Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,22
CROFT, GEMMA SUMMERS MAKES THE MOST OF HER KXL WIN!
Holy. Freaking. Shit.
***
When Chrissy and Mark find me ten minutes later, I’ve started to hyperventilate. Mark hands me a paper bag and tells me to “breathe” which earns him a glare from both me and his wife, while Chrissy passes me a giant mug of coffee with not enough sugar and too much milk. I’m too distracted to be picky, at the moment, so I drink it anyway, barely tasting the hot liquid as it slides down my throat. As for the bag, I wad it into a ball and throw it at Mark’s head as soon as his back is turned.
He just grins at me and heads to the nursery to get the baby, who’s begun making adorable gurgle-whimper noises to let the world know that he is, in fact, awake now and ready for some breakfast, thank you very much.
“Look, it’s not so bad,” Chrissy says, reading over my shoulder. “Most of them haven’t put it together that it’s you yet.”
“Mmm,” I hum cynically. “And how long is that going to last, exactly?”
“At least another hour or so,” Mark says, walking back into the room with Winston in his arms.
My eyes lock on the towheaded, tousle-haired one-year-old, who just so happens to be my godson, and I hold out my arms for him. “Gimme that baby.”
“He has to eat first,” Chrissy objects.
“It’s 6 a.m. and I’m already having the worst day of my life,” I point out. “I need a little baby therapy.”
Mark laughs as he passes his still-sleepy son into my arms, and I immediately inhale that indescribably amazing baby smell as I hold him close.
“Hi Winnie,” I coo, bouncing him up and down on my lap. His high-pitched giggle of joy instantly makes me feel better. “Who’s the best boy? You are! Yes, you are!”
Mark and Chrissy roll their eyes, but allow me five full minutes of ignoring the world while I make funny faces at Winston and delight in every nonsensical noise that comes out of his tiny pink-bowed mouth — probably because they’ve found a link to the YouTube video, and are watching my Kiss Seen Round the World with rapt attention and pithy commentary.
“Look, Mark! There she is!”
“I see her, hon.”
“Look, my bridesmaid dress! I picked great dresses. I was an awesome bride.”
“I know, hon.”
“I told her to wear that, you know.”
“I was here, hon.”
“Ohmigod! Look at that! He’s kissing her! With tongue!”
“I could’ve lived without seeing that, hon.”
“Oh, and look at that little weasel, Ralph! He’s so pissed. But he totally deserves it. He’s a weasel — don’t you agree, Mark?”
“I agree, hon.”
And on and on it goes.
When Mark finally reclaims his son, I turn back to the screen with a dejected huff.
“Oh, look!” Chrissy says. “They’ve also linked the recording from your radio call! We have to listen.”
I groan and drop my forehead into my hands. “I don’t have to listen, I was there, remember?”
“Well, we weren’t!” She clicks a button to queue the audio before I can stop her, and suddenly the KXL host’s voice is booming through the speakers.
“Congratulations, you’re our lucky 100th caller! Give us your name!”
I wince when my own voice, tinny and far too nasally, fills the room.
“Gemma. Gemma Summers.”
“From?”
“Cambridge.”
“Well, Gemma Summers from Cambridge, you’ve just scored two courtside seats to tonight’s playoff game!”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Why, oh, why had I given them my last name? And why couldn’t I have lied and told them I was from some ridiculous Massachusetts town, where they’d never be able to find me? Like Marblehead. Or Swampscott. Or Sandwich.
They’d never track down Gemma from Sandwich.
Mark’s voice cuts into my mental ramblings. “So, remember how I said you had at least an hour or so before they put it together that you’re the mystery girl?” he asks, looking at me with a regretful expression from across the room.
I gulp. “Yeah?”
“Well, I’m guessing you have more like ten minutes, now.”
“Damn.” My forehead drops to rest against the cool granite countertop as all hope flees my system. “I was afraid you were gonna say that.”
Chapter Nine
Canary
A half hour later, life as I knew it is over.
Dressed in a borrowed pair of Chrissy’s too-long jeans, which I had to cuff three times at the bottom, and a boxy, oversized sweater that makes me look like a spokesperson for The Gap, I manage to fly under the radar for the entirety of my twenty-minute subway ride across the river to Cambridge. No one looks at me