Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,60

absolutely no idea why you aren’t currently ripping off every article of his clothing. With your teeth. Hell, if I weren’t married… Whew! The things I would do to that man.”

“You have a husband.”

“I also have an imagination. An active one.” Her eyes gleam.

“Gross,” I mutter. “And for your information, I have plenty of good reasons for staying away from Chase Croft — starting with the fact that all men are rat bastards and ending with the fact that a woman stopped by the gallery this morning and threatened me to stay away from him.”

“Bitches be crazy.” Shelby shrugs. “He’s been at the top of People magazine’s ‘Richest 50 Under 50’ list for the past few years — it doesn’t surprise me that women are trying to stake a claim, even if it’s not theirs to stake.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too… until she called his answering machine while I was in his apartment. He was in the other room, but I heard the voicemail pick up.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“She called him baby.”

Her eyebrows go even higher.

“And she called herself his fiancée.”

“What!?” Shelby explodes.

“See! He’s a rat bastard.”

“More like High Chancellor of the Rat Bastards.”

“Exactly,” I mutter, glad she’s finally on the same page.

She’s totally silent for a minute — uncharacteristically so — until she murmurs, in a soft voice totally unlike her usual deafening tones, “Sorry, Gem.”

“For what?”

“I could tell how much you liked him.”

I sigh, but don’t deny it.

I can’t.

Because she’s right.

***

My day quickly goes from bad to worse.

Around six, I grab the Red Line from Shelby’s place in Somerville back to my apartment, only to find approximately ten million reporters (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little) in front of my building.

I detour three blocks out of my way, circle around to the back, and begin to pick a path through the trash-littered alley toward the rear entrance… only to find another five million (possibly exaggerating again) reporters have finally caught on to my sneaky ways and are there, cameras at the ready, waiting for me.

A cry goes up when they spot me, photo flashes snapping so bright, my corneas will never be the same. The mob rushes forward, all screaming at the same time, their voices blending together into a cacophony that hits me in a solid wave of sound. Washing over me. Dragging me under. Drowning me.

And it’s annoying. Really annoying.

Because, the thing is, I’m an adult.

I do my own (headache-inducing) taxes, I pay (most of) my bills on time, I can tell the difference between Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon (a skill that eluded early-20s Gemma, who only ever drank wine if it came in a box) and I even watched Bigelow, Mrs. Hendrickson’s cat, for a week when she went to visit her grandchildren in Phoenix (and he didn’t die).

Point is, I’m an adult.

I’m equipped to handle a lot.

But I can’t handle this.

The battery of questions. The onslaught of camera flashes, click click click, immortalizing every one of my panicked expressions on a digital memory chip for the rest of eternity.

Gemma!

Look over here!

Gemma!

Give us a smile, love!

“I have no comment!” I say, over and over, in the vain hopes that they’ll believe me.

Gemma!

Is Chase your boyfriend?

Are you sleeping together?

“Leave me alone! I have nothing to say to you!” I scream, my voice breaking, my hands tearing and clawing like a wild thing as I try to push forward, try to reach my door. If I can just get inside, just get away…

A camera is shoved into my face, its shutter snapping down in a burst of clicks before I can throw my arms up to cover my face.

“Please.” My voice is scratchy with panic. With desperation. “I just want to go home.”

I try to push through again, but it’s no use.

The swarm is too dense. There are so many of them, crowding in from every direction, I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but cradle my arms over my head and close my eyes, as though that might make them disappear.

It doesn’t.

Gemma! Over here! Gemma!

Tell us about Chase!

Do you have a comment about the kiss?

Are you dating?

Look over here, Gemma!

Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!

GemmaGemmaGemmaGemmaGemma.

Their voices go static between my ears, suddenly distant, as if I actually have been dragged underwater. There’s a buffer between us — one made of fear and defeat — and I feel the breaths getting ragged in my throat as I struggle for air. I’m choking on my own desperation to escape, on my inability to get away, and everything fades out of