Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,39

über-wealthy, old-money, elite circles. I doubt they’ll be successful, no matter how many expensive pieces of art line the walls of their penthouse. It’s a poorly kept secret that if you aren’t Boston bred, with ice blue Yankee blood in your veins, you’ll never ascend beyond the bottom rungs of the city’s high-society ladder.

My eyes lift to scan the gallery space, moving from the high ceilings to the whitewashed walls to the giant skylights overhead, where light filters in like translucent honey. I’ve always loved it here — a good thing, considering it’s been my mandatory home away from home for the past few years. The constant changeover as art pieces move in and out, along with the influx of new clients, assures that every day is fresh, like the first brushstrokes on a blank canvas. It keeps things busy — and keeps me from going out of my gourd with boredom.

Never a dull moment at Point de Fuite.

Not that you’d know it, looking around right now.

The place is practically deserted. One woman came in while I was on the phone — I can see her wandering around, glancing fleetingly at paintings with about as much interest as I’d show a sheet of basketball stats, but other than that, the gallery is completely empty. I give her another look-over and feel dread creep up my spine. I can’t explain why — it’s like some deeply ingrained instinct is telling me, from just one look, that this woman is a snake in the grass. Something I’m biologically programmed to avoid at all costs.

I shake my shoulders, hoping to rid myself of the inexplicable feeling.

Maybe she’s a reporter, trying to ferret out a story before we throw her back onto the sidewalk with the rest of the press, who’ve finally figured out where I work. She certainly doesn’t look like she’s here to buy anything — everything from her confident stride to the exaggerated sway of her hips as she glides around the room, like she’s on a freaking catwalk, tells me she’s more interested in her own appearance than the art on the walls.

Oh well. Not my job to judge.

It is, however, my job to sell art, so I square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and skirt around the desk. My heels click softly against the marble floor as I cross to her. She hears me approach and when she looks up, the naked anger etched on her features makes me freeze in place.

Um…whoa.

I swallow, hoping it will dislodge some of the discomfort clogging my throat, and fall back on my years of customer service to guide me through this. My voice is bright and unwavering as I address her.

“Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

She’s around my age — immaculately dressed, with sky-high heels I could never walk in, her hair and makeup perfectly styled to highlight her already-beautiful features. Even glaring at me like I’ve just suggested she looks fat in those designer pants, she’s absolutely stunning.

“If you’re looking for something in particular, I can direct you there,” I try again. “Or, if you’re just browsing, I can give you some background information on our pieces.”

Her eyes narrow further and she takes a step closer to me. When she speaks, I’m unprepared for the vitriol in her tone.

“Stay away from him, bitch.”

My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she spits. “He’s mine. And I’m not about to let some little two-dollar tramp change that.”

“Are you talking about Chase Croft?” I ask dumbly, genuinely confused why this woman I’ve never met before in my freaking life is attacking me at my workplace. Clearly, if she thinks I’m a threat to her, she’s never looked in the mirror. Or watched the morning news, for that matter, because Chase made his feelings pretty clear in that video clip.

She doesn’t answer my question. With a hair flip and a scowl, she turns on her — very, very high — heel and beelines for the exit. Her strides never even bobble as she walks away, and I’m so stunned by that fact, I don’t even realize she’s leaving until she’s slipped out the front doors and disappeared.

What the hell?

I wander back to the front desk in a daze, mired in worries that my life is never going to get back to anything resembling normal. As I finish filing away the Scarpozzi’s paperwork, I simultaneously file away the strange incident with the blonde in the back of my mind, adding it to the stack