Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,4

Freaking Canyon and twice as deep.

We’re staring at each other, neither of us saying anything, when the crowd goes crazy. My attention snaps back to the game, just in time to see a Celtics player sink a three-pointer from what seems like an impossible distance. Forgetting the fact that I’m wearing an altogether too-skimpy dress, I’m instantly back on my feet, jumping up and down like a little kid and screaming at the top of my lungs. I think I hear Green Eyes laughing again but I can’t be sure over the din of the arena. I’m about to turn and check when a hand clamps over my right elbow and jerks me roughly back down into my seat.

I whimper a little when my tailbone slams against the chair, knocking the breath from my lungs and the wind from my sails faster than a pincushion popping a balloon.

“What the hell?” I squeak, my outraged eyes flying in Ralph’s direction. His hand is still clamped on my arm like a vise — it’s starting to ache.

“Have a little class, Gemma,” he growls, his expression disdainful as he looks me up and down. “You’re practically popping out of your dress.”

I try to shake off his grip, but it’s too tight. “Let go of me, asshole! You’re hurting my arm.”

He releases me with a disgusted shake of his head, then returns to his phone call. I watch as he wipes his palm against his pant leg, as though he has to rub off all traces of where my skin touched his, and I bite my lip so I won’t cry.

How the hell did I end up here, with this jerk?

I don’t need to look far for an answer. I know exactly how this happened.

Because I thought it was me. I thought I was the reason I was still single. That the flighty, kooky, quirky mess that is Gemma Summers was the reason no men in my life ever stuck around, or were worth sticking around for.

Now, I see I was wrong.

It’s not me — it’s them.

The truth is, all men are rat bastards. My father, the boys in third grade who blew spitballs into my hair, my ex-boyfriends — if you can even call them that — and now Ralph, who I’ve officially christened Rat Bastard Numero Uno.

The Rat Bastard to End All Rat Bastards.

And most certainly the last rat bastard I’ll be wasting my time on. After the final buzzer, I’m officially giving up men, buying several vibrators, and joining a convent.

Actually, I’m pretty sure those last two things are mutually exclusive, so…

Just the vibrators, then.

I want to get up and leave, but the game is almost over and I know I’ll never have seats like this again for the rest of my life. So, I cross my arms over my chest, the fingers of my left hand gently massaging feeling back into the flesh of my right arm where Ralph grabbed me, and angle my body away from him as much as possible.

Unfortunately, this means I’m seriously encroaching on Green Eyes’ space — my knees are practically bumping his thigh. Five minutes ago, this would’ve been fine — more than fine — but now, there’s the small fact that I’ve just given up men for the rest of eternity and, besides, after what Ralph just did, I’m so angry and embarrassed, I can’t meet anyone’s gaze, especially not when they look like they might be part of the Hemsworth brothers’ gene pool. My skittish eyes flit over his gorgeous, narrowed ones for less than a second before I turn my face straight ahead and resolve not to look at either of the men on my sides for the rest of the game.

It’s a good plan.

A great plan.

It totally would’ve worked, too — if not for something I’d never even factored in as a possibility. Because at the start of fourth period, during a quick break in the action, the massive jumbotron at center-court starts to flash with images of couples in the crowd. And those couples, cheered on by thousands of people inside the stadium, begin to kiss.

It’s so cute I actually forget about my dickwad boyfriend — soon to be ex-boyfriend — and start smiling again.

Well, until the camera swings down to the courtside section and lands on me.

Me and my dickwad soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend.

Dammit. I totally should’ve left when I had the chance.

Chapter Four

Enough

The camera’s locked on me, and it’s not moving. I catch a glimpse of myself on the huge,