Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,28

actually wobble, going weak like I’m some kind of 16th century maiden, swooning at the words of a rapscallion. I quickly lock them back in place, simultaneously trying, and failing, to keep my eyes — which are, coincidentally, or maybe not so coincidentally, the same hue he’s just mentioned — from widening too much at his words.

“Oh,” I say flatly, feeling my pulse thudding out of control. It’s pounding so hard, he can probably see it moving my jugular vein.

His eyes drop to the column of my throat, flashing with some unreadable emotion — yep, he totally sees it — and then flicker back up to mine. “So, what do you have for me?”

“What?” I squeak, my voice helium-infused once more.

His smile goes lazy, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. They’re still a little too intense for my liking. “Art, Gemma. What kind of art do you have for me?”

“Oh,” I say again. Duh, you idiot. “Right. The art.”

His lips twitch.

I pull the portfolio away from my chest for the first time since I walked into his office, belatedly realizing I’ve been using it like a shield. I tilt my head down so he doesn’t see the blush heating my cheeks, and start flipping through the pages like my life depends on it.

“Maybe something abstract, to juxtapose with the clean lines of the space and the furnishings. Nothing too abstract, though, not crazy abstract, just abstract enough to offer a little balance.” I’m muttering to myself, flipping through more pages, looking for a particular piece I saw in the binder a few weeks ago. “It has to be masculine, obviously. Bold brushstrokes, strong palette. Maybe a Morellet, but something by Soulages would probably work better—”

“Gemma.”

His voice is low and close. I feel the hair rise on the back of my neck, as I realize he is no longer safely across the room, leaning against his desk. He’s somehow moved without my realizing it. I swear I can almost feel the solid wall of heat his body’s throwing through the sliver of remaining space between us. My mouth goes dry, words evaporating in an instant, and I keep my eyes on the pages in my hands, which are suddenly trembling.

“Yep,” I say breathily, not even managing to convince myself I’m unaffected by his nearness.

“Gemma,” he repeats, his voice even lower.

He waits until my reluctant eyes skitter up to meet his. It takes all my self-control not to step back when I see how near his face is — his eyes are millimeters away from mine, two pools of icy, unreadable emotion. I can’t look into them — it’s just too much — so my gaze drops to his mouth instead, thinking it might be easier to focus on.

I’m wrong.

He’s too damn beautiful.

It’s breaking all my rules.

See, I have this theory that humans are just living, breathing, talking forms of art, each crafted with a different technique and carved out of different materials. Each beautiful in their own way. And sure, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and totally subjective, and changes depending on your circumstance, yada-yada-yada… but most of the time, it’s pretty easy to classify people.

Like, okay, you know those women who are gorgeous and never know it? Or the men who pass quietly through life, handsome and unnoticed, never begging for attention or crying out for recognition?

Those are your watercolors.

And the loud, vivacious, gorgeous-and-they-know-it creatures, with bright lipstick and closets full of bold colors and outfits they never wear twice?

Acrylics.

The graceful, elegant, aging beauties you pick out in the crowd, or across the cafe, the lines on their faces telling a story you just know you’d want to hear, with so many layers and smudges, twists and turns, you’re not even sure where they begin?

Charcoals.

Then, you’ve got the big-picture-beautiful people, with the collection of interesting features that together make a beautiful face. They’re your oil paintings — best from ten feet away and, at the end of the day, kind of funny looking if you lean closer and analyze all their elements separately.

But I’m quickly learning that Chase Croft doesn’t fit any of my categories. He isn’t a brushstroke on canvas, or bumpy layers of paint on a palette, or imperfect lines scratched inside a sketchbook. His features aren’t just gorgeous as a collective — he’s one of those annoyingly attractive people whose every feature is equally stunning.

He’s a sculpture.

Painstakingly chiseled into perfection over the course of years, until arias could be written about his eyebrows, his