Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,21
head in denial. “No, this can’t happen.”
“Sorry, doll, but it already happened. Everyone wants to know the story. Myself included, you bitch.” She huffs in exasperation. “I can’t believe I had to hear about this on freaking Facebook instead of from my best friend.”
“But…but…” I swallow. “But, it was just a kiss!”
“No.” I can practically hear Shelby shaking her head. “It was the kiss, with the most elusive, uncatchable bachelor in the country, at one of the most widely broadcasted sporting events of the year.”
I feel myself starting to panic.
“This isn’t going to change anything though, right?” I ask naively. “I mean, in a few days, it’ll all blow over.”
I try not to take offense when Shelby bursts into loud, unapologetic cackles that mock me through the line. “Oh, doll,” she gasps, when she’s finally regained some control over herself. “I’m sorry to break it to you but this is going to change everything.”
***
As soon as I hang up with Shelby, I head for the coffee machine and start a fresh pot — there’s no way I can handle a crisis like this without caffeine. While it’s brewing, I snatch Chrissy’s laptop off the breakfast bar, hop onto a barstool, and log onto the internet. With hesitant, horrified keystrokes, I type CHASE CROFT, CELTICS into the search bar and, before I can talk myself out of it, push the ENTER key with my face screwed up in a grimace of foreboding.
Half a second later, the screen is full of video clips, news stories, and stills of the man whose star power my best friends clearly did not exaggerate in their descriptions. I hit the image-filter and begin to scroll down the page. Picture after picture assaults my eyes, each depicting various views of the same thing: an insanely attractive man holding a girl in his arms on a basketball court, their mouths fused together.
Holy. Shit.
I click on one image, and immediately see it’s attached to a news article from the USA TODAY website. Another is credited to PEOPLE. Then there’s ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY. And THE BOSTON GLOBE. Oh, and who could miss the absurdly large headline stamped across the TMZ photo of my semi-terrified face, caught unawares as I fled the stadium?
MISS MYSTERY! Who is Chase Croft’s Secret Lover?
I soon see it isn’t even the worst of the headlines. In fact, they’re all pretty terrible. The more I read, the more I want to slam the laptop closed, give up the lease on my apartment, and move to a secluded cabin by a pond in the wilderness, without internet or cellphone cameras or gossip magazines or billionaires with really freaking awesome kissing skills.
Thoreau did it. Why not me?
KISS-CAM! Billionaire CHASE CROFT Returns to Boston with a Bang!
ALL ABOUT THE CHASE: Playboy at the Playoffs!
CHASE-ING SOME TAIL! CROFT’s New Girl!
CELTICS Score! (and so does CROFT): See the Exclusive Photos!
They go on and on and on.
For the most part, they have minimal details about me, which makes me breathe a little easier. Nearly all of them are focused on Chase’s abrupt return to the States after his five-year absence, and offer no more than speculation about who the “mystery woman” he kissed last night might be. A few of them are outright fabrications.
For instance, according to Perez Hilton, I’m an exotic dancer named Bethany Sinclair, who frequently attends NBA games in the hopes of landing a rich player as my husband. On the other hand, Mario Lopez thinks I’m an ex-Celtics cheerleader named Shareena Troiani, who was injured two seasons ago but still gets team benefits from time to time. And the Fashion Police, god bless them, just want to know why on earth I’d wear a cocktail dress and Chuck Taylors to a basketball game.
I admit, that last one makes me smile.
I’ve just started to relax a little, when one particular headline jumps out at me.
CROFT’S Courtside Cinderella: Who She is and Why She Ran — We Have the Scoop!
I click on it, a flutter of unease ribboning through my stomach.
When I see the story source is the KXL - BOSTON website, I nearly fall off my barstool.
This can’t be good.
And it isn’t. Because KXL, the bastards, have capitalized on the fact that the tickets they provided are what led to such a sensational new story. And they’ve all too eagerly given up the name of the woman who won those courtside seats on the radio yesterday.
My name.
In big, bold letters, scrawled across the top of the page.