that steals all rational thought from my head with a single glance, a single touch, a single word.
We’re going to have a normal, adult conversation about this.
I’ll state my mind clearly, and he’ll listen respectfully.
It’ll all be fine.
And maybe, after we’ve dealt with this like normal people, we’ll make some more pancakes. Naked.
I fight a smile at that last thought, thinking it probably does not bode well for the strength of my argument, if I’ve already forgiven him in my thoughts. But I can’t help it — this is Chase, we’re talking about, after all.
So, with one more deep breath, I push open the door and step inside to face him.