Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,76
can go upstairs to your apartment, take off some clothes, stay at your place, and get in your bed.” His nose bumps mine. “Either way, this is happening.”
Before I can explode at him for obliterating all previous records of overbearing alpha-maleness, he shoves open my door, pulls back from my body, and slides out the driver’s side into the street. I’ve barely had time to blink, when he’s rounded the front of the Porsche, yanked my door fully open, and pulled me onto the sidewalk with him.
I vaguely register that he’s got my duffle strap slung over one shoulder, but most of my attention is commanded by the news van slamming to a halt in front of my building.
Not again.
“Fuck,” Chase curses. “Let’s go.”
And then, we’re running for the door, laughing and swearing as we bound up the front steps, the reporter yelling at our backs.
Chase! Gemma!
Look this way!
There’s a blinding camera flash in my peripherals but I ignore it, keeping my eyes on the keypad as I punch in the building code and push my way inside, Chase close on my heels. When the door slams shut, I fall back against it, laughing breathlessly as I try to wrap my mind around the utter ridiculousness of my life since I met Chase. The more I think about it, the louder my unladylike snorts get, until tears are forming in the corners of my eyes.
“Gemma.” Chase steps closer, his expression wary. I’m practically hysterical, by this point, so I can’t really blame him for looking at me like I’m two clicks away from flying over the cuckoo’s nest. “Take a deep breath.”
My eyes meet his. “Paparazzi are camped outside my building again.”
He nods.
“Fourth day in a row.”
He nods again.
“They just spotted us together.” I’m laughing so hard by this point, I can barely catch my breath. “Which means they’re only going to get crazier.”
“Gemma.”
“They might as well move in!” I wheeze out between chuckles. “I think there’s a vacant apartment on the first floor, maybe they can turn it into some kind of snack-nap room, like on movie sets, where the reporters can all go to refuel between broadcasts. I mean, they’re here so often, now, it’s just practical—”
My words are cut off because suddenly, Chase’s mouth comes down on mine in a firm, no-nonsense kiss that steals the breath from my lungs. By the time he’s done, we’re both panting hard and I can barely remember why I was so worked up only moments before. It’s hard to remember my own name, with his hands cupping the sides of my face and his lips a hairsbreadth from mine. His thumb is gentle as he strokes the fragile skin beneath my eye, but his gaze is dark with passion.
“Better?” he asks gruffly.
I sigh. “This is never going to get more normal, is it?”
He leans a fraction closer, so his lips brush mine in the ghost of a kiss. “I hate to break it to you, but no. Nothing about my life is normal, and so long as you’re with me, yours won’t be either.”
“Am I?” I can’t help asking.
His eyebrows lift.
“With you?” I add.
“That’s up to you, sunshine.”
My eyes practically bug out. “Wait…”
His eyebrows go higher.
“You’re actually letting me decide something?” I ask, my voice teasing. “Someone get a calendar! Mark the date! On this day in history, Chase Croft actually conceded something to Gemma Summers!”
He grins, slips one arm around my shoulders, and pulls me away from the door. “Don’t get used to it,” he grumbles, but I can tell beneath the gruffness of his tone, he’s laughing.
When we get to the top of the stairs, I cross the landing to my apartment door.
“This is me,” I tell him, feeling a rush of belated worry as I realize I’m about to show Chase my apartment — my messy, minuscule, mismatched apartment, which, in its entirety, is smaller than the master bedroom in his loft. I don’t care much about that — but I feel sheer panic at the idea of him seeing my artwork.
It’s everywhere — canvas after canvas, tacked up on the walls, leaning against furniture.
All the paintings I’ve been too afraid to put on public display are suddenly going to be a prominent part of the Gemma Summers’ Apartment Tour. I might as well pull my still-beating heart from my chest and hand it to him — that would probably feel less personal.
Hesitating with my hand on the knob, I turn to face him.