Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,17
I can’t quite decipher in his eyes as he stares at me.
Before he can say another word or I can do something stupid, like throw myself at him again, I turn and slide out of the car, into the rain. Dashing for the brownstone entrance, I slam to a halt on the stairs when his voice reaches my ears.
“Gemma!”
I spin and see he’s followed me out and is standing on the sidewalk, getting totally drenched in the downpour. His t-shirt is plastered to every contour of his muscular chest. I think I see the outline of a serious six-pack beneath the fabric, but it’s hard to tell from this distance. And his eyes — they’re burning into mine again. I feel that electricity charging the air around us once more, and he’s not even touching me this time.
Uh oh.
“Gemma,” he repeats, a little quieter this time. My eyes lift to his.
“Yeah?”
I’m frozen in place on the first step as he crosses the sidewalk and stops directly in front of me. With a full stair’s height advantage, we’re eye-to-eye for the first time. His gaze, from this distance, is so intense, it nearly swallows me whole. I don’t feel the cold rain on my skin or the chilly breeze off the river — in fact, with his eyes on mine, I’m suddenly so warm I think I might combust.
It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t even know this person.
But I can’t stop remembering how his lips felt against mine back at the stadium. I can’t stop my eyes from dropping to linger on his mouth. And I can’t stop the words that slip out in a thready whisper as I stare at his stunning, rain-covered face.
“Did you want something?”
My question is tremulous. When he doesn’t answer, my gaze flies back to his. I somehow manage to keep it steady, unwavering, as he leans forward until our lips are mere centimeters apart.
“Yeah,” he says gruffly, one of his hands reaching up to push a soaked strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I did.”
Before I can ask what, his lips slam down on mine once more.
Chapter Seven
Details
“Holy crap!” Chrissy squeals as soon as the door swings open, scanning me from head to toe. “You ruined my bridesmaid dress!”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I take a step over the threshold. “It’s not like I meant to—”
“Wait!” She throws out her hands to stop my movement. “Stay there! You’ll ruin the hardwood.”
I freeze on the welcome mat, and a puddle immediately begins to pool by my drenched sneakers as water streams off my limbs. My eyes scan the apartment. It’s a stunning open-floor plan — full kitchen and a granite-topped breakfast bar on the left, spacious living room with a fireplace and a white sectional set on the right, and three doors leading to the main bedroom, nursery, and bathroom on the far wall. With crown moldings, high-ceilings, and hardwood, the whole space screams understated wealth. The sofa alone costs more than my rent.
Chrissy shakes her head at me in disbelief, her short blonde bob flying in all directions, then turns to face her half-closed bedroom door. “Mark! MARK!”
“What?” a male voice calls from the next room.
“Get a towel!”
For such a petite woman, she’s got a pretty commanding yell.
“Why? Did your water break?” His voice is teasing.
“You’re not funny!” she yells back.
A minute later, Chrissy’s husband — cute, early-thirties, average build, with dark brown hair and soulful brown eyes — appears in the doorway with a fluffy white towel in hand. He rolls his eyes at his wife before passing it to me. Burying my face in the fabric, I manage to both dry myself off and hide my grin from Chrissy. At eight months pregnant, she’s a little more hormonal than usual and tends to be extra sensitive when she thinks she’s being teased — especially by the man who knocked her up.
When I’m semi-dry, Chrissy takes the towel from my hand, waddles to the sofa, and drapes it over one cushion. She gestures for me to sit before collapsing on the other side of the couch and propping her swollen ankles up on the coffee table.
I stare wordlessly from my friend to the towel.
She rolls her eyes. “What? It’s Pottery Barn. Do you know how much it’ll cost to reupholster this thing? And, no offense, Gem — you look like you fell off a duck boat and landed in the Charles.”