Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,27
interested in looking around his office, but I can’t spend another second staring at him, or I’m going to spontaneously combust from what I tell myself is sheer mortification.
Not attraction.
Definitely not.
I’m just embarrassed I threw myself at him last night, when he was a stranger, when we were two ships, passing in the night. Now, in the harsh light of day, I’m understandably uncomfortable.
This fluttery feeling in my stomach has absolutely nothing to do with how good he looks in that shirt, or how my skin actually tingles whenever he looks at me.
Nothing at all.
My eyes narrow, moving from the windows to the walls to the gleaming hardwood, taking it in with the practiced, professional gaze I’ve used countless times to assess artwork.
It’s clearly a man’s office — the furniture is all black, chrome, and glass. There’s a masculine feel to everything — sharp edges and angles — and there are no knickknacks laying around, nor are there fresh-cut flowers or any personal decorations. Sure, this could be because he’s still in the middle of a transition, but I don’t think so. I get the sense that if I come back in six months, when the construction workers and painters and renovators are gone, it will still look exactly the same as it does now.
Utilitarian. Pragmatic. Cold.
“Well, you’ve got a good space,” I say, swallowing. If he isn’t going to talk about our cumulative seven minutes in heaven last night, or that we almost ended up in bed together, or the fact that he’s brought me here under false pretenses, I’m sure as hell not about to bring it up. “And the white is definitely an improvement over the garish green the previous tenant used. Bleh. Just awful,” I murmur lightly. “Whoever picked that palette needs his eyes examined.”
“I’ll be sure to tell my uncle to make an appointment,” he says dryly, his voice thick with amusement.
My eyes fly to his and I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks.
There’s my damn Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome, acting up again.
“Oh, god, Mr. Croft, I’m so sorry.”
His eyebrows go up at my use of Mr. Croft but I keep speaking before he can get a word out.
My eyes are wide on his. “I swear, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I plow onward.
“You uncle’s taste is lovely—”
“No, it’s not,” he cuts me off, his lips twitching. “Why do you think I’m redesigning the space?”
“But—”
“Gemma.” He says my name in that deep voice and my mouth snaps shut instantly.
Shit.
“Do something for me,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I nod.
“My name is Chase — use it. Don’t call me Mr. Croft.” His voice is deadly serious — I can tell this is important to him, for some reason he doesn’t care to share.
I’m not even tempted to dive into his issues, right now, considering I’m drowning in my own, so I simply nod again and turn my gaze back to the walls. It’s far, far safer to examine the office instead of the man who occupies it — I know this like I know the street vendors outside Fenway Park will rob you blind for a freaking hot dog and a lukewarm beer on a summer day.
I clear my throat. “You’ve got a lot of white, in here. Negative space isn’t necessarily a bad thing — you don’t want to diminish the scope of the room or detract from the view — but with a few key art pieces, you can really complement the room’s overall tone.”
He doesn’t respond.
I walk to the window and look out at the ocean. In the summer, the harbor is packed with boats — we’re so high up, they’d probably look like seagulls bobbing on the water from this distance — but it’s still far too early in the year for sailing. Now, the water’s cold, sea green, and rough with whitecaps. If I squint, I can almost make out the lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor. I focus on it, pointedly ignoring the man at my back, whose very presence I can feel threaded through each particle of air between us.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask abruptly, still not looking at him.
There’s a beat of silence. “Until yesterday, I’m not sure I had one,” he says cryptically.
I’m so curious, I forget to ignore him. I turn, eyebrows raised.
He hasn’t moved from the desk. His eyes lock on mine, scanning my irises intently. “Today, I’d have to say it’s cornflower blue.”