Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,24

digging too deep into my past.

Estelle is decidedly unsympathetic.

“The world doesn’t stop for anyone, ma chérie, even billionaires.” Her face, faintly lined from years of laughter and sunshine, crinkles in a grin.

“Oh, jeeze, Estelle, not you too.” I groan. “You saw the video?”

“Everyone on the planet saw the video, darling,” she says, clucking in amusement. She smoothes one hand over her graying hair, which is swept back in the elegant twist she’s worn every day since I met her two years ago, then claps her hands three times in quick succession. “Now, we’ve had a special request from a new, high-profile client. Apparently, the family business has changed hands, and they’re redecorating their offices with an entire new spread of artwork, furniture, paint, and god knows what else.”

I lift my brows, wondering how this possibly concerns me.

“You’ll bring a portfolio to the office later this afternoon, and show the interior designer some images that might complement their updated space.” Estelle walks behind the glass-topped counter, her floor-length blue skirt flowing behind her with each graceful step. She pulls out one of our portfolio books, which contains full-color images of all our artists’ works. Usually, we only use them for reference when we’re ordering a new series to display in the gallery, but now, Estelle passes me the binder with a meaningful look. “Hopefully, they’ll like what they see, Gemma.”

I know very well she actually means, If they don’t like what they see, you’re in deep shit, Gemma.

I take a breath. “But, Estelle, we never make house-calls. I thought the whole Point de Fuite philosophy was to bring the clients to the art, not the other way around. Haven’t you told me a million times that someone who buys art without seeing it in person is…” I stop and think for a moment, trying to recall her words, and force my voice into a terrible impersonation of her own. “…bête comme ses pieds.”

She shakes her head at my poor pronunciation, but her expression turns wistful as she glances from the portfolio to my face.

“Ma chérie…” She laughs heartily, her eyes warm. “If someone wants to spend nearly a million dollars purchasing an entire series of our paintings… philosophy be damned. I’d be the stupid one, if I stood in the way of that.”

I stare resignedly at the portfolio. “Fine. I’ll go. But if I’m hounded by a million reporters on the way there, dart into traffic to evade them, and end up dead…” I heave a heavy sigh. “You’ll be sorry.”

“And, somehow, the French are accused of being more melodramatic than you Americans.” She makes a tsk sound. “But you’re correct, I will be sorry.”

I start to smile. “Really?”

“Of course. Do you know how long it took to train you?” She quirks one eyebrow at me, her lips twitching in amusement. “And I’ve just spent all that money on your new uniform. A new girl might have entirely different measurements…”

“Hah! Hysterical,” I grumble, tugging at the hem of my dress, grabbing the binder off the counter, and stomping away to find my matching blazer. Estelle’s tinkling laughter chases me into the back room.

***

As I make my way across town, praying no one recognizes me, I do my best to put all thoughts of Chase out of my head. The fact that I can’t seem to shake him off is more than a little annoying because, well, as conceited as it sounds, it’s never happened to me before. I’ve never felt this tingly-all-over, stomach-churning, heart-in-my-throat, electricity-in-my-skin feeling — and certainly not over someone who’s made it clear he doesn’t want to be with me, even in the naked, biblical sense of the word.

I’d like nothing more than to chalk the nervous butterflies in my stomach up to the media frenzy and the stress of last night’s breakup, but I can’t. The truth of the matter is, Chase’s brush-off bothered me. Bothers me.

More than I’d like to admit.

I know it doesn’t make sense. Just as I know four rounds of Two Truths and a Lie, two lingering kisses, and several sexually charged stares does not a relationship make. Not that I even want to be in a relationship at all, with anyone, especially not if his name rhymes with debase.

Unfortunately, saying this to myself over and over as I ride the Orange Line is not the same as believing it. After twenty minutes, when I’ve nearly reached my destination and I still can’t get him out of my head, I’m ready to bash