Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,44
before it swings wide.
The Hulk is back.
“He’s here.”
“Right on time.” Brett laughs boyishly, but there’s a dark edge to it that makes me nervous.
The Hulk’s expression never changes; his voice never wavers above a low rumble. “Should I let him in, sir?”
Brett nods, his face still split by a grin. “Yes, immediately.”
The Hulk nods and disappears, the door clicking shut at his back.
My head swivels from Brett to the door and back again. “What’s going on?”
“We’ll meet again, in a few days, to finalize the sale, if that’s all right with you.” He phrases it like a request, though we both know I don’t have a choice about it. Rising to his feet, he buttons his blazer and circles the coffee table until he’s right beside me. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Summers.”
“You too,” I say automatically, staring up at him and feeling like my brain is ten steps behind whatever’s going on here.
He offers me a hand. “Come.”
Not wanting to be rude — after all, the man has just agreed to purchase not one but three pieces of art, which will make Estelle so happy she probably won’t fire me any time in the foreseeable future — I slide my hand into his and allow him to pull me to my feet. His cool skin sends a strange, squeamish chill up my spine.
“Thanks,” I murmur, as soon as I’m upright. I begin to pull my hand from his, when his grip tightens and he steps closer.
My heartbeat picks up speed.
“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Summers, I assure you.”
“It’s Gemma,” I blurt stupidly, at a loss for words and rational thought with those too-blue, too-intense eyes locked on mine, less than a foot away. “Just Gemma.”
Brett’s lips twist in a smile and he opens his mouth to say something, but before he gets a word out, the door to the study is thrown open with so much force, it rattles on its hinges. Startled, I nearly jump out of my skin as my eyes fly toward the entrance, fully expecting to see The Hulk standing there, green and raging, suit in tatters, ready to rip us to pieces.
Except it’s not him.
There’s another man standing there, seething, with flashing green eyes and a vein jumping in his jugular as he takes in the scene before him.
Chase.
And his narrowed, burning gaze is locked on my hand, still wrapped tightly in Brett’s grip.
Yikes.
Chapter Fifteen
Wild
For almost a full minute, there’s total silence in the study.
Chase and Brett have locked eyes in a stare-down of epic proportions and, though I’m still standing here with my hand stuck in Brett’s grip, I think they’ve entirely forgotten my existence. The hatred is so think in the air, it’s getting hard to breathe and I’m beginning to think things can’t get much worse — until Brett starts speaking. At which point, I realize clogged, tense silence is vastly preferable to the two of them actually communicating.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite cousin!” Brett says, grinning happily. “I’d ask what made you drop by, but I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
Chase’s jaw clenches tighter and he doesn’t bother to respond.
“Ah, so stoic, as usual.” Brett glances at me briefly, his eyes hooded. “Miss Summers and I were just getting…” He pauses. “…acquainted.”
I don’t look at him, but I can actually feel Chase’s anger. It’s palpable — pouring off him in waves, saturating the room around us. Brett doesn’t seem to notice — or, if he does, he simply doesn’t care. He carries on speaking, his tone cheerfully cruel.
“We were just making plans to meet again, to finalize our…” Once again, his beat of silence is artfully timed. “…transaction.”
Chase’s eyes cut to me — just for a fraction of a second, but the expression I see in their depths is scary enough to make my shoulders curl in on themselves. Hastily, I swing my eyes in Brett’s direction.
“Thank you so much for your business, Mr. Croft. I’ll be in touch soon to discuss details of the sale,” I say, hoping — stupidly — that once Chase realizes this meeting is only about art, he’ll cool down.
He doesn’t.
If anything, the room gets even tenser. So tense, I’m afraid to look at Chase. And, because I’m me, certifiable idiot of the century, I don’t keep quiet, as I clearly should in this situation. Instead, I keep talking and shove my foot even further down my throat.
“Feel free to call me at the gallery with any questions,” I prattle nervously,