Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,7

than a preteen girl on her period.”

I flinch.

Ralph steps closer and his voice drops to the condescending whisper I’m all too familiar with. “I’d always heard artists were self-absorbed, but you…” He shakes his head and a smirk twists his lips. “Then again, can you really even call yourself an artist if you’ve never sold a single one of your stupid paintings?”

That’s low, even for him.

I try — and fail — to bite my tongue. “I don’t know, Ralph, can you really even call yourself a man if your sexual stamina hasn’t improved since your wet-dream years?”

“Good one, Gemma.” He smiles, but it’s laced with a cruel edge. “You know, Susie from 3B doesn’t seem to mind. And Emily from the building next door? She’s never complained. Especially not last night, when I nailed her in your apartment.”

I feel my face pale. The hand on my arm tightens reflexively, but I barely notice.

“Twice.” Ralph grins, beyond pleased with himself. “You know, Gem, you really shouldn’t leave your key under the mat.”

“You—” I swallow. “You were—”

“Cheating on you?” He takes another step forward, so only a foot or so separates us. “Oh, Jesus, Gemma. Did you really think we were exclusive? Hell, I would’ve ended things after our first date but…” He shrugs and his eyes drop lasciviously to my chest. “You’re hot. And you live ten feet from me. Doesn’t get much easier than you.”

The double meaning in his words is not lost on me. I feel myself beginning to fall apart, and bite my lower lip so the tears gathering in my eyes don’t escape.

Ralph laughs and leans closer. “These tickets were just the icing on the cake. The fact that I’ve been screwing you for the past four months—”

I never get to hear the rest of his insult because, in a motion so fast my eyes can barely track it, Green Eyes’ hand flies out and locks around Ralph’s windpipe in a bruising grip that cuts off all sound from escaping and all air from entering.

My mouth falls open.

Holy shit. I’d completely forgotten he was still standing by my side.

For a few seconds, Ralph tries futilely to escape, but when Green Eyes takes another step forward and drags his body up so he’s balanced on the tips of his sneakers, Ralph goes limp as a rag doll and his eyes flash with panic and fear. He looks like a terrified mouse caught in the paws of a massive lion.

Green Eyes is so tall, he has to lean down a half-foot to bring his face level with Ralph’s. His body radiates controlled power, but I can see his face is composed in a blank mask. Only his eyes, somehow simultaneously cold as ice and burning bright with fury, reveal the depths of his anger.

His face is centimeters from Ralph’s when he opens his mouth and growls one word that sends chills racing down my spine.

“Enough.”

Chapter Five

Something

I’m running.

Which isn’t the easiest feat in a skintight satin dress, let me tell you.

For the billionth time, I curse Boston’s cobbled, winding streets and crummy weather, which are making an already miserable moment even more painful. The sky is doing that half-rain, half-snow, not-quite-sleet-not-quite-hail thing, leaving me drenched and shivering in less than a minute.

I don’t care.

I’d rather be out here — I’d rather be in the seventh circle of hell — than spend another freaking moment in the stadium with every set of eyes locked on me and my dickwad, now-officially-ex-boyfriend. And Green Eyes. And the three security guards who swooped in as soon as Ralph went airborne.

I didn’t stick around to see the aftermath. I grabbed my jacket, turned on one heel, and bolted — out of the arena, into the cold April night — without so much as a thank you to the man who saved me from public humiliation.

Belatedly, I realize I should’ve just hopped on the subway — aka “The T” to everyone but tourists — at the Garden and headed back to my apartment, but I must’ve left my brain behind along with my shredded self-confidence, because now I’m out in the cold with a too-thin spring jacket and I’m not sure whether the moisture on my face is leaking from the sky or my eyes.

Plus, even if I go back across the river to my tiny, fifth-floor, one-bedroom in East Cambridge — the small neighborhood crammed between the MIT campus and Charlestown — I’ll never be able to relax. Not when a single glance across the