Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  I start to think maybe Chrissy and Mark were overreacting.

  Then, I get to my street.

  My feet slam to a standstill when I see there are at least three news vans parked in front of my walkup. Reporters are readying themselves, cameramen are circling, and men with large booms are positioning their equipment, as they undoubtedly prepare for a morning newscast.

  About me.

  Unless, of course, Mrs. Hendrickson in 1C finally got them to do a story on her cat Bigelow, who she swears can predict local weather patterns. Somehow, I doubt that’s the case.

  “Dammit,” I whisper under my breath, deliberating for a moment before realizing there’s absolutely no way I can go through the front doors without throwing gasoline on an already hot story. With a sigh, I cut down a side street and circle the block, praying none of the reporters were smart enough to camp out by the back-alley entrance.

  I do a little impromptu happy dance in the street when I round a corner and see my path into the building is clear from this side. Bolting to the rear entryway, I punch in the code and slip into the back hall. The door clicks shut behind me, closing out all the maddening pomp and paparazzi that seem to go hand in hand with Chase Croft — who, fabulous kissing skills aside, I’m beginning to think is a pretty big jerk for saddling me with all of this without so much as a warning. I guess now I have my answer to why he apologized for kissing me, last night.

  I heave a deep, incredulous sigh as I lean against the door.

  I’ve just had to sneak into my own freaking apartment like I’m sixteen again and my mom is asleep upstairs. True, this time I didn’t have to climb the trellis, but it’s still pretty damn annoying. I can’t help but think that if this — dodging cameramen and ducking through alleyways just to get home — is the new normal… I’m going to have to move to that pond in the wilderness, after all.

  Or maybe Tahiti.

  I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti, though if someone gave me a million dollars to point it out on a map, I’d be not a single cent richer.

  Whatever.

  Point is, the kiss last night was freaking awesome.

  But the aftermath pretty much sucks.

  ***

  I never wanted to be famous.

  I never wanted to be anything but boring, isolated, introverted Gemma — alone with her oil paintings, a few close friends, and a near-deadly caffeine habit.

  I’m happy with my life, for the most part.

  Okay, I admit, the last few months of dating Ralph haven’t exactly been a highlight, but up until then I’ve been pretty damn content. Great friends, solid job, rent-controlled apartment…

  I’m (mostly) living the dream.

  Since my own art doesn’t pay the bills, I work full-time at a gallery downtown called Point de Fuite, which sells extremely expensive, modern French art to edgy entrepreneurs, patronizing — yes, in both senses of the word — socialites, and rich businessmen who are always on the lookout for the next Monet or Renoir.

  Sure, I’d rather live entirely off profits from my own paintings but until that happens — until I actually get up the nerve to show my art to people who aren’t Chrissy, Shelby, or my mother — I’m content to broker other artists’ work five days a week. Estelle, the gallery owner, is bossy and a little too obsessive about paperwork, but she’s not the worst boss I’ve ever had (I’m looking at you, supervisor Talia from that coffee shop on Newbury) and she’s pretty understanding about most things.

  Except personal days.

  See, she doesn’t really believe in them, unless they’re on the schedule two months in advance. So, when I called the gallery this morning, hoping she might take pity on me and give me the day — or the week — off to hide beneath my comforter until either A. The media get bored and go home or B. I run out of food in my pantry, she said no.

  Well, actually, she said, “Pas question! Absolument pas.”

  In any case, that’s why I’m here, at Point de Fuite, praying none of the reporters camped outside my apartment noticed me sneak out the back door and followed me here. Though, I guess it’s only a matter of time before they figure out where I work, too. I can only hope this whole thing blows over before they start digging too deep into my past.

  Estelle is decidedly unsympathetic.

  “The world doesn’t stop for anyone, ma chérie, even billionaires.” Her face, faintly lined from years of laughter and sunshine, crinkles in a grin.

  “Oh, jeeze, Estelle, not you too.” I groan. “You saw the video?”

  “Everyone on the planet saw the video, darling,” she says, clucking in amusement. She smoothes one hand over her graying hair, which is swept back in the elegant twist she’s worn every day since I met her two years ago, then claps her hands three times in quick succession. “Now, we’ve had a special request from a new, high-profile client. Apparently, the family business has changed hands, and they’re redecorating their offices with an entire new spread of artwork, furniture, paint, and god knows what else.”

  I lift my brows, wondering how this possibly concerns me.

  “You’ll bring a portfolio to the office later this afternoon, and show the interior designer some images that might complement their updated space.” Estelle walks behind the glass-topped counter, her floor-length blue skirt flowing behind her with each graceful step. She pulls out one of our portfolio books, which contains full-color images of all our artists’ works. Usually, we only use them for reference when we’re ordering a new series to display in the gallery, but now, Estelle passes me the binder with a meaningful look. “Hopefully, they’ll like what they see, Gemma.”

  I know very well she actually means, If they don’t like what they see, you’re in deep shit, Gemma.

  I take a breath. “But, Estelle, we never make house-calls. I thought the whole Point de Fuite philosophy was to bring the clients to the art, not the other way around. Haven’t you told me a million times that someone who buys art without seeing it in person is…” I stop and think for a moment, trying to recall her words, and force my voice into a terrible impersonation of her own. “…bête comme ses pieds.”

  She shakes her head at my poor pronunciation, but her expression turns wistful as she glances from the portfolio to my face.

  “Ma chérie…” She laughs heartily, her eyes warm. “If someone wants to spend nearly a million dollars purchasing an entire series of our paintings… philosophy be damned. I’d be the stupid one, if I stood in the way of that.”

  I stare resignedly at the portfolio. “Fine. I’ll go. But if I’m hounded by a million reporters on the way there, dart into traffic to evade them, and end up dead…” I heave a heavy sigh. “You’ll be sorry.”

  “And, somehow, the French are accused of being more melodramatic than you Americans.” She makes a tsk sound. “But you’re correct, I will be sorry.”

  I start to smile. “Really?”

  “Of course. Do you know how long it took to train you?” She quirks one eyebrow at me, her lips twitching in amusement. “And I’ve just spent all that money on your new uniform. A new girl might have entirely different measurements…”

  “Hah! Hysterical,” I grumble, tugging at the hem of my dress, grabbing the binder off the counter, and stomping away to find my matching blazer. Estelle’s tinkling laughter chases me into the back room.

  ***

  As I make my way across town, praying no one recognizes me, I do my best to put all thoughts of Chase out of my head. The fact that I can’t seem to shake him off is more than a little annoying because, well, as conceited as it sounds, it’s never happened to me before. I’ve never felt this tingly-all-over, stomach-churning, heart-in-my-throat, electricity-in-my-skin feeling — and certainly not over someone who’s made it clear he doesn’t want to be with me, even in the naked, biblical sense of the word.

  I’d like nothing more than to chalk the nervous butterflies in my stomach up to the media frenzy and the stress of last night’s breakup, but I can’t. The truth of
the matter is, Chase’s brush-off bothered me. Bothers me.

  More than I’d like to admit.

  I know it doesn’t make sense. Just as I know four rounds of Two Truths and a Lie, two lingering kisses, and several sexually charged stares does not a relationship make. Not that I even want to be in a relationship at all, with anyone, especially not if his name rhymes with debase.

  Unfortunately, saying this to myself over and over as I ride the Orange Line is not the same as believing it. After twenty minutes, when I’ve nearly reached my destination and I still can’t get him out of my head, I’m ready to bash my face against the glass train window, if it means putting an end to the torture of my own thoughts.

  I’m not this girl — the one who obsesses over a guy she barely knows, who can’t stop fantasizing about the potential of a stranger. I don’t even recognize this girl.

  I’ve never been a believer in the perfect happily-ever-after. Never listened to the scores of people who’ve been shoving fairy tales down my throat since I was a little girl, one Disney movie at a time.

  Someday your prince will come, and you’ll ride off into the sunset…

  Yada, yada, yada.

  The way I see it, everyone’s been telling the story wrong. I mean, take Cinderella, for example. She never asked for a Prince, let alone waited around for one. Hell, all she ever wanted was a night off from work and a fancy dress to twirl in for a few hours. It’s never made sense to me that I’m supposed to sit around pining for some mythical Prince Charming to get off his ass and rescue me. If that’s the grand game plan, I could end up waiting forever. Because, I mean, if he’s anything like the rest of the male population, the prince is probably stuck in traffic somewhere, or got lost along the way and is too damn stubborn to ask for directions.

  Point is, I’ve always known there was no fairy godmother in my future. No princes or perfect fairytale endings, either. Which just makes it infinitely more frustrating when, to my great dismay, images of myself in an empire-waisted dress, combing my seventy-foot-long locks of perfect hair while singing to my bird friends, start to play in my mind. Because, in these hallucinations, the score swells to a crescendo and suddenly, there’s a man on a horse charging toward my tower, wearing those weirdly hot leggings, and he looks suspiciously familiar, with a head of blondish hair and green eyes so deep, you could swim in them.

  God dammit.

  I’m so totally screwed.

  ***

  “Right this way.”

  Anita, the severe-looking secretary in a pencil skirt and pumps, gestures sharply at me before turning from the lobby and heading down a wide hallway to the left. My eyes scan the space as I follow after her, glad I didn’t have to wait more than a minute or so in the reception area, which, at the moment, contains not a single piece of furniture. Until this point, I’ve been hovering uncertainly on the threshold of the 29th floor elevator banks, feeling awkward as a Girl Scout selling cookies to a crotchety neighbor.

  It’s clear the offices are in the middle of a huge renovation — outdated colors, fabrics, and furnishings have been ousted in favor of clean lines, modern touches, and a tasteful, rather than tacky, color scheme.

  The walls are bare, but half-painted with a fresh coat of warm ivory-toned paint. As we walk down the hallway, passing empty rooms on either side, I can see the painters have yet to finish replacing the deep, depressing green that previously covered every inch of the office. I wince as I spot the clashing emerald carpeting stretched wall-to-wall across the floors.

  I suppose it’s true — money really can’t buy class — because whoever designed the original office had terrible taste, despite the fact that they could afford to rent the second-highest floor in this towering, Financial District skyscraper overlooking Boston Harbor and the Atlantic. A space like this, with a view like that, doesn’t need bold colors or heavy furnishings — it should be light, airy, floating among the clouds.

  I feel an instant appreciation for the new designer, who clearly recognizes this fact, if the warm, white colors replacing the previously Oz-themed walls are any indication. This sensation only grows as I step lightly over scraps of ripped up green rug scattered around the hallway, and catch glimpses of the beautiful, if unfinished, hardwood floor the renovators have unearthed beneath.

  It’s already an improvement.

  Anita leads me to the end of the hall, stopping before a set of huge, French-style doors crafted from beautiful opaque glass. I look at her expectantly, but she says nothing.

  “Is the designer in there?” I ask eventually, clutching the portfolio a little tighter against my chest.

  Without a word, Anita nods, turns on her heel, and disappears back down the hallway, the expression of aloof-distaste on her face never wavering.

  “Thanks!” I call after her, rolling my eyes.

  Way to throw me to the wolves without an introduction, Anita.

  I take a deep breath and try to compose myself, unsure why I’m suddenly so nervous. I’m fully capable of talking about art with a stranger for a few minutes. Hell, I do it every day. And, given the number of paintings I’ve sold in the past two years, I’m actually pretty freaking good at it.

  Smoothing my hands over the form-fitting black dress and sharp, matching blazer Estelle makes all her female brokers wear, I set my shoulders back, curl my right hand into a fist, and rap three times on the door.

  I don’t panic when a deep, male voice calls, “Come in.”

  I don’t panic when my hand closes around the handle.

  I don’t even panic when the door swings open and I take two shuffling steps into the office, allowing my eyes to scan the magnificent space in a probing, appreciative sweep.

  But then, my gaze lands on the gleaming glass-and-chrome desk — along with the man sitting behind it, whose green-eyed stare is evaluating me with the same critical eye I’ve used to measure his office — and all that composure flies right out the window, falls down 29 stories, and lands on the sidewalk with a sickening splat.

  And I panic.

  Because Chase Croft is sitting behind that desk, staring at me like the freaking proverbial cat about to swallow a helpless canary.

  In case that was too metaphorical for you…

  Yep. I’m the damn bird.

  Chapter Ten

  Blue

  “Hi,” I blurt, as has become my unattractive yet involuntary reaction whenever I see this man. I hear the distant click of the door closing at my back but, frozen just inside the threshold, all my concentration is focused on the man staring at me from across the room.

  He smiles — a lazy, confident grin — and his voice is soft, a verbal caress, when he speaks. His gaze though, is alert as ever — intense, unwavering, active, as he watches me enter.

  “Hi.”

  His voice rumbles across the open space, deep and magnetizing, and suddenly, I’m fighting the urge to squirm as I stand there, gripping the binder so hard my knuckles have gone white. There’s quiet for a moment as we stare at one another, the air heavy with unspoken questions — the loudest one being, what the hell am I doing here?

  Finally, I realize that he’s not going to shatter the silence, which is a little infuriating considering he’s clearly orchestrated this entire encounter.

  “You figured out where I work,” I manage to say.

  His eyes are still serious, working with thoughts, but his lips stretch in a baby-I’m-a-billionaire-what-did-you-expect grin. I get the sense it’s an act, to make himself appear less threatening than he is, like a lethal cobra throwing up his hood to mesmerize and distract its prey before a kill strike.

  It makes me feel vulnerable, manipulated, intimidated — even angry. And I’m not typically an angry person.

  My hip juts out with what little sass I can muster.

  “You brought me here,” I say in a voice that’s aiming for snarky but falling pathetically short.

  He nods.

  “Why?” I say, practically squeaking.


  God, I sound like I’ve ingested a balloon-full of helium.

  He rises from his leather chair, rounds to the front of his desk, and leans casually against it with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks even better dressed up than he did in jeans and a tee, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. His muscular torso fills out his white dress shirt like it was custom made for him — then again, he’s a billionaire, so it probably was. He doesn’t have the normal, businesslike CEO look — no tie, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows — but anyone who steps inside this office would be a fool to doubt he commands the space with absolute authority. He saturates the room with power, just leaning there looking at me. My heart’s tempo kicks up a notch as my eyes lock on the tanned slice of skin peeking out at his collar.

  “You sell art,” he says casually.

  My throat convulses and I actually see him make note of its movement in his mind. Ignoring that, I force myself to form words.

  “Yep.”

  Okay, not words, plural. Word, singular. Because that’s all I can get out, at the moment.

  He looks like he’s burying a grin. “Well, it just so happens, I’m in need of some art.”

  I stare at him blankly, feeling like my brain has entirely disconnected from my body.

  “You might’ve noticed, I’m redecorating.” He gestures vaguely in the direction of his office.

  “Yep,” I say again, nodding as my eyes follow the sweep of his hands. I’m not really interested in looking around his office, but I can’t spend another second staring at him, or I’m going to spontaneously combust from what I tell myself is sheer mortification.

  Not attraction.

  Definitely not.

  I’m just embarrassed I threw myself at him last night, when he was a stranger, when we were two ships, passing in the night. Now, in the harsh light of day, I’m understandably uncomfortable.