Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,18

onto the towel and turn to look at her. “Nice to know your priorities are in order, Chrissy.”

I hear the sound of the refrigerator opening in the kitchen area behind us.

“Hey, Gemma, you want a beer?” Mark calls.

Chrissy answers before I can.

“Mark!” she hisses in a whisper-yell. “I just got Winston to sleep! Stop yelling!”

I half-turn to catch Mark’s eyes before he does something stupid, like argue with his very pregnant wife about their one-year old son who, evidently, is asleep in the nursery, but he unwisely launches in before I can stop him.

“But, hon, you were just screaming at me to get a tow—”

“Oh, yes, blame me!” Chrissy’s eyes begin to well with tears as twin spots of red appear on her cheeks. “It’s my fault! Always my fault!”

I glance from my friend to her husband, who I fully expect to have recoiled in total fear of his hormonal spouse. To my surprise, he looks totally composed — even a little bored. He meets my eyes as he presses a cold bottle of beer into my hand.

“This happens a lot. It’s best to just ignore the crying. It passes. She’ll be okay again in about…” He glances at his watch. “…thirty seconds, give or take.”

I try my best to hold in my laughter as Mark settles in on the far side of the sectional. Looking at me across the coffee table, he lifts his beer in a wordless toast, before taking a long pull from his bottle. I quickly follow suit.

Like magic, thirty seconds later Chrissy’s tears have evaporated and she’s smiling again.

“Anyway, Gemma, care to share why you’re soaked to the bone?”

“It’s a long story,” I hedge, shrugging.

“Does it have anything to do with Chase Croft?” Mark asks casually.

Both Chrissy and my eyes fly in his direction.

“What?” we exclaim in unison.

“Chase Croft,” Mark says slowly, looking at us like we’re both insane. “The billionaire.”

I feel my face pale and my grip on the beer bottle grows dangerously tight.

Chrissy snorts. “Honestly, Mark, have you been sneaking pot into your brownies? What on earth would Chase Croft have to do with Gemma?”

“Um,” I whisper, my eyes blinking rapidly as thoughts whiz through my mind.

“Mark?” Chrissy prompts.

I take another sip from my bottle.

Mark looks from me to his wife. “Well,” he says, scratching his stubble with his free hand. “I mean, I just figured since she was making out with him an hour ago, and all…”

I choke on my beer.

***

Foam sprays from my mouth in all directions.

Chrissy’s so stunned, she doesn’t even notice when a few drops land on her pristine white sofa. She’s looking from me to her husband with an expression of acute disbelief.

“What?” she hisses. “Mark, how the hell would you even know that?”

“I was watching the game.” He shrugs. “Apparently, when the guy whose family owns the team starts kissing the girl sitting next to him, it’s important enough to show on national television.”

“He owns the team?!” I squeak.

“He really kissed you?!” Chrissy squeals.

“Personally, I would’ve preferred a little more footage of that sweet three-pointer Bradley sunk — but that’s just me.” Mark looks at me. “No offense, Gem.”

“None taken,” I whisper in a detached voice, my mind occupied by alarming thoughts.

I threw myself at a billionaire.

God, he must think I’m a total idiot.

God, I am a total idiot.

“Gemma!” Chrissy grabs my arm in a tight grip, her manicured fingernails digging into my flesh.

I look at her and see her eyes are glassy again, the telltale sign of impending tears. Hoping for a little guidance, my gaze swings in Mark’s direction.

“Beats me.” He shrugs. “Any emotion — excitement, happiness, sadness, fear, joy, whatever — seems to manifest as crying these days. I have a hard enough time knowing when I’ve done right or screwed up under normal circumstances. The weeping just adds a whole new level of mystery.”

Chrissy hurls a decorative pillow at her husband, which he dodges in a well-practiced move, then turns to face me again.

“Details,” she says adamantly. “I want — I need — details.”

I sigh and launch into the story, describing everything from Ralph’s refusal to hang up his cellphone to the kiss-cam landing on me. I skim over my humiliation and focus on the rescue: Green Eyes — sorry, Chase — pulling me from my seat, dipping me back, and kissing me like he meant it.

“Holy wow,” Chrissy breathes, grabbing a magazine off the coffee table and fanning herself. Even Mark, who’s typically bored to sleep by our girl-talk sessions, is staring