Shocking, I know.
“This is a disaster,” I mutter.
“Yep.” She sounds practically giddy. “There are lots of pictures of you — thank god you were having a good hair day — and they’ve all got delicious headlines like AFTERNOON DELIGHT — GEMMA SUMMERS SPOTTED LEAVING CROFT INDUSTRIES. It’s awesome.”
“Shelby!”
“What?”
“Nothing about this is awesome. I almost went blind from the camera flashes outside Croft Tower, I stubbed my toe on a fire hydrant while I was running away from the swarm of reporters, and the taxi driver I finally managed to hail charged me double because I made him take the long way here, so I wouldn’t be followed.” I sigh. “The story had finally died down, the paparazzi were just starting to leave me alone. And now…”
“Now, they totally know about your tawdry affair with the billionaire!”
My eyes crack open to glare at her. “It’s not an affair. We barely know one another.”
“You’ve kissed,” Shelby points out. “Twice.”
I blush. “Actually…”
“Ohmigod! Not twice?” she squeaks. “As in, more than twice?”
I groan again and throw my arm back over my eyes.
“You’ve been holding out on me, bitch!” Shelby latches onto my arm and pulls it away from my face. “Spill it like a glass of milk.”
I glance at her. “That’s not a thing people say.”
“I say it.”
“Well, it’s not an expression.”
“Ask me how much I care,” she demands. “No? Then spill!”
With a sigh, I tell her about the trip to Brett’s office, Chase dragging me out, and the elevator ride, without going into any details about the fact that, apparently, Brett is a certifiable lunatic. When I describe the elevator kiss, she sighs dreamily and starts to melt. By the time I get to the part about the gentle lip brush in Chase’s apartment, she’s practically dissolved into a puddle of estrogen on the couch beside me.
“Ohmigod,” she breathes, her eyes locked on mine. “YOU ARE TOTALLY HAVING A TAWDRY AFFAIR WITH A BILLIONAIRE!”
“Shelbs! Stop it.”
“What?” she asks. “How is any of this bad? A mega-hot, filthy rich, possessive-in-all-the-right-ways man is interested in you! Not a boy, like the string of losers you’ve hooked up with in the past…a man.”
“Thanks,” I mutter sarcastically. “You’re making me feel much better after my crap day.”
Shelby makes an impatient tsk noise. “I have absolutely no idea why you aren’t currently ripping off every article of his clothing. With your teeth. Hell, if I weren’t married… Whew! The things I would do to that man.”
“You have a husband.”
“I also have an imagination. An active one.” Her eyes gleam.
“Gross,” I mutter. “And for your information, I have plenty of good reasons for staying away from Chase Croft — starting with the fact that all men are rat bastards and ending with the fact that a woman stopped by the gallery this morning and threatened me to stay away from him.”
“Bitches be crazy.” Shelby shrugs. “He’s been at the top of People magazine’s ‘Richest 50 Under 50’ list for the past few years — it doesn’t surprise me that women are trying to stake a claim, even if it’s not theirs to stake.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too… until she called his answering machine while I was in his apartment. He was in the other room, but I heard the voicemail pick up.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“She called him baby.”
Her eyebrows go even higher.
“And she called herself his fiancée.”
“What!?” Shelby explodes.
“See! He’s a rat bastard.”
“More like High Chancellor of the Rat Bastards.”
“Exactly,” I mutter, glad she’s finally on the same page.
She’s totally silent for a minute — uncharacteristically so — until she murmurs, in a soft voice totally unlike her usual deafening tones, “Sorry, Gem.”
“For what?”
“I could tell how much you liked him.”
I sigh, but don’t deny it.
I can’t.
Because she’s right.
***
My day quickly goes from bad to worse.
Around six, I grab the Red Line from Shelby’s place in Somerville back to my apartment, only to find approximately ten million reporters (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little) in front of my building.
I detour three blocks out of my way, circle around to the back, and begin to pick a path through the trash-littered alley toward the rear entrance… only to find another five million (possibly exaggerating again) reporters have finally caught on to my sneaky ways and are there, cameras at the ready, waiting for me.
A cry goes up when they spot me, photo flashes snapping so bright, my corneas will never be the same. The mob rushes forward, all screaming at the same time, their voices blending together into a cacophony that hits me in a solid wave of sound. Washing over me. Dragging me under. Drowning me.
And it’s annoying. Really annoying.
Because, the thing is, I’m an adult.
I do my own (headache-inducing) taxes, I pay (most of) my bills on time, I can tell the difference between Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon (a skill that eluded early-20s Gemma, who only ever drank wine if it came in a box) and I even watched Bigelow, Mrs. Hendrickson’s cat, for a week when she went to visit her grandchildren in Phoenix (and he didn’t die).
Point is, I’m an adult.
I’m equipped to handle a lot.
But I can’t handle this.
The battery of questions. The onslaught of camera flashes, click click click, immortalizing every one of my panicked expressions on a digital memory chip for the rest of eternity.
Gemma!
Look over here!
Gemma!
Give us a smile, love!
“I have no comment!” I say, over and over, in the vain hopes that they’ll believe me.
Gemma!
Is Chase your boyfriend?
Are you sleeping together?
“Leave me alone! I have nothing to say to you!” I scream, my voice breaking, my hands tearing and clawing like a wild thing as I try to push forward, try to reach my door. If I can just get inside, just get away…
A camera is shoved into my face, its shutter snapping down in a burst of clicks before I can throw my arms up to cover my face.
“Please.” My voice is scratchy with panic. With desperation. “I just want to go home.”
I try to push through again, but it’s no use.
The swarm is too dense. There are so many of them, crowding in from every direction, I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but cradle my arms over my head and close my eyes, as though that might make them disappear.
It doesn’t.
Gemma! Over here! Gemma!
Tell us about Chase!
Do you have a comment about the kiss?
Are you dating?
Look over here, Gemma!
Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!
GemmaGemmaGemmaGemmaGemma.
Their voices go static between my ears, suddenly distant, as if I actually have been dragged underwater. There’s a buffer between us — one made of fear and defeat — and I feel the breaths getting ragged in my throat as I struggle for air. I’m choking on my own desperation to escape, on my inability to get away, and everything fades out of focus as I slowly crumple into a protective crouch against the dirty pavement.
Gemma Summers, brought to her knees by the bloodsuckers.
Defeated.
How pathetic is that?
Suddenly, I register a break in the crushing wall of noise — a new voice, strong and steady, breaking through the din of questions.
I don’t look up, even when a hand clamps onto my bicep in a warm, reassuring grip. Only when I hear the familiar voice at my ear, do my eyes blink open
and focus on the man staring down at me.
Steady brown gaze. Salt-and-pepper hair.
Evan.
“It’s okay, Miss Summers. I’ve got you,” he says, and there’s so much conviction in his voice, I believe him.
Without protest, I allow him to pull me to my feet.
“Stick close behind me.”
I don’t question him — I just tuck my forehead between his shoulder blades and follow as he cuts through the crowd. As we start to move, another man closes in behind me, dressed in solid black from his leather jacket to his badass motorcycle boots, and I somehow instinctually know he’s here, like Evan, to protect me.
The reporters fall back as we push forward and in less than a minute, I’ve been ushered up the three stone steps and am standing outside the doors, still flanked on either side by the towering men.
“The passcode, miss,” Evan prompts, his voice kind.
With a trembling hand, I reach forward and punch in the building code. There’s a short, mechanical buzz — the best sound I’ve ever heard in my life — and then the entry swings wide and I’m inside, the screams of the reporters cut off as soon as the metal door rejoins its frame.
The breath I’ve been holding for far too long escapes my lungs in a single, relieved whoosh as I turn and lean back against the wall, my eyes closed, just enjoying the silence for a long moment as the panic in my system slowly subsides.
“Are you okay, Miss Summers?”
My eyes open slowly, bringing the two men who’ve just saved me into focus.
“It’s just Gemma,” I say, my voice still shaken up. “And yes, I’m fine. Thanks to you.”
The two men nod in unison, but it’s Evan who speaks.
“Chase had us on standby here, in case you had trouble getting back into your building.”
Even his men call him Chase, rather than Mr. Croft.
I tuck that nugget of information away, ignoring the pang shooting through my chest as I process Evan’s words. I find myself torn between happiness and outrage at the fact that Chase had his men tail me.
See, he cares about us! the naive, optimistic half of my brain says.
…Just apparently not enough to tell us he’s engaged, the snarky, bitter half adds.
I ignore them both, focusing on the man in front of me.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
He smiles, his eyes flickering with warmth. “No need, Miss Summers.”
“Just Gemma, please,” I say, smiling back at him. My eyes slide to the other man who, now that I’m not in the throes of a panic attack, I see is younger, maybe early thirties, with a severe buzz-cut and eyes so dark, they remind me of staring down a well — eyes that, if you looked too long, you might just fall into, lost forever in their depths. “And you are?”
He stares at me, his face expressionless, those dark eyes measuring, and clears his throat. “Knox.”
“Is that a first name or a last name?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer.
O-kay. Moving on.
“Well, thanks for getting me inside.” I swallow. “I really appreciate it.”
Evan and Knox nod in unison again, which is kind of creepy, but considering they’ve just saved me and everything, I’m not about to call them out on it.
“Do you want us to walk you up to your door?” Evan asks.
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary.”
He nods in acceptance and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a slim, brand-new cellphone. It’s the latest-generation iPhone, the one I’ve been salivating over for months but unable to afford. Holding it out for me to take, he says, “This is yours.”
My eyes fly to his. “Excuse me?”
“Chase wanted you to have it. His numbers are already programmed in, so you can reach him anytime.”
I stare at the phone like it’s a poisonous snake, about to leap from Evan’s hand and bite me. “I don’t want it.”
“Miss Summers, we have orders—” Evan begins.
“I don’t care,” I say flatly, my eyes returning to his face. “I don’t want it. You can tell your boss to stick it where the sun don’t shine, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Miss—” Evan tries again.
“Take the phone.”
The voice — a low, rumbling growl — is so cold, I instantly break out in goose flesh. It takes me a minute to realize it’s Knox, who’s spoken, and when my gaze travels to his face, I see there’s something hard in his eyes. Something that doesn’t take no for an answer.
Ever.
“But—”
I barely get the word out before he’s stepping forward, snatching the phone from Evan’s grip, and pressing it into my hand. He’s so tall, my neck snaps back to keep his face in sight, and it’s all I can do not to cower at his nearness. Everything about him is lethal, dangerous, but it’s those eyes — bottomless, black, and far older than his thirty years — that really shake me, down to my very core.
“Take. The. Phone.”
“Okay,” I breathe, my fingers closing around the cool metal in my hand, not wanting to be the subject of that gaze for another stinking second.
He nods, turns for the door, and disappears outside without another word.
“Don’t mind him,” Evan says, the easy smile still on his lips. “His bark is worse than his bite. Most of the time, anyway.”
With that, he winks, turns, and follows Knox out the door, leaving me alone with a new phone and a thousand questions I know I’ll probably never get the answers to.
Chapter Nineteen
Venom
I’ve barely made it through my front door when my cellphone — my old one, not the new, shiny one I have no intention of ever using — starts ringing. Closing the door behind me with a sigh, I reach into my bag, fully expecting to see Chrissy’s name on my screen. No doubt she’s just gotten pinged with a considerable number of Google Alerts.
But, to my horror, it’s not Chrissy.
It’s Estelle.
Damn it all to hell, I’m probably going to be fired for cutting out of work early, two days in a row. Which is perfect considering everything else in my life is falling apart — why not my career, as well?
“Estelle, I’m so sorry,” I say, as soon as the call connects. “I swear, I had a good reason for not coming back to work after the VIP meeting. It won’t ever happen again. Please, just don’t fire me.”
“Fire you?” she asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “Why on earth would I fire you?”
“Um…”
Is my brain short-circuiting?
“Ma chérie, I’m calling to congratulate you.”
Wait… what?
“I don’t know how you did it, but the VIP from yesterday called an hour ago and purchased an entire spread of abstracts!” Estelle laughs delightedly. “He says they’re redoing the entire executive suite at Croft Industries, and he’d love nothing more than to adorn the walls with our artists’ work.”
My stomach sinks as I realize Chase’s angry words in the elevator had been no idle threat.
I’ll buy however many goddamn paintings you want! I’ll buy the whole fucking collection! But Brett is not your client, anymore. Do you understand me?
“There’s been a misunderstanding, Estelle—”
“And then, almost as soon as I hung up the phone, a very large man with a very interesting scar came to the gallery with a huge bouquet of flowers for you! Red roses — just lovely, the whole gallery smells divine. Apparently Brett Croft, the VIP from this afternoon, was so pleased, he thought you needed an extra thank-you for your services!”
I’ll bet he did.
“I don’t know what you said, but you certainly must’ve made an impression.”
“Estelle—”
“And you didn’t even tell me about the three abstracts you sold him!”
“Well, Estelle, like I was trying to explain—”
“Excellent work! Truly,” she interrupts me. “Gemma, ma chou
choute, I’m so pleased, I’m giving you a few days of paid time-away. You’ve been working hard, and it’s clearly paying off.”
“But, Estelle if you’d just let me—”
“No objections!” Her tone is final. “You’ve been begging me for some personal days for ages. What is the expression you Americans use? Don’t look at a horse’s teeth?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” I correct, my voice resigned. “But, Estelle, we really should talk about the reason Croft Industries—”
“Au revoir, Gemma! See you on Monday.”
The line goes dead in my ear and I slowly pull the phone away, staring at it like it might provide some answers. And then it hits me.
It’s only Wednesday night.
Which means I have a four, full days off — something that hasn’t happened in all the years I’ve been working for Estelle. And that is cause for some serious celebration.
So, despite the fact that my life has (for the most part) gone to shit, seeing as there are dozens of reporters camped outside my apartment and the guy I’m falling for is engaged to another woman, I flip on some music, grinning as I recognize the familiar strains of Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers’ American Girl, and start to spin around the apartment in crazy, happy circles, until the world turns to blurry smears of color around me.
***
Bag slung over one shoulder, I back out of my apartment and shut the door behind me, wiggling the knob once to ensure it’s locked. The duffle is heavy enough to test my balance as I walk down the five flights of stairs — I’ve packed only enough clothes for a few days away, but the two large bottles of wine I stashed inside are weighing things down a bit.
When I hit ground level, I pause in the hallway for a moment and pull my hair around the sides of my face so it cascades down in a dark curtain, covering everything except my eyes. Reaching into the duffle, I grab the ratty Red Sox cap one of my ex-boyfriends (a term I use loosely) left at my apartment after a drunken overnighter a few years back, tug its brim low over my forehead, and slip a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses over my eyes.
Totally incognito.
Okay, so I know it’s not exactly a perfect disguise, but it’s the best I could come up with on such short notice. And, anyway, now that it’s dark out, most of the reporters have gone home for the night, so I should be able to make the dash to my car without any problems.
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