His eyes soften. “Maybe what, Gemma?”
“Maybe you should go back,” I say gently. “Maybe… you should say goodbye.”
His jaw starts to tick, a sure sign he’s trying to compose himself.
“If you want…” I trail off, feeling foolish. Clearing my throat, I try again. “If you want, I’ll go with you, Chase. Any time you want.”
He nods sharply, his fingers clench tighter, and, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear his eyes are just the tiniest bit glassy. In that instant, I want to wrap my arms around him, to offer him comfort, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
“Maybe someday,” he says eventually, his voice soft.
“Okay,” I whisper back, not saying anything more. I’m not about to force the issue — not when he’s already trusted me with so much more than I ever expected.
***
Before I know it, we’re gliding back into the city limits and pulling up outside my apartment building, the front stoop illuminated by dim street lamps. When he parks and turns off the engine, I glance over at him, surprised.
“Why are we here? I thought we were…” I blush. “Going to your place.”
“You need some clothes.”
“What?”
“Clothes, Gemma.” His mouth twitches in amusement though his eyes are deadly serious. “Enough to last the weekend. Maybe longer.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “Why?”
“I told you before, we’ve got shit to work out.”
“And?”
His eyes gleam darkly. “You’re staying at my place for the foreseeable future, until it’s worked out.”
“No, I’m not!” I scoff.
“Gemma.” He shakes his head. “This is happening between us.”
“You can’t just unilaterally make these decisions and boss me around.”
“Actually, I can.” Grinning shamelessly, he reaches over me, leaning in so his lips are practically on mine, and grabs my door handle. When he speaks, I feel each word form against my mouth before the sound reaches my ears. “Get your ass out of the car, sunshine. We’re going upstairs to your apartment, grabbing some clothes, and then going to my place and getting in my bed.”
My mouth falls open at his brazen words, and he’s not even done.
“Or, if you want to fight me on it, we can go upstairs to your apartment, take off some clothes, stay at your place, and get in your bed.” His nose bumps mine. “Either way, this is happening.”
Before I can explode at him for obliterating all previous records of overbearing alpha-maleness, he shoves open my door, pulls back from my body, and slides out the driver’s side into the street. I’ve barely had time to blink, when he’s rounded the front of the Porsche, yanked my door fully open, and pulled me onto the sidewalk with him.
I vaguely register that he’s got my duffle strap slung over one shoulder, but most of my attention is commanded by the news van slamming to a halt in front of my building.
Not again.
“Fuck,” Chase curses. “Let’s go.”
And then, we’re running for the door, laughing and swearing as we bound up the front steps, the reporter yelling at our backs.
Chase! Gemma!
Look this way!
There’s a blinding camera flash in my peripherals but I ignore it, keeping my eyes on the keypad as I punch in the building code and push my way inside, Chase close on my heels. When the door slams shut, I fall back against it, laughing breathlessly as I try to wrap my mind around the utter ridiculousness of my life since I met Chase. The more I think about it, the louder my unladylike snorts get, until tears are forming in the corners of my eyes.
“Gemma.” Chase steps closer, his expression wary. I’m practically hysterical, by this point, so I can’t really blame him for looking at me like I’m two clicks away from flying over the cuckoo’s nest. “Take a deep breath.”
My eyes meet his. “Paparazzi are camped outside my building again.”
He nods.
“Fourth day in a row.”
He nods again.
“They just spotted us together.” I’m laughing so hard by this point, I can barely catch my breath. “Which means they’re only going to get crazier.”
“Gemma.”
“They might as well move in!” I wheeze out between chuckles. “I think there’s a vacant apartment on the first floor, maybe they can turn it into some kind of snack-nap room, like on movie sets, where the reporters can all go to refuel between broadcasts. I mean, they’re here so often, now, it’s just practical—”
My words are cut off because suddenly, Chase’s mouth comes down on mine in a firm, no-nonsense kiss that steals the breath from my lungs. By the time he’s done, we’re both panting hard and I can barely remember why I was so worked up only moments before. It’s hard to remember my own name, with his hands cupping the sides of my face and his lips a hairsbreadth from mine. His thumb is gentle as he strokes the fragile skin beneath my eye, but his gaze is dark with passion.
“Better?” he asks gruffly.
I sigh. “This is never going to get more normal, is it?”
He leans a fraction closer, so his lips brush mine in the ghost of a kiss. “I hate to break it to you, but no. Nothing about my life is normal, and so long as you’re with me, yours won’t be either.”
“Am I?” I can’t help asking.
His eyebrows lift.
“With you?” I add.
“That’s up to you, sunshine.”
My eyes practically bug out. “Wait…”
His eyebrows go higher.
“You’re actually letting me decide something?” I ask, my voice teasing. “Someone get a calendar! Mark the date! On this day in history, Chase Croft actually conceded something to Gemma Summers!”
He grins, slips one arm around my shoulders, and pulls me away from the door. “Don’t get used to it,” he grumbles, but I can tell beneath the gruffness of his tone, he’s laughing.
When we get to the top of the stairs, I cross the landing to my apartment door.
“This is me,” I tell him, feeling a rush of belated worry as I realize I’m about to show Chase my apartment — my messy, minuscule, mismatched apartment, which, in its entirety, is smaller than the master bedroom in his loft. I don’t care much about that — but I feel sheer panic at the idea of him seeing my artwork.
It’s everywhere — canvas after canvas, tacked up on the walls, leaning against furniture.
All the paintings I’ve been too afraid to put on public display are suddenly going to be a prominent part of the Gemma Summers’ Apartment Tour. I might as well pull my still-beating heart from my chest and hand it to him — that would probably feel less personal.
Hesitating with my hand on the knob, I turn to face him.
“What are the odds you’re willing to wait out here?”
He grins, like he thinks I’m adorable, and I know the odds are absolute zero.
“Open the door, Gemma.”
I sigh, because he’s got to be the bossiest, most annoying person in the history of mankind.
And then I open the door.
***
“I know it’s not the Taj Mahal, but—” The breath disappears from my lungs as the door swings wide and I catch sight of my apartment. “Holy shit.”
I feel Chase take a step closer to me, so his front is pressed against my back, and I know he’s lending me his strength as well as shielding me from any unseen threats. I barely notice — my eyes are fixed on the disaster before me.
It’s a mess — completely trashed, like a freaking tornado moved through the city while I was gone, the damage somehow isolated to my apartment. My well-loved red couch is flipped on its side, the stuffing bursting from cushions that look like they’ve been split open with a jagged blade. My funky, flea market coffee table has gone from intentionally asymmetrical to totally nonfunctional — two of its legs are snapped off, and there are deep gouges in the glossy wo
od which no amount of varnish can ever fix. My bookshelves are overturned, hundreds of paperbacks lying in ruined piles on the floor, their covers ripped off and their pages dented.
My heart is beating so loud, it drowns out the sound of Chase, speaking rapidly into his cellphone behind me.
Even from here, I can see my turquoise refrigerator has been given similar treatment, and what little food I had inside has spilled across the floor in a soupy mess. My artsy-yet-functional wardrobe ladder no longer hangs from my bedroom ceiling — it’s been ripped down in a cloud of plaster and hurled through the thin glass of my French doors. Ceiling dust and glass shards join thousands of floating feathers on the floor — either Wolverine was playing with my peacock throw pillows, or someone slit them open with the same determination as my couch cushions.
None of the furniture is salvageable.
My clothes are in shreds.
I’m definitely not getting my security deposit back.
I accept these things with a kind of detached horror. It’s awful but, for the most part, I’m okay.
Possessions can be replaced.
Doors can be rebuilt.
My heartbeat starts to slow back to normal, and I’m actually pretty proud of myself for holding it together…
Until my eyes move to the walls.
I’ve been so wrapped up in the damage littering the floor around me, I haven’t spared a glance at my paintings. So, I didn’t even notice the wreckage extends to the colorful canvases I spent the past half-decade pouring every bit of my heart and soul into.
A sound bursts from my throat as I fly into motion, rushing past the threshold into the disaster site that used to be my home.
“Gemma, wait!” Chase calls, but I don’t stop.
Glass crunches beneath my feet, and my hands tear at cushion foam and shredded wood as I cut a path through the wreckage. When I reach the far wall, where most of my paintings were, I fall to my knees, barely flinching as shards tear through my jeans and slice deeply into my flesh. That pain is nothing, compared to the ache inside my chest as my fingers trace the thick layers of oil on the ruined canvases before me.
The knife would’ve been enough to destroy them but whoever did this really went above and beyond, because in addition to the deep cuts rending the canvases in tatters, streaks of black spray paint cover many of the works. Words jump out at me, creating hate where art used to be.
BITCH
SLUT
WHORE
The blocky letters scream at me, their angry message unmistakable. It’s abruptly very clear this was no random robbery, no casual break-in. This was personal. Intentional.
Someone out there hates me this much.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. I want to cry — I feel like I should be crying — but I’m too shocked, too angry to feel any real sadness. Hands resting on my bleeding kneecaps, I don’t look away from my ruined works of art, even when I feel Chase’s heat at my back. I don’t protest when his arms slip around me, one hooking beneath my knees, the other going behind my shoulders, and he lifts me from the floor into his arms, cradling me against his chest like I’m something to be held close, something precious, something priceless. I’m so numb at this moment, I don’t question it. I just turn my head into his neck and let his strong arms absorb my body’s relentless shakes.
***
Time passes.
I’m not sure how much — in fact, I only really notice because suddenly, we’re on the landing outside my apartment and Knox is there, his face set in a severe frown as he strides toward us and surveys the apartment with intent, angry eyes.
“No forced entry,” he says flatly.
Chase’s arms tighten around me. “Police are on their way.”
“I’ll talk to them. You get out of here, take care of her. I’ll check in later with an update.”
“Thanks.”
The men exchange nods, and then we’re moving again. My whole body bounces with Chase’s steps as he carries me down the flight of stairs, never breaking stride, as though my weight is barely worthy of consideration.
“I can walk,” I tell him, sounding shaky despite my best efforts.
He ignores me.
“Chase, put me down.”
“No.”
He sounds so pissed off, I decide not to fight him.
We push through the front doors just as two police cruisers pull to a stop outside my building. The officers nod to Chase as they climb from their vehicles, and before I know it, they’ve flanked us on all sides. It takes me a few seconds to realize they’re clearing a path from the doors to the curb, where the Porsche is parked, so the paparazzi can’t get close to us.
Evidently, Chase wasn’t exaggerating the cachet of the Croft name.
I’m back on my feet for the blink of an eye while he yanks open the passenger door, but before I can get my bearings, he’s scooped me up once more, settled my body on the seat, and closed me inside the car. I hear him thanking the officers, watch him stride around the front and slide into the driver’s seat. His door has barely slammed closed when the engine turns over and we peal away from the curb, leaving behind the wreckage of my old life.
I don’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cherished
“Drink.”
Chase presses a short tumbler of amber liquid into my hand, then settles in on the sectional across from me. The loft is dark — only firelight from soft flames in the gas mantle illuminates the space. Dark shadows dance on Chase’s chiseled features, lending him a haunted look. Not that he needs it — he looks haunted enough, after the events of tonight.
Fingers curling around the glass, I lift it to my lips and take a hesitant sip. The warm burn of scotch slides down my throat and spreads through my empty stomach, soothing me instantly.
“None for you?” I ask, staring across the fire at him.
He shakes his head. “I don’t drink very often.”
I nod, remembering his story about Vanessa.
The drinking was just for fun, at first, but then… it spiraled into something more. Something darker.
I glance down at the glass in my hands. “Does it bother you if I do?”
“No.”
I take another sip, feeling less shaky than I have in hours as the alcohol spreads through my system.
“Gemma.”
I look up when he says my name.
“We’re going to take care of this.” His words are a promise. “Knox is dealing with the police, and he’s the best in the business. Whoever did this, he’ll find out.”
“I don’t think we need to look very far,” I mutter darkly.
Silence descends and, after a moment, Chase clears his throat roughly. “Do you know who did this?”
I drop my eyes from his, not liking the scary-intense look in them. “I don’t know anything other than the fact that suddenly, my quiet little life has imploded and I’ve got enemies coming out of the woodwork.” I take another sip of scotch. “Between your crazy cousin and your crazy ex…”
“This isn’t Brett’s style.” His words are definite — he’s speaking from experience. “And, sunshine, if anyone’s crazy ex is responsible for this… it’s not mine. The lock wasn’t broken. Someone had a key.”
“Um…” I wince, staring at my hands. “There’s a teensy, tiny chance I forgot to take the key out from under my mat.”
“Dammit, Gemma,” Chase growls. “I told you to take care of that days ago.”
“Well, I forgot!” My voice is defensive. “Things have been a little crazy this week, if you haven’t noticed!”
Likely hearing the hysteria creeping back into my voice, he gives me a pass and doesn’t push further. “Nothing was taken. Your laptop was sitting right there on the floor, smashed to bits. That, coupled with the spray paint and the sheer destruction…” His voice gets softer. “This was personal.”
“You don’t
have to tiptoe around the truth.” I rub my forehead and sigh tiredly. “We both know it was Ralph.”
His jaw clenches but he doesn’t look surprised. “You’re positive?”
I nod. “We kind of… got into it last night, when I was leaving for my Mom’s.”
A weighty pause. “Got into it?”
I swallow nervously and rush to get the words out. “He thinks I ruined his life. So, he kind of… threatened me.”
Another long, stony silence.
“Ralph’s always had a flare for the dramatic,” I whisper quickly. “He said I had to pay for making him an internet meme. And, frankly, I don’t know how he can possibly blame me. I mean, it’s not like I control the internet. Tumblr has a life of its own! All it takes it one weird facial expression caught on camera and BOOM! Instant meme. Just ask that girl on the Olympic Figure Skating team—”
“He threatened you.” His words clip out like bullets from a gun — sharp, staccato, shiver-inducing. “And you didn’t think it was important enough to mention.”
“I didn’t exactly have a chance.” I start to squirm in my seat, uncomfortable beneath the weight of his glaring eyes. “There wasn’t a good moment.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said bullshit, Gemma. You could’ve told me at any point — hell, it didn’t even have to be in person. You could’ve called me on the fucking phone I gave you.”
“It’s not my phone.”
An unhappy sound rumbles from his throat.
I roll my eyes.
“Are you ever gonna do it?” he asks abruptly.
I stare at him, confused. “Do what?”
“Let me in.” His eyes narrow. “Because this running away, pushing me away, keeping me at arm’s length shit is getting old. Especially now, when you’ve been threatened and your apartment’s a shambles. This is serious, Gemma.”
I know that.
Deep down, I know exactly how serious it is.
But, right now, with Chase glaring at me like I asked for Wreck-It-Ralph to destroy my apartment, it’s easier to be angry right back at him.
Angry is always better than scared. Even if that anger is directed at the wrong person.
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