Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,58
letters. A bit excessive, in my opinion, but considering I’ve never played pool in my life, I’m not one to judge.
I skim my fingertips along the glossy oak table, wondering with vague curiosity if Chase has ever had a dinner party with enough guests to fill all sixteen seats. Probably not a Croft family gathering, that’s for damn sure.
Finally, I reach the bookshelves — which, if I’m being honest, were really my destination from the beginning — and start to work my way through his collection. It’s vast — everything from classics to modern literature, poetry to nonfiction. Books on business practices sit next to tomes on medieval archery; slim travel guides are shoved in next to glossy-paged photography books. There’s no rhyme or reason to their placement, which sends a happy thrill shooting through me; they look like my own messy, disorganized, well-loved shelves back in my apartment — though I’m nearly positive he paid more than the twenty bucks I spent at a flea market for mine last year.
My fingers move gently, stroking the spines with a reverence I reserve only for the true loves of my life — words and works of art. For a good long while, I’m totally entranced — plucking out volumes, skimming their covers, inhaling their scent. Is there anything on earth that smells as good as the pages of a book — new or old?
I swear, they should bottle this stuff and sell it as perfume.
After a few minutes, I finally find what I’m looking for — a thin, off-white volume with a cracked spine and bright red lettering.
Sun Tzu.
Grinning, I pull it out, flip to the first page, and make my way toward a comfy-looking armchair by the windows. I’m so engrossed I barely register the sound of a phone ringing on the small table to my left. I jump about a foot in the air when the landline answering machine picks up and a sultry, unmistakably feminine — and unmistakably familiar — voice starts blaring from the speaker.
“Chase, baby, it’s Vanessa.”
I still completely at the sound. That voice — it’s the same one I heard just this morning at the gallery, hissing at me from the blonde’s perfect mouth. In all the drama with Brett, I’d completely forgotten about her — and what her presence in Chase’s life might mean.
A quick glance behind me confirms he’s still locked away in his study, in the throes of a business call.
“Why haven’t you called me?” the blonde continues, sounding clingier than plastic wrap. “You’ve been back in the city for weeks. I expected a call ages ago.”
Apparently she doesn’t reserve that bitchy tone for accosting perfect strangers — she’s just as uppity, talking to answering machines.
“You know I don’t like waiting.”
I don’t know Chase all that well, but it’s really hard to imagine he’d date a woman this whiney. Plus, she did just say he hasn’t called her… so, maybe they’re just friends, or he dumped her and she can’t let go.
Honestly, it shouldn’t matter to me who this woman is, because it’s not like Chase and I are together, or anything.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
Her voice drops lower, getting even more seductive. “I miss you, baby.”
Okay, maybe she doesn’t sound whiney at all.
Maybe she sounds exactly like she looks — tall and thin, with lots of hair and perfect skin.
Damn.
“I shouldn’t have to chase you, Chase,” she murmurs across the line.
Clever.
“I mean, baby, I’m your fiancée.” She huffs. “Don’t I deserve better?”
Every muscle in my body goes completely still.
“Think about it, baby,” she says, then clicks off with a wet, lip-smacking muah! noise.
The book in my hands falls to the floor as I listen to the sound of static over the line, trying not to throw up as all my fears that Chase Croft is just like every, single other rat bastard man in my life come true, hitting me with one swift kick to the gut.
All those stupid, hopeful butterflies swarming in my stomach die on impact.
***
I don’t think about it.
I just grab my purse from where I left it on the coffee table and bolt, choosing not to analyze the feelings of extreme disappointment and regret coursing through my veins. Leaning back against the elevator wall, I keep my eyes closed for the duration of my ride down to the first floor, trying not to remember another elevator ride, just an hour ago, which ended with my legs around Chase’s waist and his tongue in my mouth.