Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,43

way he touched its mane and brushed its coat down after our rides, that it was his favorite, though he never said as much.”

“Is there a point to this trip down memory lane?” I mutter impatiently, not wanting to talk about Chase or his devotion to his horse.

It’s hard to hate someone who loves animals.

Brett’s lips twist in the mockery of a smile. “My point, Miss Summers, is that when he realized I’d learned the stallion was his favorite, he did everything in his power to hide his affection for it. He’d only ride it at night, or when he thought I was away from the house. And if I was around, he made a point to choose another horse for the day.”

“But why?” I blurt, before I can stop myself.

“He wasn’t good at sharing — still isn’t, in fact. Always worried I’m going to steal his favorite toys, I suppose.” His smile gets bigger, a little more malicious. “Which brings us back to you, Miss Summers.”

I stare at him, waiting.

“His indifference toward you is just another act, to keep me away.” He shifts in his seat, a hawk adjusting his wings before descent. “Trust me.”

“Why would I trust you? I don’t even know you,” I snap.

Something flashes in his eyes — something I don’t like, as in, at all.

“You’ve got spirit.” He smiles at me, but it’s oily. “Then again, so did his stallion.”

I blanch.

His smile widens. “This is going to be fun.”

“What are you talking about?”

He continues as though I haven’t spoken, his gaze appraising. “You see, Chase is very controlled, in all realms of his life, but he has a temper. It’s his biggest tell.” He leans forward, just a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough to make me shy backwards in my seat. “He knows I’m watching. It’s only a matter of time. And even if I’m wrong, even if he truly isn’t interested…” His eyes scan down the length of my body. “I’m sure my efforts won’t be wasted.”

Ew.

Mega ew.

I rise to my feet, keeping my eyes locked on the coffee table. “Well, you’ve got my number, Mr. Croft, if you want to talk about a new piece for your collection. Otherwise I have to be going—”

“Sit.”

Suddenly, there’s steel running through his soft, honeyed tones.

My heart jumps in my chest and my eyes fly to him. He hasn’t moved so much as a muscle but he looks pissed, sitting there with one hand extended into the space between us. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s waiting for the binder I’m still clutching against my chest.

I swallow forcefully and make myself hand it to him, feeling like I’ve lost a vital part of my defenses when I do, and sink reluctantly back onto the leather couch.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the flipping of pages as Brett works his way through the binder, sometimes lingering over a particular piece but never seeming to dwell on any of them for long.

Damn. Estelle is going to be so pissed at me. This is twice in a row, now, that I’ve screwed up with a VIP. It won’t matter to her that none of this is my fault. The end result — Gemma spectacularly failing to broker any paintings — is the same.

The sound of the binder snapping closed makes me flinch.

“I’ll take both of the abstracts by Favre, and the still by Sartre — the blue one, on page 18.”

My mouth drops open. “What?”

“Did you not hear me?” he asks, his tone mirthful. “I said I want the Favre—”

“I heard you,” I say, my cheeks reddening. “It’s just… No. You can’t.”

His brow crinkles with amusement. “I can’t buy the paintings you came here to sell me?”

I swallow. “You’ve only seen their pictures.”

“And?”

“Don’t you want to see them in person?”

He shakes his head, amused.

I try again. “Don’t you want to hear about the artists’ backgrounds?”

Another head shake.

“But, Mr. Croft—”

“Miss Summers.” His voice is firm. “Did you come here to sell me art?”

After a beat of hesitation, I nod.

“Then why are you trying to talk me out the sale?”

“I…well….” I trail off.

“Good,” he says decidedly. “It’s settled, then.”

I sigh. “You didn’t even get to hear my sales pitch. It was good. Really.”

A smile tugs up the left side of his mouth. “I’d love to hear it. Unfortunately, we don’t have time today.”

“What do you mean?”

He opens his mouth to answer but before he can, there’s another knock at the door, seconds