Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,89
gentle-flowing tears turn to full-out hiccupping sobs as I get close enough to see, stacked neatly against the wall, more than a dozen blank canvases in various sizes. It’ll take me months to fill them all. Which can only mean…
He wants me around, in his life, for a long while.
My tears flow faster at the thought, until I’m practically weeping. I didn’t cry when I had to drop out of art school because I ran out of money. I didn’t cry when I fell off that damn motorcycle as a teenager and broke my leg. I didn’t even cry when Mom told me the true story of my parentage.
But this, what Chase has done for me, is enough to turn me into a leaky mess.
The easel has been set up in the sunniest spot in the office, with the prettiest vantage, directly across from Chase’s desk. In fact, it completely blocks his own view of the windows. Sitting at his desk, looking out, he won’t see the cityscape. All he’ll see is me, painting.
Oh.
I’m having trouble pulling in a full breath as my eyes move from his desk to my easel. It should be strange — messy art and practical business sharing the same space — but somehow they go together. The easel is finished in warm mahogany, a perfect match for the rest of the office, as though it was designed to match. Designed to stay.
My breath halts entirely at that thought, and I decide it’s a good idea to gulp down some coffee before I pass out from lack of oxygen. And perhaps locate some tissues before I turn into a living, breathing puddle of emotion.
Turning my back on the office, I find my way to the kitchen in a daze and flip on the coffee machine, doing everything in my power not to think about the beautiful easel or its spot in that beautiful office and especially not the beautiful man who put it there.
***
Lifting the coffee cup to my mouth with one hand, the other roots around the bottom of my purse, wincing as my fingers brush past several weeks worth of gum wrappers and half dried-out pens. I’ve just taken a sip when I finally feel the smooth plastic of my phone case. Pulling it from the depths, I press a button to power it on and nearly spit my mouthful of coffee all over the breakfast bar.
I have seventeen missed calls and voicemails.
Seventeen!
Fourteen of them are from Chrissy. Two are from Shelby. The last one is from my landlord.
I don’t bother listening to them. I just scroll to Chrissy’s name and punch the redial button. It barely even rings before the call connects and her voice crackles over the line.
“You are in so much trouble, Gemma Summers!”
“What did I do this time?”
“If you’d bothered to listen to the zillion voicemails I left you—”
“Which would’ve taken several years,” I point out.
“—you’d know that I saw the photos of you and Chase outside your apartment last night. You’re back in the city!”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “My mother, the traitor, called him from Rocky Neck. He came and brought me back early.”
She huffs, outraged. “And you didn’t even bother to tell me?”
“It was late. I didn’t want to wake you,” I hedge, avoiding a fight with her at all costs. There are so many hormones running through her veins at the moment, she makes most meth-heads look sedate — I am so not about to enter a battle I know I’ll lose. “And let’s just say, things didn’t work out so well when I got to my apartment.”
“Um, yeah, I saw the photos! Why the heck were the police there?”
“Rat Bastard Ralph got his revenge.”
“What?”
I sigh, take another large sip of my coffee, and tell her about my wrecked apartment.
“What a dick!” she screeches into the phone when I finish. “If I wasn’t seventeen years pregnant, I would totally find him and kick his ass! Actually, I could probably still kick that little weasel’s ass, even in this state. I may be the size of the Hood blimp and confined to bed rest, but he’s kind of a weakling. I can take him.”
I laugh, picturing Chrissy waddling down Comm Ave, her swollen ankles shoved into motorcycle boots, a leather jacket not quite closing over her protruding belly, on the hunt for my asshole ex-boyfriend.
“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary. Chase has it covered.”
She screeches into the receiver again, this time out of excitement rather than outrage, and I