Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,23

twice, even as I walk the three blocks from the station to my building.

I start to think maybe Chrissy and Mark were overreacting.

Then, I get to my street.

My feet slam to a standstill when I see there are at least three news vans parked in front of my walkup. Reporters are readying themselves, cameramen are circling, and men with large booms are positioning their equipment, as they undoubtedly prepare for a morning newscast.

About me.

Unless, of course, Mrs. Hendrickson in 1C finally got them to do a story on her cat Bigelow, who she swears can predict local weather patterns. Somehow, I doubt that’s the case.

“Dammit,” I whisper under my breath, deliberating for a moment before realizing there’s absolutely no way I can go through the front doors without throwing gasoline on an already hot story. With a sigh, I cut down a side street and circle the block, praying none of the reporters were smart enough to camp out by the back-alley entrance.

I do a little impromptu happy dance in the street when I round a corner and see my path into the building is clear from this side. Bolting to the rear entryway, I punch in the code and slip into the back hall. The door clicks shut behind me, closing out all the maddening pomp and paparazzi that seem to go hand in hand with Chase Croft — who, fabulous kissing skills aside, I’m beginning to think is a pretty big jerk for saddling me with all of this without so much as a warning. I guess now I have my answer to why he apologized for kissing me, last night.

I heave a deep, incredulous sigh as I lean against the door.

I’ve just had to sneak into my own freaking apartment like I’m sixteen again and my mom is asleep upstairs. True, this time I didn’t have to climb the trellis, but it’s still pretty damn annoying. I can’t help but think that if this — dodging cameramen and ducking through alleyways just to get home — is the new normal… I’m going to have to move to that pond in the wilderness, after all.

Or maybe Tahiti.

I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti, though if someone gave me a million dollars to point it out on a map, I’d be not a single cent richer.

Whatever.

Point is, the kiss last night was freaking awesome.

But the aftermath pretty much sucks.

***

I never wanted to be famous.

I never wanted to be anything but boring, isolated, introverted Gemma — alone with her oil paintings, a few close friends, and a near-deadly caffeine habit.

I’m happy with my life, for the most part.

Okay, I admit, the last few months of dating Ralph haven’t exactly been a highlight, but up until then I’ve been pretty damn content. Great friends, solid job, rent-controlled apartment…

I’m (mostly) living the dream.

Since my own art doesn’t pay the bills, I work full-time at a gallery downtown called Point de Fuite, which sells extremely expensive, modern French art to edgy entrepreneurs, patronizing — yes, in both senses of the word — socialites, and rich businessmen who are always on the lookout for the next Monet or Renoir.

Sure, I’d rather live entirely off profits from my own paintings but until that happens — until I actually get up the nerve to show my art to people who aren’t Chrissy, Shelby, or my mother — I’m content to broker other artists’ work five days a week. Estelle, the gallery owner, is bossy and a little too obsessive about paperwork, but she’s not the worst boss I’ve ever had (I’m looking at you, supervisor Talia from that coffee shop on Newbury) and she’s pretty understanding about most things.

Except personal days.

See, she doesn’t really believe in them, unless they’re on the schedule two months in advance. So, when I called the gallery this morning, hoping she might take pity on me and give me the day — or the week — off to hide beneath my comforter until either A. The media get bored and go home or B. I run out of food in my pantry, she said no.

Well, actually, she said, “Pas question! Absolument pas.”

In any case, that’s why I’m here, at Point de Fuite, praying none of the reporters camped outside my apartment noticed me sneak out the back door and followed me here. Though, I guess it’s only a matter of time before they figure out where I work, too. I can only hope this whole thing blows over before they start