Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,29
cheekbones, the freaking shape of his nostrils.
And me?
Well, I’m probably a finger-painting.
Done by a three-year-old.
Without supervision.
Anyway, my point is, when my eyes drop to his mouth, I’m annoyed — in a kind of squirmy, breathless way — to find it’s even more attractive than those eyes. And, well, since it’s so close to mine, and since I’m a deeply-flawed human with no control over her libido, I can’t help myself — my eyelids droop a little and my tongue darts out to wet my dry lips, my self-restraint and sense of propriety both fleeing in such close proximity to him.
He notices.
Chapter Eleven
Distraction
An ominous noise rumbles from his throat, and my eyes fly back to his, which seem to darken as I watch. He glances briefly down at my mouth and for one, crazy moment I think he’s going to kiss me again.
“Fuck,” he mutters suddenly, stepping back from me with purposeful strides and returning to his desk with one hand clenched into a tight fist by his side and the other massaging tension from the back of his neck.
I feel his retreat like a blow to the stomach — a flat-out rejection, hitting me hard and sucking the air from my lungs.
Gemma, you idiot. He’s already told you he doesn’t date. He’s warned you away, more than once. Last night was a fluke. Men like that don’t kiss girls like you. He probably only brought you here to make sure you don’t talk to the press about him, or stir the story into an even bigger media frenzy.
Suddenly, I’m pissed — mostly at myself, for being so affected by this man I don’t even know, just because he’s attractive.
Am I really that weak?
I don’t search too hard for an answer to my own question.
Instead, I take deep breath, staring at him with narrowed eyes, and tell myself to snap out of it.
“Why am I here?”
His eyes narrow too, sensing the abrupt change in my mood. “I already told you. I need some art — a service which, if I’m not mistaken, you provide.”
I flinch at the coolness of his tone, and a scoff escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “Bullshit.”
His expression flattens and his eyes start to glitter with repressed anger. I instantly get the feeling that he doesn’t have much experience with people challenging him.
“Excuse me?” he growls.
“You heard me,” I snap, feeling — foolishly — brave. “We both know you didn’t bring me here to broker pieces of modern French art. So, why don’t you just cut to the chase, Mr. Croft?”
I admit, I tack on the last part just to piss him off.
Eyes on my lips, he lurches toward me involuntarily, taking two steps away from his desk before he can stop himself, ready to cross the room and either kill me or kiss me silent — I’m not sure which. I watch, nerves swirling in my gut, as he freezes, realizing what he’s done.
Neither of us moves as he pulls a deep breath through his nose, his fists clenching so tightly at his sides, the veins pop out in his tanned forearms. A few short seconds pass, and he settles back against his desk, in control once more.
He clears his throat. “I preferred last night’s nickname.”
I stare into those namesake green eyes and jerk my chin a bit higher, not bothering to respond.
He reads the anger on my face for a long, still moment, until my skin is tingling beneath the weight of his stare and the air starts pressing in around me. Until I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m not going to talk to the press,” I say finally, my voice infused with strength I don’t feel.
His eyebrows lift and his voice has lost a bit of its lethal edge when he speaks again. “What?”
I swallow. “If you brought me here to pay me off or talk me out of spreading the story to the media, don’t bother.” My spine straightens and I snap the portfolio closed. “I wouldn’t talk to them even if they paid me.”
“Gemma, that’s not—”
“And frankly,” I barrel on, glaring at him full-out now. “It’s rude and insulting to assume I’d sell my story just to make a quick buck. I may not be a billionaire like some people, but I don’t want to be. I don’t want the attention. I can’t wait until all this blows over, and I can get my life back.”
“Gemma—”
“There were, like, a million reporters outside my apartment this morning. Did you know that?” I