Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,31
here…. Why?” My voice is incredulous. “To make me feel like an idiot — sorry — like even more of an idiot?”
His face closes down instantly, his eyes freezing over into emotionless disks.
I spin away from him so fast, it makes me dizzy. My eyes lock on the door, and I race in its direction, fueled with anger and more embarrassment than I’d like to admit.
Rejected. Again.
Again!
It would be funny if it weren’t so humiliating.
“Gemma, wait—” His voice carries across the room, irritatingly composed.
“I’m out of here.” I spit the words from my mouth like venom. “Please, whatever this was, let’s not do it again.”
I’m reaching for the door handle, when a hand closes around my arm, the grip strong enough to halt my progress completely. I jerk to a standstill, glancing over my shoulder at him with narrowed eyes.
“Let me go,” I hiss, hitting him with my coldest glare.
His hand tightens reflexively. “Not until you let me explain.”
My eyebrows go up as my face contorts into an impatient, uppity expression that says hurry up, jerk, I don’t have time for this.
His eyes scan my face and his lips twitch again — he thinks I’m amusing.
Amusing!
I begin to tug at my arm, trying to escape his grip, but it only tightens at my efforts.
“Gemma.”
I still at the sound of my name. Not on purpose, of course — it’s just an involuntary reaction to watching those lips form the syllables when they’re so close to mine.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is gravelly again.
I jerk my chin, rejecting his insufficient apology without words.
His eyes flash and my belly contracts as he stares at me. “I thought if I made this about business, it would be easier.” He exhales sharply. “It’s not.”
Still silent, I wait for him to explain. I, for one, am done talking.
“I just got back to town. I have…” His gaze cuts sharply away from mine, but I can see thoughts working behind his eyes. “…certain obligations, if you will, that I have to focus on right now. I can’t afford to be distracted.”
My eyes widen and my voice drops to a snarl of indignation. “And I’m a distraction?”
He hesitates a beat, then nods.
I can’t help myself. I lean in closer. “You are so damn full of yourself.”
His eyes fly back to mine, narrowing as I watch.
My voice drops to a furious whisper. “You think because we kissed, like, twice, that I’m interested in you? That you can snap your fingers and have me in your life, distracting you all damn day?” I snort. “Ha! Maybe you billionaires just assume you can have whatever you want, whenever you want it, but I’m sorry to inform you…”
His eyes start to glint with anger.
“…I’m not for sale.”
With that, I yank my arm free in a vicious tug I know is going to bruise, grab the door handle, and disappear into the hallway before he can catch me again. I don’t look back as I cut through the lobby, ignoring Anita as I jam my finger into the elevator call button a million times, shifting nervously from one high-heel to the other, waiting for a hand to close around my bicep once more.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief when the doors slide open, and I step inside.
The tension uncoils from my shoulders as I turn, eyes on the panel of illuminated buttons, and find the one that will whisk me back to ground level. The doors are sliding shut again when I look up and realize my relief was premature. Every muscle in my body locks into place, frozen with fear and anticipation and, if I’m being honest, excitement, as I catch sight of him standing in his unfinished office lobby. It’s like seeing Michelangelo’s David amidst a disheveled world of paint cans, drop cloths, and drywall dust. He doesn’t move to stop me — he just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, gaze burning into mine so intensely, I worry I’ll actually catch fire.
I somehow manage to hold myself together until the doors finally close, cutting off my view of him, but as soon as I’m alone, I collapse back against the elevator wall. My heart is pounding so hard, I worry it might simply give out, and I press my eyes closed in a vain search for composure.
Somehow, after the last half hour, I don’t think I’ll ever be composed again.
Chapter Twelve
Hot-Shit
I knock three times and wait, listening to footsteps crossing the apartment, until the door swings open.