This fluttery feeling in my stomach has absolutely nothing to do with how good he looks in that shirt, or how my skin actually tingles whenever he looks at me.
Nothing at all.
My eyes narrow, moving from the windows to the walls to the gleaming hardwood, taking it in with the practiced, professional gaze I’ve used countless times to assess artwork.
It’s clearly a man’s office — the furniture is all black, chrome, and glass. There’s a masculine feel to everything — sharp edges and angles — and there are no knickknacks laying around, nor are there fresh-cut flowers or any personal decorations. Sure, this could be because he’s still in the middle of a transition, but I don’t think so. I get the sense that if I come back in six months, when the construction workers and painters and renovators are gone, it will still look exactly the same as it does now.
Utilitarian. Pragmatic. Cold.
“Well, you’ve got a good space,” I say, swallowing. If he isn’t going to talk about our cumulative seven minutes in heaven last night, or that we almost ended up in bed together, or the fact that he’s brought me here under false pretenses, I’m sure as hell not about to bring it up. “And the white is definitely an improvement over the garish green the previous tenant used. Bleh. Just awful,” I murmur lightly. “Whoever picked that palette needs his eyes examined.”
“I’ll be sure to tell my uncle to make an appointment,” he says dryly, his voice thick with amusement.
My eyes fly to his and I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks.
There’s my damn Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome, acting up again.
“Oh, god, Mr. Croft, I’m so sorry.”
His eyebrows go up at my use of Mr. Croft but I keep speaking before he can get a word out.
My eyes are wide on his. “I swear, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I plow onward.
“You uncle’s taste is lovely—”
“No, it’s not,” he cuts me off, his lips twitching. “Why do you think I’m redesigning the space?”
“But—”
“Gemma.” He says my name in that deep voice and my mouth snaps shut instantly.
Shit.
“Do something for me,” he says, and it’s not a request.
I nod.
“My name is Chase — use it. Don’t call me Mr. Croft.” His voice is deadly serious — I can tell this is important to him, for some reason he doesn’t care to share.
I’m not even tempted to dive into his issues, right now, considering I’m drowning in my own, so I simply nod again and turn my gaze back to the walls. It’s far, far safer to examine the office instead of the man who occupies it — I know this like I know the street vendors outside Fenway Park will rob you blind for a freaking hot dog and a lukewarm beer on a summer day.
I clear my throat. “You’ve got a lot of white, in here. Negative space isn’t necessarily a bad thing — you don’t want to diminish the scope of the room or detract from the view — but with a few key art pieces, you can really complement the room’s overall tone.”
He doesn’t respond.
I walk to the window and look out at the ocean. In the summer, the harbor is packed with boats — we’re so high up, they’d probably look like seagulls bobbing on the water from this distance — but it’s still far too early in the year for sailing. Now, the water’s cold, sea green, and rough with whitecaps. If I squint, I can almost make out the lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor. I focus on it, pointedly ignoring the man at my back, whose very presence I can feel threaded through each particle of air between us.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask abruptly, still not looking at him.
There’s a beat of silence. “Until yesterday, I’m not sure I had one,” he says cryptically.
I’m so curious, I forget to ignore him. I turn, eyebrows raised.
He hasn’t moved from the desk. His eyes lock on mine, scanning my irises intently. “Today, I’d have to say it’s cornflower blue.”
Wait, what?
My knees actually wobble, going weak like I’m some kind of 16th century maiden, swooning at the words of a rapscallion. I quickly lock them back in place, simultaneously trying, and failing, to keep my eyes — which are, coincidentally, or maybe not so coincidentally, the same hue he’s just mentioned — from widening too much at his words.
“Oh,” I say flatly, feeling my pulse thudding out of control. It’s pounding so hard, he can probably see it moving my jugular vein.
His eyes drop to the column of my throat, flashing with some unreadable emotion — yep, he totally sees it — and then flicker back up to mine. “So, what do you have for me?”
“What?” I squeak, my voice helium-infused once more.
His smile goes lazy, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. They’re still a little too intense for my liking. “Art, Gemma. What kind of art do you have for me?”
“Oh,” I say again. Duh, you idiot. “Right. The art.”
His lips twitch.
I pull the portfolio away from my chest for the first time since I walked into his office, belatedly realizing I’ve been using it like a shield. I tilt my head down so he doesn’t see the blush heating my cheeks, and start flipping through the pages like my life depends on it.
“Maybe something abstract, to juxtapose with the clean lines of the space and the furnishings. Nothing too abstract, though, not crazy abstract, just abstract enough to offer a little balance.” I’m muttering to myself, flipping through more pages, looking for a particular piece I saw in the binder a few weeks ago. “It has to be masculine, obviously. Bold brushstrokes, strong palette. Maybe a Morellet, but something by Soulages would probably work better—”
“Gemma.”
His voice is low and close. I feel the hair rise on the back of my neck, as I realize he is no longer safely across the room, leaning against his desk. He’s somehow moved without my realizing it. I swear I can almost feel the solid wall of heat his body’s throwing through the sliver of remaining space between us. My mouth goes dry, words evaporating in an instant, and I keep my eyes on the pages in my hands, which are suddenly trembling.
“Yep,” I say breathily, not even managing to convince myself I’m unaffected by his nearness.
“Gemma,” he repeats, his voice even lower.
He waits until my reluctant eyes skitter up to meet his. It takes all my self-control not to step back when I see how near his face is — his eyes are millimeters away from mine, two pools of icy, unreadable emotion. I can’t look into them — it’s just too much — so my gaze drops to his mouth instead, thinking it might be easier to focus on.
I’m wrong.
He’s too damn beautiful.
It’s breaking all my rules.
See, I have this theory that humans are just living, breathing, talking forms of art, each crafted with a different technique and carved out of different materials. Each beautiful in their own way. And sure, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and totally subjective, and changes depending on your circumstance, yada-yada-yada… but most of the time, it’s pretty easy to classify people.
Like, okay, you know those women who are gorgeous and never know it? Or the men who pass quietly through life, handsome and unnoticed, never begging for attention or crying out for recognition?
Those are your watercolors.
And the loud, vivacious, gorgeous-and-they-know-it creatures, with bright lipstick and closets full of bold colors and outfits they never wear twice?
Acrylics.
The graceful, elegant, aging beauties you pick out in the crowd, or across the cafe, the lines on their faces telling a story you just know you’d want to hear, with so many layers and smudges, twists and turns, you’re not even sure where they begin?
Charcoals.
Then, you’ve got the big-picture-beautiful people, with the collection of interesting features that together make a beautiful face. They’re your oil paintings — best from ten feet awa
y and, at the end of the day, kind of funny looking if you lean closer and analyze all their elements separately.
But I’m quickly learning that Chase Croft doesn’t fit any of my categories. He isn’t a brushstroke on canvas, or bumpy layers of paint on a palette, or imperfect lines scratched inside a sketchbook. His features aren’t just gorgeous as a collective — he’s one of those annoyingly attractive people whose every feature is equally stunning.
He’s a sculpture.
Painstakingly chiseled into perfection over the course of years, until arias could be written about his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the freaking shape of his nostrils.
And me?
Well, I’m probably a finger-painting.
Done by a three-year-old.
Without supervision.
Anyway, my point is, when my eyes drop to his mouth, I’m annoyed — in a kind of squirmy, breathless way — to find it’s even more attractive than those eyes. And, well, since it’s so close to mine, and since I’m a deeply-flawed human with no control over her libido, I can’t help myself — my eyelids droop a little and my tongue darts out to wet my dry lips, my self-restraint and sense of propriety both fleeing in such close proximity to him.
He notices.
Chapter Eleven
Distraction
An ominous noise rumbles from his throat, and my eyes fly back to his, which seem to darken as I watch. He glances briefly down at my mouth and for one, crazy moment I think he’s going to kiss me again.
“Fuck,” he mutters suddenly, stepping back from me with purposeful strides and returning to his desk with one hand clenched into a tight fist by his side and the other massaging tension from the back of his neck.
I feel his retreat like a blow to the stomach — a flat-out rejection, hitting me hard and sucking the air from my lungs.
Gemma, you idiot. He’s already told you he doesn’t date. He’s warned you away, more than once. Last night was a fluke. Men like that don’t kiss girls like you. He probably only brought you here to make sure you don’t talk to the press about him, or stir the story into an even bigger media frenzy.
Suddenly, I’m pissed — mostly at myself, for being so affected by this man I don’t even know, just because he’s attractive.
Am I really that weak?
I don’t search too hard for an answer to my own question.
Instead, I take deep breath, staring at him with narrowed eyes, and tell myself to snap out of it.
“Why am I here?”
His eyes narrow too, sensing the abrupt change in my mood. “I already told you. I need some art — a service which, if I’m not mistaken, you provide.”
I flinch at the coolness of his tone, and a scoff escapes my mouth before I can stop it. “Bullshit.”
His expression flattens and his eyes start to glitter with repressed anger. I instantly get the feeling that he doesn’t have much experience with people challenging him.
“Excuse me?” he growls.
“You heard me,” I snap, feeling — foolishly — brave. “We both know you didn’t bring me here to broker pieces of modern French art. So, why don’t you just cut to the chase, Mr. Croft?”
I admit, I tack on the last part just to piss him off.
Eyes on my lips, he lurches toward me involuntarily, taking two steps away from his desk before he can stop himself, ready to cross the room and either kill me or kiss me silent — I’m not sure which. I watch, nerves swirling in my gut, as he freezes, realizing what he’s done.
Neither of us moves as he pulls a deep breath through his nose, his fists clenching so tightly at his sides, the veins pop out in his tanned forearms. A few short seconds pass, and he settles back against his desk, in control once more.
He clears his throat. “I preferred last night’s nickname.”
I stare into those namesake green eyes and jerk my chin a bit higher, not bothering to respond.
He reads the anger on my face for a long, still moment, until my skin is tingling beneath the weight of his stare and the air starts pressing in around me. Until I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m not going to talk to the press,” I say finally, my voice infused with strength I don’t feel.
His eyebrows lift and his voice has lost a bit of its lethal edge when he speaks again. “What?”
I swallow. “If you brought me here to pay me off or talk me out of spreading the story to the media, don’t bother.” My spine straightens and I snap the portfolio closed. “I wouldn’t talk to them even if they paid me.”
“Gemma, that’s not—”
“And frankly,” I barrel on, glaring at him full-out now. “It’s rude and insulting to assume I’d sell my story just to make a quick buck. I may not be a billionaire like some people, but I don’t want to be. I don’t want the attention. I can’t wait until all this blows over, and I can get my life back.”
“Gemma—”
“There were, like, a million reporters outside my apartment this morning. Did you know that?” I ask, my tone a little hysterical. His mouth opens, but I’m too riled to stop myself. “Of course you know that — you know my name, you know where I work. Hell, you probably know what I ate for breakfast this morning.”
His lips are twitching.
“I mean, seriously, it was just a freaking Pop-Tart! And not even a good one — it was a Trader Joes knock-off Pop-Tart with the healthy alternative frosting and the skimpy sugar-free filling inside. Totally not the same. And, honestly, I could’ve used the freaking sugar rush, because I had to sneak out of my building like my last two rat-bastard dates did before I woke up—” His eyes get a little scary, when I say this, but I’m so worked up, I don’t notice. “—And it is not as easy as it looks to navigate that back alley in these damn heels Estelle makes me wear for work. I know Boston is historical and all, but can we quit it with the freaking cobblestones, already? It is not the 1800s, anymore, people!”
I finally run out of breath — and words — and realize I’ve been pretty much yelling about sub-par breakfast foods and city infrastructure for the past five minutes to a man who is a virtual stranger, despite the fact that he’s had his tongue in my mouth. Twice.
The blush hits me, hard, and I pull a deep, mortified, gulp of air through my nose.
“Are you finished?” he asks, after a minute of silence, looking at me intently. I can’t help but notice, his mouth is twisted like he’s fighting another smile.
I nod.
He pushes off his desk and strides across the room, coming to a stop just inches away. His body language is aggressive, claiming the very air, as though my personal space belongs to him, not me. He stares down into my face, leaning forward so I can’t possibly miss his words.
“I didn’t bring you here to pay you off,” he says, and his voice is soft — not normal soft, though, soft in the way that thunder seems soft when a big storm is moving offshore, echoing out over the ocean. Safe, but only from a distance.
I stare at his chin, unable to meet his eyes. “So, why did you bring me?” I ask, my voice reedy with nerves.
He waits until my eyes flicker back to his, and then he does something that makes the breath catch in my throat. With one hand, he reaches out and pushes a tendril of hair that’s escaped my Estelle-inspired bun behind my ear, his fingers lingering in the space beside my face but never touching my skin. I’m statue-still, staring at him, waiting for him to break the silence because I certainly can’t — my throat is lodged with emotions I don’t want to analyze.
Breathe, Gemma.
“Chase,” I whisper, my stare never moving from his. “Why am I here?”
As soon as his name leaves my mouth, all the ice melts right out of his gaze, and he’s suddenly looking at me with something a lot like longing.
“I wanted to see if you were okay,” he says finally, his hand coming to rest against the side of my face. I feel the callouses of his palm and fingertips tracing my skin, the touch lighter than you’d ever think such a big man
capable of. I fight the urge to close my eyes and lean in, to rest my face in his hand and absorb his warmth, like he’s got the sun inside his skin.
His voice gets husky. “I’m sorry for creating chaos in your life. It wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s okay,” I breathe, frozen as I watch him lean a fraction closer.
He’s staring at my lips, I’m staring at his eyes, and we’re barely touching but somehow I feel him everywhere, on every inch of my skin, like this stranger who I don’t know from Adam is somehow more attuned to the strange Gemma-wavelength I operate on than anyone else has ever been.
And then he opens his mouth and says, “It’s a damn shame I can’t see you anymore.”
Hold on.
What?
What the what?
“I’m sorry?” I ask, breathless.
He’s still looking at my mouth, but at my words, his eyes drift back to mine. He reads the confusion on my face, and his hand drops away. “I can’t see you again,” he says, and I think there’s regret in his tone, but I’m a little too angry to process it.
Actually, I’m a lot too angry to process it.
“So, you dragged me here…. Why?” My voice is incredulous. “To make me feel like an idiot — sorry — like even more of an idiot?”
His face closes down instantly, his eyes freezing over into emotionless disks.
I spin away from him so fast, it makes me dizzy. My eyes lock on the door, and I race in its direction, fueled with anger and more embarrassment than I’d like to admit.
Rejected. Again.
Again!
It would be funny if it weren’t so humiliating.
“Gemma, wait—” His voice carries across the room, irritatingly composed.
“I’m out of here.” I spit the words from my mouth like venom. “Please, whatever this was, let’s not do it again.”
I’m reaching for the door handle, when a hand closes around my arm, the grip strong enough to halt my progress completely. I jerk to a standstill, glancing over my shoulder at him with narrowed eyes.
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