Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,91

you go because I really have to pee and the last time I brought my cell into the bathroom, it ended up at the bottom of the toilet. And since I can’t really bend over… Let’s just say, Mark wasn’t a happy camper when he got home.”

I roll my eyes.

“Anywho, call me tonight!” she demands, clicking off mere seconds later.

Shaking my head in exasperation, I take another large swig of coffee and do my best to forget everything Chrissy just said. Because as outrageous and off-the-mark as she is, I can’t help but wonder if she’s also kind of…

Right.

***

Five hours later, I’m starting to understand why Chrissy is such a loon, these days. Half a day of house arrest, and I’m going out of my mind with boredom.

After hanging up with her, I called back my landlord, who didn’t answer, followed by Shelby, who did answer and, after a little arm-twisting, agreed to run a much-needed errand for me: shopping for some replacement clothes and dropping them off here ASAP. Which, in Shelby-time, means anywhere from ten to twelve hours from now.

In my short day of incarceration, I’ve showered, dressed in a pair of Chase’s boxer briefs and one of the too-big, ultra-white button-down dress shirts I found hanging in his massive walk-in closet, drank three cups of coffee, watched four reruns of FRIENDS on TV, and cursed everyone from Estelle for giving me time off, to Ralph for wrecking my apartment, to Chase for putting me under house arrest. I tried to paint, but my mind is too crowded with worries about too many different things to create anything worthwhile.

Eventually, I settle in on the couch and start reading The Art of War, mostly as a joke, a first, but after a few pages, I have to admit Chase was right — it’s kind of engrossing.

Not that I’ll ever admit that to him.

When the elevator chimes open around two, I jump to my feet so fast, the book in my lap tumbles to the ground. I’m barreling in Chase’s direction before he’s made it two steps inside the apartment.

“You’re back!” I yell, seconds before impact. I don’t slow when I reach him. At full speed, I hurdle my body against his — arms going around his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist — and hold tight. He grunts as my body-slam knocks the breath from his lungs, but his arms slide around my frame as he accepts my weight and pulls me close. Face tucked into the crook of his neck, I breathe him in and feel the low chuckle vibrate through his body.

“Missed me, huh, sunshine?”

I squeeze tighter in confirmation, pulling back to look into his eyes.

“No, I do this to everyone.” I grin teasingly. “I greeted Evan this exact same way when he came up to check on me at lunchtime. You should’ve seen his face.”

His eyes narrow on mine. “Very funny.”

I drop my forehead against his and let my eyes droop half-closed, my gaze locked on his mouth. It’s so close to mine, if I move just the tiniest bit forward, our lips will brush.

“Thanks for the easel,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome sunshi—”

I don’t even let him get the word out, because I can’t wait anymore. Suddenly, my mouth is pressed against his, my hands are twining into his hair, and I’m pressing closer, as close as I can get, until our bodies are flush together. He responds instantly, growling low in his throat as his grip tightens and his mouth claims mine in a passionate kiss.

With his arms beneath my thighs and his lips fused to mine, Chase crosses the apartment in quick, determined strides, carrying me into the bedroom and setting me down on his bed before I’ve even realized we’re moving. His hands are hungry, his kisses are lingering, as he stretches out over me.

“My clothes look good on you,” he mutters against the pulse point in my throat, where my heart beats a little too fast.

I crane my neck to give him better access, my nails digging into the crisp fabric of his shirt.

“Really?” I breathe, struggling to form coherent words with his hands on my body. “I think they’d look better on your bedroom floor.”

He doesn’t laugh, like I expected him to. Instead, his hands move, finding the hem of my shirt, and he tugs. Hard. Buttons fly in all directions as the fabric tears open, and I gasp at both the sound and the sudden feeling of his rough palms on