Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,57

at the gallery?”

I nod.

“Have you ever thought of putting your own paintings on display somewhere?”

My eyes cut to his. “What is this, an interrogation? Or perhaps a business inquisition, Mr. CEO?”

One side of his mouth pulls up in a grin. “Sorry. Bad habit.”

“Shrewd businessman pitted against unwitting artist,” I murmur. “The odds are not in my favor.”

He laughs, full out. “Fine. How about a fair trade — you answer one, I answer one.”

“Okay, but since I’ve already answered, like, five of yours, I get to ask you four in a row.”

“One.”

“Three!” I counter.

“One.”

“Two and a half!” I haggle, my voice rising.

“What exactly would half a question entail?”

I narrow my eyes and drop my voice low. “Two, final offer.”

“One.” He shakes his head, amused.

“Ugh!” I grunt. “You are so annoying.”

He chuckles again, the big jerk.

“Fine,” I grumble. “One.”

His grin widens.

“But I get to go first!” I demand loudly.

“I was always planning to let you go first, sunshine.”

“I don’t like you,” I inform him, cheerful despite the fact that I’ve just lost miserably at negotiations. You know what they say about bartering with a CEO…

Actually, come to think of it, I don’t know.

Is that even a thing people say?

It’s probably not a thing.

Moving on.

I make a big show of lacing my fingers together and stretching them, like I’m preparing to do battle. “Okay, let me think…” I stare at him, trying to keep my expression badass, but he’s grinning at me again and it’s doing a funny thing to my insides. “Oh! I’ve got one! What’s your favorite—”

The sound of a phone ringing cuts me off before I can finish my question.

Chase sighs, pulls his cell from his pocket, and glances at the screen.

“Fuck. It’s my CFO, calling about a new project. I have to take this.” His eyes lift to mine. “Will you wait here?”

I nod.

The phone chimes shrilly again. Standing, he starts to lift it to his ear, but pauses before answering, arm suspended midair. In a flash, his eyes return to mine and in a single, sharp move, he bends at the waist, plants his free hand against the couch next to my face, and, before I can blink, brushes his lips across mine in a soft kiss that leaves me breathless.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he whispers against my mouth, and I see his eyes have gone melty again. “We still have shit to discuss, sunshine.”

I gulp, knowing he means us and more.

“And, after that, I’d be happy to tell you all about my favorites.” His voice drops lower. “Maybe I’ll even show you a few of them, if you’re lucky.”

My heart flips in my chest, thumping wildly at the implication in his words. I just wanted to know his favorite city — the man has been to thirty-seven countries, after all — but I’m pretty sure Chase has something else in mind.

Something that involves me shedding more than just my self-control.

I start to lean forward, not wanting the kiss to end… and freeze when his phone rings again, loud and insistent.

With a final lip brush and a muttered curse, he’s gone, striding toward the archway across the apartment, rounding a corner, and disappearing from sight without a backward glance. He must have a private office in the space off his bedroom, because a minute later, I hear the sound of a door closing.

And then, I’m alone in Chase Croft’s penthouse — somewhere I never in my wildest dreams imagined I’d wind up — and thoughts, dangerous thoughts, about how this bossy, annoying, elusive billionaire might just disprove my theory that all men (Mark excluded, of course) are rat bastards, begin to flutter through my mind.

I press a hand to my stomach in an attempt to steady myself.

Damn. The freaking butterflies have multiplied again.

Chapter Eighteen

Baby

He’s gone for a long time.

So long, in fact, I forget to be polite, and start to wander.

I play with the fireplace remote, delighted to find you can not only adjust the temperature and size of the flames, but also the speed at which they dance on the grate and even their color. I flip from blue to red to orange to green, feeling like a four year old who’s learned to make the automatic car window go up and down.

Cool.

Well, actually it’s hot, but… you know what I mean.

Leaving behind my merrily-dancing magenta flames, I trace the felt-topped billiard table and lift a few of the heavy, striped pool balls from their pockets, each of which is engraved with the word CROFT in gold filigree