Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,32

at me across the threshold, doorknob still in his hand. “Not gonna lie, you’ve looked better.”

“Mark!” Chrissy yells from the sectional. “That is not what you say to a girl after she’s had a tough day. You either say, ‘would you like me to pour you a glass of wine and massage your feet?’ or you say nothing at all!”

“Hon, I don’t think Gemma wants me to massage her feet,” he yells over his shoulder, before glancing back at me warily. “Do you?”

I grimace and shake my head.

“Mark! It’s not about actually doing it. It’s about the offer to do it.” She snorts. “God, it’s like he’s learned nothing after nearly three years of marriage.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Do you want to come in? Join the party? Do a little husband bashing?”

I step into the apartment, ruffle his hair, and grin — the first time I’ve actually smiled all day. “As long as you have an empty wine glass I can borrow,” I say, pulling a jumbo-sized bottle of Pinot Noir from my bag. “Or a really long straw. Either one.”

Laughing, Mark closes the door behind me, grabs the bottle from my hands, and heads for the kitchen.

I cross the apartment to Chrissy, who’s sprawled out on one half of the sectional like a queen on a litter, her ankles propped up on a pillow and a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on her swollen belly.

“Look, Ma! No hands!” She grins and steadies the bowl as I throw myself onto the couch beside her. “I’m not too proud to admit, I’ll miss the built-in-belly-table function when this baby decides to pop out.”

I reach over and grab a handful of popcorn, shoving it in my mouth just as Mark returns with a brimming glass of wine and passes it to me.

“Thanks,” I mumble, my words muffled by a mouthful of kernels.

He smiles and settles in on a chair across the room.

“So, what is it this time?” Chrissy asks. “Did you dance with an Arabian Prince at a rock concert? Seduce a handsome heir at a football game? Ensnare a wealthy benefactor in line for coffee?”

“You’re hysterical,” I mutter darkly.

A tinkling laugh escapes her lips. “Sorry. You know I’m cooped up all day. The mind tends to wander.” Her eyes swivel to her husband. “If someone would just let me out of the apartment every once in a while…”

“You heard what the doctor said.” Mark is unmoved. “Bed rest. Minimal movement, except for trips to the bathroom.” He looks at me. “Which is pretty much every ten minutes, so it’s not like she could even go anywhere, anyway, unless she feels like wearing an adult diaper.”

“Ugh!” Chrissy huffs, her eyes narrowing. “You are so annoying.”

Mark grins at her, his eyes soft. “I love you too, babe.”

She giggles.

I roll my eyes. “You two are disgusting.”

They both turn their smiles in my direction. “We know,” they say in unison, further affirming their gross levels of cute.

I groan.

“So, tell us about the day,” Chrissy says, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “I want all the juicy details. I’ve been tracking the story on social media, but besides some pictures of the outside of your apartment building, they don’t have anything new.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “I’m sorry… did you just say you’ve been tracking me?”

Chrissy nods. “I set up a Google Alert. Every time a new story goes up about you, my phone dings! Isn’t that great?” she exclaims. “Mark showed me how.”

My eyes fly to Mark, who’s suddenly looking guilty.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing they don’t have anything new.” My voice is audibly relieved, and I take a big sip of wine. “The last thing I need is them hounding me at work, after the day I’ve had.”

“Ohmigod!” Chrissy squeals. “For a second there, you looked worried! Does that mean there’s something you thought they might find out about? Did something happen today? Did you see him again?” With each question, Chrissy’s voice gets louder, until her tone is piercing.

I stare at the crazy woman who used to be my best friend, genuinely concerned for her sanity.

“Hon, calm down—” Mark starts.

“Shhh, Mark!” Her eyes never waver from my face. “GEMMA, TELL ME!”

“She’s a little scary,” I say instead, looking at Mark.

He nods. “Preaching to the choir, babe.”

“Gemma Summers, if you don’t spit out your story right this minute I’ll—”

We never get to hear what form of deadly punishment she intends to inflict on me, because