Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,53
to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way to a girl’s is through a good book. Or, in this case, a bazillion good books. And, as much as I’d like to confirm that he really does have that copy of The Art of War on his shelves… I’m just not willing to risk it.
A massive kitchen dominates the space to the right. Gleaming copper pots and pans hang from a ceiling rack, an impressive collection of knives are displayed on a metallic wall-strip above the stainless sink, and a giant refrigerator which probably holds more food than one man could ever eat in a lifetime sits unobtrusively in the corner. It’s a stunning set-up, as is — but the real shocker, the part that makes me lose my breath, is that it looks like someone actually cooks here.
It’s not just some model kitchen, used as a prop for those whose dinners consist of Chinese takeout and dry martinis (I’m looking at you, Chrissy). There are dishes in the sink, garlic peels on the counter, a half-eaten baguette still sitting on a thick wooden cutting board.
“You cook?” I ask, without turning around. My words are soft, but he hears me.
“It’s a hobby.” His voice is low, close, barely two feet away.
“Of course it is,” I say snottily, to cover my discomfort at his nearness.
Ugh. He’s probably a great chef. I’m not sure why I find that so annoying. Probably because he’s already pretty perfect in every other regard. There should be some kind of rule that says supremely attractive people aren’t allowed to have any other skills. It’s not fair to the rest of us.
He chuckles. “You’re cute when you’re mean, you know.”
I pointedly ignore his words, walking away from him until I reach the vast spread of windows. To my surprise, I recognize the view instantly.
“We’re at Croft Industries.” Surprise colors my tone. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“You live here? Above the offices?” I turn to face him, startled when I see he’s followed me across the apartment, his steps so silent I didn’t hear him approach. Our eyes lock and my stomach clenches, its movement unfortunately doing nothing to kill the flurry of butterflies who’ve apparently taken up residence there.
Chase nods. “Just moved in a few weeks ago, when the renovations finished. In fact, you’re one of my first houseguests.”
“Oh,” I say softly, staring at him. For some reason, I find that infinitely sad — all this space, and no one to share it with. “Does that mean you’re officially the new CEO?”
He nods. “There’s a black-tie gala on Friday night — Jameson is planning to make the announcement after dinner. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be attending.”
“Don’t want to wear a tux?”
“Don’t want to see my family,” he corrects. “Usually, I avoid these things at all costs, but it seems I can’t get out of this one.”
“That’s the trouble with being the guest of honor, I suppose.”
He nods. “The whole Croft family has to make an appearance, along with a hundred or so business associates and friends of the family. Plenty of press, too.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
“I’ve got a lot of emotions when it comes to events involving my family members,” he says, his gaze steady on mine. “None of them are excitement.”
I find it infinitely strange that a man with such clear disdain for his family could simultaneously show such loyalty to them.
“Why come back at all?” I ask softly. “If you were happier during those years away…”
“It’s complicated.”
I don’t doubt that — every bone in Chase’s body is complicated, right down to his littlest finger.
“Chase…”
His eyes go liquid as soon as I say his name.
The butterflies in my gut go crazy.
“What is it, Gemma?” he asks, his voice husky.
It’s there, on the tip of my tongue — the desire to ask him if he’s lonely, if he needs someone to talk to, if he needs a friend… but I worry it’ll be too much, too fast. Crossing lines I’m not even sure I’m allowed to cross.
“I’m sorry about Titan,” I whisper instead, wanting to reach out and grab his hand but resisting the urge. “I didn’t get to say that, before.”
His eyes get warm — warmer than I’ve ever seen them, so warm I worry I’m going to melt into a puddle at his feet if he stares at me like that for much longer.
“Still mad at me?” he asks, his eyes dropping to focus my lips. I know he’s thinking about the elevator — hell, I’m thinking about