Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,61

focus as I slowly crumple into a protective crouch against the dirty pavement.

Gemma Summers, brought to her knees by the bloodsuckers.

Defeated.

How pathetic is that?

Suddenly, I register a break in the crushing wall of noise — a new voice, strong and steady, breaking through the din of questions.

I don’t look up, even when a hand clamps onto my bicep in a warm, reassuring grip. Only when I hear the familiar voice at my ear, do my eyes blink open and focus on the man staring down at me.

Steady brown gaze. Salt-and-pepper hair.

Evan.

“It’s okay, Miss Summers. I’ve got you,” he says, and there’s so much conviction in his voice, I believe him.

Without protest, I allow him to pull me to my feet.

“Stick close behind me.”

I don’t question him — I just tuck my forehead between his shoulder blades and follow as he cuts through the crowd. As we start to move, another man closes in behind me, dressed in solid black from his leather jacket to his badass motorcycle boots, and I somehow instinctually know he’s here, like Evan, to protect me.

The reporters fall back as we push forward and in less than a minute, I’ve been ushered up the three stone steps and am standing outside the doors, still flanked on either side by the towering men.

“The passcode, miss,” Evan prompts, his voice kind.

With a trembling hand, I reach forward and punch in the building code. There’s a short, mechanical buzz — the best sound I’ve ever heard in my life — and then the entry swings wide and I’m inside, the screams of the reporters cut off as soon as the metal door rejoins its frame.

The breath I’ve been holding for far too long escapes my lungs in a single, relieved whoosh as I turn and lean back against the wall, my eyes closed, just enjoying the silence for a long moment as the panic in my system slowly subsides.

“Are you okay, Miss Summers?”

My eyes open slowly, bringing the two men who’ve just saved me into focus.

“It’s just Gemma,” I say, my voice still shaken up. “And yes, I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

The two men nod in unison, but it’s Evan who speaks.

“Chase had us on standby here, in case you had trouble getting back into your building.”

Even his men call him Chase, rather than Mr. Croft.

I tuck that nugget of information away, ignoring the pang shooting through my chest as I process Evan’s words. I find myself torn between happiness and outrage at the fact that Chase had his men tail me.

See, he cares about us! the naive, optimistic half of my brain says.

…Just apparently not enough to tell us he’s engaged, the snarky, bitter half adds.

I ignore them both, focusing on the man in front of me.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

He smiles, his eyes flickering with warmth. “No need, Miss Summers.”

“Just Gemma, please,” I say, smiling back at him. My eyes slide to the other man who, now that I’m not in the throes of a panic attack, I see is younger, maybe early thirties, with a severe buzz-cut and eyes so dark, they remind me of staring down a well — eyes that, if you looked too long, you might just fall into, lost forever in their depths. “And you are?”

He stares at me, his face expressionless, those dark eyes measuring, and clears his throat. “Knox.”

“Is that a first name or a last name?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

O-kay. Moving on.

“Well, thanks for getting me inside.” I swallow. “I really appreciate it.”

Evan and Knox nod in unison again, which is kind of creepy, but considering they’ve just saved me and everything, I’m not about to call them out on it.

“Do you want us to walk you up to your door?” Evan asks.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary.”

He nods in acceptance and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a slim, brand-new cellphone. It’s the latest-generation iPhone, the one I’ve been salivating over for months but unable to afford. Holding it out for me to take, he says, “This is yours.”

My eyes fly to his. “Excuse me?”

“Chase wanted you to have it. His numbers are already programmed in, so you can reach him anytime.”

I stare at the phone like it’s a poisonous snake, about to leap from Evan’s hand and bite me. “I don’t want it.”

“Miss Summers, we have orders—” Evan begins.

“I don’t care,” I say flatly, my eyes returning to his face. “I don’t want it. You can tell your boss to stick it where the sun don’t