Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,8
hall will make me think of Ralph, and the questionable things — girls — he did somewhere in my apartment.
Before I deal with that, I need several more beers and at least two bottles of Lysol to scrub every surface where his bare ass potentially rested as he boinked Susie from 3B. I just hope they did it somewhere unoriginal. Like the kitchen floor, which can withstand a thorough dousing of bleach.
And if not…
Come to think of it, I’ve wanted to move for a while now. And redecorate. And maybe burn every possession I own in a large sacrificial fire.
But that’s a problem for another day.
Right now, I need to get inside, preferably somewhere with a change of clothing and a lot of alcohol. And there’s only one place close by where I might find both of those things.
Chrissy’s.
I duck under an awning and peek into my wallet but, to my disappointment, no cash has magically appeared in the hours since I left my apartment. I know the funds in my bank account are dangerously low — too low to splurge on a cab, even if it means getting there faster and not having to take the subway in my current sodden state.
Alas… I’m broke.
Head tilted forward against the rain, I hug my arms around my torso and trudge onward to the closest T-stop. My Chucks are soon soaked through, the grimy puddle-water seeping through the soles so they make a sickening sluewp! noise with every step I take.
At this point, my night really can’t get much better.
Five minutes later, I finally spot the Haymarket station across the street. With a quick glance in either direction, I bolt across an empty intersection and beeline for the entrance. I’m nearly there, so close to making it out of the driving rain I can almost taste it, when a black town car slows to a stop on the curb by my side. My eyes swing involuntarily in its direction just as the darkly tinted back window slides down with an audible buzz.
I open my mouth, fully prepared to tell whoever’s inside that I am not, in fact, a prostitute working her corner, and that he can go straight to hell for assuming the worst in someone simply because she may or may not be wearing a tiny, tight dress, now fully plastered to her every curve thanks to the rainstorm.
Not a single word makes it past my stunned-silent lips.
Because sitting in the backseat of what appears to be a very expensive black sedan, his gaze locked firmly on mine, is Green Eyes.
“Hi,” I blurt dumbly.
“Hi,” he echoes, the hint of a grin on his lips. “Need a ride?”
Mind reeling, I glance from his car to the station entrance, considering my options for less than a second. A twenty-minute ride on a cold, plastic seat in a train-car full of judgmental stares and a lot of uncomfortable commuters? Or… a short trip in a toasty town-car with a stranger who, for all I know, is a serial killer but kisses like he’s part Greek-god?
It’s barely a question.
He sees the answer on my face before I’ve voiced it, throwing open the back door and sliding over on the leather seat to make room for me. I don’t even hesitate as I slip inside the warm space and settle back against the soft cushions with a relieved sigh.
***
Eyes firmly closed, I pull a series of deep breaths though my nose in a futile attempt to collect myself. Now that I’ve stopped moving, my emotions have finally caught up with me and I’m so full of anger, self-pity, embarrassment, and every other sensation under the sun, I’m not sure what I’m feeling besides overloaded.
I’m all too aware, however, that I’m a hairsbreadth away from losing grip on my last scrap of composure — it’s all I can do not to break into a fit of semi-hysterical laughter as soon as I’m out of the rain and settled inside the car.
The gentle sound of a throat clearing startles my eyes open.
Green Eyes.
“Here.” He’s shrugged out of his jacket without my noticing, and before I can object, he’s draped it around my shoulders like a giant blanket. He pauses for a minute before pulling away, tugging it close around my neck so his hands brush the bare skin there. His eyes, steady but guarded, never waver from mine as he settles his coat around me. For some reason, that gesture is more intimate than the two-minute make out