Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,88
He flinches when he feels it, as though a bullet’s hit his chest instead of a single drop of moisture. As though that tiny tear causes him physical pain.
I don’t let any more escape, and he doesn’t say anything.
He just holds me in the darkness, his arms so tight they’re almost painful, and lends me his strength.
It’s only later, much later, when my breaths have slowed and I’ve nearly nodded off to sleep that I feel lips brush against the shell of my ear and hear the echo of soft-rasped words, so distant I can’t tell whether they’re real or the fragment of a dream.
“I’ll stay, sunshine. For you, I’ll stay.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Burn
When I wake in the morning, Chase is gone. I register the absence of him — of his heat, of his scent, of the reassuring thud of his heartbeat — before I’m even fully conscious. Disappointment pumps through my veins as my eyes blink open, locking instantly on the empty space where he used to be. When I catch sight of the sheet of paper lying on his pillow, covered in neat lines of elegant, masculine script, I vault upright and greedily pull it close to make out his words.
Gemma,
You looked too peaceful to wake, no matter how much I wanted a kiss goodbye.
I’ll settle for hoping you’re dreaming of me, instead.
I have a business meeting across the city this morning, so I’ll be gone for a few hours. Make yourself at home. Evan is downstairs in the lobby — if you need anything and you can’t reach me, he’ll take care of you.
I called in a few favors and the press has agreed to table the story, for now. Pissing off the Crofts isn’t good for business — and when I told them just how pissed I’d be if they upset my girlfriend, they backed off. Very quickly.
I know yesterday was tough. But today will be a better day, sunshine. I’m sure of it. After all — no day that begins with you wrapped in my arms can possibly turn out to be anything but beautiful. I’ll see you soon.
Yours,
Chase
PS: If you get bored, check my study.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest as a grin spreads across my face, so big it makes my cheeks ache. Like a little kid with a note from the tooth fairy, I pull the paper close and hug it to my chest, feeling stupidly happy as his words melt through me, warming me from the inside out.
I’m not sure what’s better — the fact that he worked a miracle and stopped the story, or the fact that he called me his girlfriend for the first time in a freaking note, like he thought if he casually slipped it in, it might not give me heart palpitations.
God, he’s annoying.
Sort of. Kind of.
Okay, fine, he’s not annoying at all.
I throw off the covers, jump out of bed, and race toward the door on the far wall, which I know leads into his study. I’ve barely gotten the door open, barely even scanned the space, when tears spring to my eyes.
It’s an elegant room, with loads of windows, an imposing oak desk, and a gorgeous view of downtown, but I hardly spare it a glance. My glassy eyes are locked on the far corner, where, in a sunny nook by the windows, a stunning, antique wooden easel has been set up. There’s a blank canvas propped on it, waiting to be turned into art. A brand new set of oils sits at the ready, next to a big bottle of turpentine, a container of gesso, several brushes, and a new wooden palette. All the supplies I could ever need — including the ones I’ve never been able to afford at the expensive art stores — are there, crying out for me to use them.
He’s thought of everything.
It’s the best gift I’ve ever had, from anyone. Ever. There’s no way to repay him — I know from many years of scrimping and saving just how much all this costs. Not that he’d let me, even if I tried.
I’m shocked to feel water leaking down my face, a steady torrent of tears. The sensation is so foreign, it takes me a moment to realize I’m crying.
Me. Gemma Summers.
Crying like a wimpy little girl, for the first time in as long as I can remember.
I wipe moisture off my cheeks as I walk forward, my hands shaking as they sift through the materials he left me. My