Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,33
at that exact moment, someone starts knocking on the door. It’s not the polite knock of a stranger or a deliveryman — it’s the insistent, constant pounding of an angry fist against wood.
I freeze for a minute, my eyes flying from Chrissy to Mark to the door and back again.
“I’ll get it,” Mark says casually, rising to his feet and crossing the room. I find my heart is in my throat as I watch his hand move through the air, turn the knob, and tug open the door.
“Well, it’s about damn time!” a sassy female voice snaps.
Oh, thank god.
I relax back against the couch cushions.
“Hiya, Shelbs,” Chrissy calls to the tall, toned brunette who’s just stepped over the threshold. Her usually pretty face is contorted in a glare.
“Don’t Hiya, Shelbs me, you bitches!”
“Hey!” Chrissy huffs in protest.
“What did we do?” I ask, my eyes widening.
“Oh, um, I don’t know,” Shelby says, coming to a stop next to the coffee table with her hands planted on her hips. “Maybe made out with a billionaire on national television and then dodged my calls for the next twenty-four hours?”
“Oh.” I gulp. “Right, that.”
Her eyes narrow. “Yes, that. I’ve been calling you all day. You never answer your home line or your cell. I even went to your damn apartment, and you weren’t there, either!”
“Well—”
“And let me tell you, the twenty-five reporters outside your building practically stampeded when they spotted me. Apparently all brunettes are created equal, because it took me a good ten minutes to convince them I wasn’t you.”
“Damn, they’re still there? I was hoping they’d given up by now,” I mumble. “And I’m sorry, Shelbs, really. I wasn’t ignoring you — I ducked out of work early and went to Crumble, that new cupcake-slash-coffee shop on Beacon, to stuff my face and clear my head for a few hours. My phone died and I didn’t want to risk going home to charge it.”
Some of the anger fades from her expression and she flops down on the sectional beside me. “Well, whatever, you still could’ve called from Chrissy’s phone. I’m so out of the loop.”
“She only got here like five minutes ago,” Mark says, coming to my defense.
“And she hasn’t even told us anything,” Chrissy adds, glaring at me again. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Christ,” I mutter, taking another large swig of wine.
“He won’t save you now.” Shelby’s eyes are gleaming. “Spill, bitch.”
I sigh.
Then, I spill.
***
Forty-five minutes later, it’s totally silent in the apartment. Chrissy and Shelby are staring at me with identical expressions of stunned disbelief. Even Mark, who’s usually unruffled, looks a little shocked.
I can’t blame them. I’ve laid it all out there, every single mortifying detail of the trip to what I’ve only just learned is Croft Tower. (That particular tidbit would’ve been helpful to know before I arrived on the 29th floor.)
“Well?” I ask, swallowing hard. “What do you think?”
For once, Chrissy and Shelby are at a loss for words. Surprisingly, it’s Mark, who jumps in first.
“I think he’s a Grade-A asshole, and he better hope we don’t cross paths in a dark alley. Billionaire or no, I’d be more than happy to introduce my fist to his face.” His expression is dark.
“Mark!” Chrissy exclaims, turning to her husband. “Honey, don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?”
“No,” he mutters decidedly.
“But you’re a pacifist! You marched in the Peace Parade last spring,” Chrissy reminds him.
“And didn’t you write an Op-Ed in the Herald around Christmas, campaigning for a reduction in televised violence during primetime?” Shelby offers.
Mark shrugs off their words. “Did you not hear what he said to Gemma?”
“Well—”
“But honey—”
“I know men like him.” Mark cuts them off. “The type of men who think they own whatever woman they’re with, because they have X amount of money or power or influence.” He shakes his head swiftly, his eyes on mine. “He’s not the kind of man for you, Gem.”
“I know that,” I say, my voice wavering a little. “But you don’t have to worry. Men like that don’t go for girls like me, anyway.”
In unison, three sets of eyes narrow on me.
“What?” I ask, startled.
“Do you own a mirror?” Shelby is staring at me like I’m a nutcase. “Seriously, do you?”
Chrissy sighs. “Gemma, honey, how many times do we have to tell you? You’re mega hot. Off-the-charts hot. Intimidating-to-most-guys hot.”
“Oh, please—” I protest.
“Mark!” Chrissy turns to her husband. “What, did you give that little macho speech and use up your daily quota of words?” She snorts in exasperation. “For god’s sake,