Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,30
ask, my tone a little hysterical. His mouth opens, but I’m too riled to stop myself. “Of course you know that — you know my name, you know where I work. Hell, you probably know what I ate for breakfast this morning.”
His lips are twitching.
“I mean, seriously, it was just a freaking Pop-Tart! And not even a good one — it was a Trader Joes knock-off Pop-Tart with the healthy alternative frosting and the skimpy sugar-free filling inside. Totally not the same. And, honestly, I could’ve used the freaking sugar rush, because I had to sneak out of my building like my last two rat-bastard dates did before I woke up—” His eyes get a little scary, when I say this, but I’m so worked up, I don’t notice. “—And it is not as easy as it looks to navigate that back alley in these damn heels Estelle makes me wear for work. I know Boston is historical and all, but can we quit it with the freaking cobblestones, already? It is not the 1800s, anymore, people!”
I finally run out of breath — and words — and realize I’ve been pretty much yelling about sub-par breakfast foods and city infrastructure for the past five minutes to a man who is a virtual stranger, despite the fact that he’s had his tongue in my mouth. Twice.
The blush hits me, hard, and I pull a deep, mortified, gulp of air through my nose.
“Are you finished?” he asks, after a minute of silence, looking at me intently. I can’t help but notice, his mouth is twisted like he’s fighting another smile.
I nod.
He pushes off his desk and strides across the room, coming to a stop just inches away. His body language is aggressive, claiming the very air, as though my personal space belongs to him, not me. He stares down into my face, leaning forward so I can’t possibly miss his words.
“I didn’t bring you here to pay you off,” he says, and his voice is soft — not normal soft, though, soft in the way that thunder seems soft when a big storm is moving offshore, echoing out over the ocean. Safe, but only from a distance.
I stare at his chin, unable to meet his eyes. “So, why did you bring me?” I ask, my voice reedy with nerves.
He waits until my eyes flicker back to his, and then he does something that makes the breath catch in my throat. With one hand, he reaches out and pushes a tendril of hair that’s escaped my Estelle-inspired bun behind my ear, his fingers lingering in the space beside my face but never touching my skin. I’m statue-still, staring at him, waiting for him to break the silence because I certainly can’t — my throat is lodged with emotions I don’t want to analyze.
Breathe, Gemma.
“Chase,” I whisper, my stare never moving from his. “Why am I here?”
As soon as his name leaves my mouth, all the ice melts right out of his gaze, and he’s suddenly looking at me with something a lot like longing.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” he says finally, his hand coming to rest against the side of my face. I feel the callouses of his palm and fingertips tracing my skin, the touch lighter than you’d ever think such a big man capable of. I fight the urge to close my eyes and lean in, to rest my face in his hand and absorb his warmth, like he’s got the sun inside his skin.
His voice gets husky. “I’m sorry for creating chaos in your life. It wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s okay,” I breathe, frozen as I watch him lean a fraction closer.
He’s staring at my lips, I’m staring at his eyes, and we’re barely touching but somehow I feel him everywhere, on every inch of my skin, like this stranger who I don’t know from Adam is somehow more attuned to the strange Gemma-wavelength I operate on than anyone else has ever been.
And then he opens his mouth and says, “It’s a damn shame I can’t see you anymore.”
Hold on.
What?
What the what?
“I’m sorry?” I ask, breathless.
He’s still looking at my mouth, but at my words, his eyes drift back to mine. He reads the confusion on my face, and his hand drops away. “I can’t see you again,” he says, and I think there’s regret in his tone, but I’m a little too angry to process it.