Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  “She’s a lawyer now. So ambitious, my Cherie. Always was — I’m sure you remember! And she’s grown into quite the looker… though I may be biased!” Mrs. Breeland laughs so hard, you’d think she was front row at a Jim Gaffigan show listening to his Hot Pockets segment. “She lives right across town in Beacon Hill. I’m sure she’d love to get a drink with you and catch up. You two would hit it off, I’m just sure of it!”

  Seriously, lady? I’m standing right here.

  “Now that you’re grown, you need to start thinking about settling down! You’re no spring chicken!” She giggles again. “Though, I must say, my Cherie hasn’t aged a day! Looks the same as she did at seventeen. I wish she’d tell me her secret!”

  I’m so sure.

  “You two would look just wonderful together!” she continues, her eyes never wavering from Chase, who hasn’t said more than two words since this woman started speaking. “Two young people from good families… Perfectly suited! Oh, you must give her a call. I’d love to see you both settled.”

  I can’t help the blush that starts to creep across my cheeks — for once, not one of embarrassment but of the sheer outrage I’m struggling to bury beneath a politely disinterested smile.

  Chase stares at her for several long moments with a strange look on his face, before speaking. “You know, Mrs. Breeland, I think you’re right.”

  What?

  What?!

  If he just said what I think he said, I’ll be heading for the exits faster than you can say enjoy-your-life-with-Cherie.

  “Oh, good!” Mrs. Breeland smiles, beyond pleased with her efforts to proposition her daughter. “I’ll tell Cherie to expect your call.”

  My jaw clenches. I’m about ready to blow my top and unload two hours worth of pent-up anger on Chase when I feel his arm slide around my midsection, his fingers curling tight against my stomach, so I’m forced to step closer. I startle at the sudden movement — besides my fingers on his arm, or the light brush of our hands, we’ve barely touched since we stepped through the front doors — but when his head turns and he looks down at me, I see his eyes are simmering with equal parts anger and amusement.

  “Oh, no, I meant about settling down,” Chase tells the woman, still looking at me. “Sunshine, what do you think? One kid? Two? I’ve always thought three might be too many, but if we had four, so they each had a playmate, maybe it wouldn’t be half bad.”

  My jaw falls open.

  I hear Mrs. Breeland gasp.

  Chase grins. “Once you hit five, it’s basically a litter. But there’s a certain elegance in a clean half-dozen, don’t you think?”

  He’s joking.

  I know he’s joking, just to piss off this lady for disrespecting me.

  But I’m having a little trouble processing the humor in his words, what with the images of our half-dozen green-eyed, towheaded, paint-splattered babies running around the yard.

  “Um…” I squeak.

  Chase looks back at Mrs. Breeland. “Tell Cherie hello, for me. I’m sure she’ll find someone soon, with a mother like you extolling her many graces at every opportunity.” His grin widens when she clucks in shock. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to find a broom closet somewhere and get started making those babies. Or, at the very least, practicing.”

  With that, he nods to Mr. Breeland, pivots with me still tight against his side, and starts walking toward the bar.

  “Nasty old bird,” he mutters. “And I remember her daughter — just as snotty, even as kids.”

  “Um,” I squeak again.

  “Gemma, relax. It was a joke.”

  “Uh huh,” I agree, trying to calm my racing heartbeat.

  “I’m not going to impregnate you with a half-dozen babies.”

  “Oh, good.” I breathe out a huge sigh of relief.

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  “What?!”

  He chuckles. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

  A drink would be good.

  Actually, seven drinks would be good.

  But I’ll stick to a single glass of pinot noir and hope it’s enough to take the edge off… and make me forget about Chase’s seriously not-amusing jokes.

  ***

  “Is your uncle here, yet?”

  Chase looks at me. “Jameson?”

  I nod.

  We’re in a small alcove by the bar, surveying the room as I sip my wine. Chase is pointing out the different couples, telling me some of their scandalous family backstories, which range from alcoholism to accidental pregnancies to the occasional fetish — it’s all very entertaining — but I can’t help but notice he’s been tiptoeing around actually introducing me to any of his family members. Which is weird… considering we’re at a Croft event, and all.

  “No, he’s not here.”

  My eyes widen. “But didn’t he plan this whole thing? One last hurrah as CEO and all that? It’s kind of weird he wouldn’t come to his own party.”

  “He’s not well.” Chase’s words are flat. “He probably won’t come until dinner, to make his speech.”

  “Oh, Chase…” I trail off, looking at his stone-set face. “I didn’t know he was sick. Is he… is it…”

  “Cirrhosis of the liver. He’s got a few months, at best.”

  “Chase.” My voice breaks on his name.

  “It’s fine, Gemma.” There’s so much suppressed anger in his words, I can tell he’s anything but fine.

  “I’m so sorry, Chase. He’s been — well, sort of like a father to you, right?”

  His jaw ticks, a sure sign he’s searching for control. “Something like that.”

  My eyes search his face as confusion stirs in my veins. Chase isn’t ever one for big shows of emotion — I don’t expect him to weep openly about his uncle’s illness or even act too upset. But this… this is just strange. Because, if I’m reading him right, I think he’s almost… angry with his uncle.

  I open my mouth to ask him about it, but his abrupt curse cuts me off.

  “Fuck.”

  “What is it?”

  “Brett’s here.”

  “Where?”

  “By the doors.” Chase’s whole body goes tense. “And he’s not alone.”

  “Let me guess… He brought Vanessa as his date.”

  He glances down at me, concern filling his eyes. “Afraid it’s worse than that, sunshine.”

  “Worse than Vanessa?” I ask, doubting that’s even possible. “Have you met the woman?”

  His mouth tugs up at one side but his eyes don’t change. “Unfortunately, yes. But this is still worse.”

  “Who could possibly be worse than Vanessa?”

  He hesitates a beat.

  “Chase.”

  His arm squeezes tighter around my waist, as if to steady me for the impact of his words. As if he knows whatever he’s about to say will rock me.

  “It’s Phoebe.”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “Phoebe West,” he clarifies.

  It takes me a minute to put it together. When I do, my heart sinks into my stomach like a ball of lead. “Phoebe West as in…”

  “Your sister.”

  Shit.

  ***

  “She’s here. My half-sister who I’ve never met, who doesn’t even know I exist, is here.”

  Chase stares at me as I pace in small circles around the coat-check room, where he dragged me as soon as he realized I was falling apart in the middle of the gala.

  “Not only is she here, she’s here with Brett. Psychotic, creep-tastic Brett. As his date.”

  Chase doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t even try to touch me. He just watches me from his spot by the door with careful eyes, waiting for me to work though this.

  “Which means Brett knows. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows. Ralph got to him. Or he got to Ralph. Somebody got to someone. A meeting of the mentally-unstable minds, if you will. Either way, he knows.”

  Chase’s expression doesn’t wav
er as my voice goes up an octave, getting even more hysterical.

  “We know that he knows. And as soon as we go out there and face him, he’ll know that we know.” I try to breathe deeply, but can’t manage it. “What we don’t know is if she knows. You know?”

  “Gemma.”

  “She probably doesn’t know — not about me, not that her date is crazier than that put-the-lotion-on-its-skin dude in The Silence of the Lambs. She’s probably just a pawn, right? A threat. That’s Brett’s style. Find out about my hidden half sister and dangle her in front of me at a major, publicized event, so I’m constantly waiting for the shoe to drop. It’s psychological warfare.”

  “Gemma, breathe.”

  “I can’t breathe!” I stop circling, coming to face him with my hands on my hips and tears pricking at my eyes. “My sister is out there. My sister.”

  “Gemma.”

  “What?”

  He reaches out, grabs me by the hand, and tugs me to him. The sudden move sends me stumbling into his chest, the hard landing almost enough to knock the wind from my lungs, but I don’t care. Because suddenly Chase is kissing me and, when he does, the rest of the world fades away, until thoughts of crazy relatives intent on destroying us, and nasty socialites who think we’re wrong for each other, and even the small parts in my own mind that question what on earth we’re doing here fade away.

  He kisses me until I start to disappear. Not all of me — just the part that’s never had a safe place to land, never trusted anyone, not fully, because I learned early that everyone disappoints you eventually. The part that thought relationships like this were nothing more than Hallmark propaganda, that never thought I’d find someone who could wrap his arms around me and, with just one touch, make everything in my world seem right. The part that doubted a man like this — a feeling like this — even existed.

  His hands slide into the hair at my temples, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss. Giving me what I need — not empty words, not paltry reassurances that everything will be okay, not promises of something he can’t guarantee.

  He knows that, given the chance, I’ll rant and rave without stopping for breath, working myself up to new heights of anxiety. And, because he knows this, he doesn’t try to talk me off the cliff. He just grabs me and pulls me from the edge, with open-mouthed kisses and lingering touches and whispered words I barely hear. Because he knows it’s what I need.

  He knows me.

  It’s a sudden thought, and a surprising one, that this man, who I’ve known such a short time, could understand my inner workings better than anyone I’ve ever met. It seems ridiculous, at first. Yet, as the thought settles in a corner in the back of my mind… I see the indisputable truth in it.

  And as his hands slip under the hem of my dress, as my arms wind around his shoulders, as he lifts me against the coat-room wall and brings us together, we don’t say anything as we make good on the promise he made to Mrs. Breeland. We just touch and cling, our mouths never breaking apart, and lend each other strength with the comfort of our hands.

  ***

  A secret smile plays on my lips as we walk, hand in hand, back to the party. My hair is a little wild and I’ve had to completely reapply my lipstick, thanks to Chase’s kisses, but I can’t say I’m even a little bit sorry about that.

  The cocktail hour has wound down in our absence and the atrium is rapidly emptying as people wander into the main ballroom to find their tables. Even the thought of sitting at Chase’s side through a three-course meal in front of hundreds of people isn’t enough to diffuse the happy glow that’s settled around me. Still, as we round the bar and head for the ballroom, the smile falls abruptly off my face… because standing there, in our direct path, are Brett and Phoebe.

  Unavoidable.

  I feel Chase’s hand tighten on mine as he stops, his narrowed eyes locking instantly with Brett’s gloating ones.

  “Cousin!” Brett grins. “There you are. I was wondering if you’d even bothered to come.”

  “I’m here,” Chase says flatly.

  “Well, good. If you hadn’t shown up, Jameson might’ve had to give the position to someone else.” His words are playful — a harmless joke between cousins, to anyone else’s ears — but from this distance, I see Brett’s eyes gleam with repressed vitriol, which doesn’t wane as his gaze slides to me.

  “And Gemma! Looking lovely, as ever.”

  He leans in to kiss my cheek, and Chase goes so tense, I think he’s going to snap and punch Brett out in the middle of the atrium. I’m utterly still as Brett’s lips skim my cheek in a cool kiss. A deep rattle of anger rumbles from Chase’s throat as soon as his cousin’s mouth makes contact, and I quickly step back to his side.

  “Always a pleasure,” I say, my words as stiff as my expression.

  “We still need to meet, to discuss that artwork you sold me,” Brett reminds me cheerily. “Perhaps you can swing by my apartment tomorrow.”

  Chase stiffens.

  I force a smile. “I’m on vacation.”

  “Monday, then.” Brett’s grin widens as he glances at his date. “I think you’ll agree, we have plenty to discuss.”

  I still at the clear threat in his words.

  Brett chuckles and slides his arm around Phoebe’s waist. “I’m sorry, I’ve completely forgotten my manners. Have you met my date? This is Miss Phoebe Evangeline West.” He looks back at me, glee in his eyes. “Wasn’t it lucky that she was free tonight?”

  “Luck is one word for it,” I murmur.

  Chase’s grip tightens on mine — a warning. “A date you didn’t have to pay to spend the night with you? Good for you, Brett.”

  His tone is so light, no one would ever suspect the hatred running deep beneath his teasing words.

  Brett chuckles, like it’s all in good fun, and the woman at his side — who I’ve been steadfastly ignoring right up until this moment — lets out a peal of innocent laughter. The sound is so pure, so joyous, I can’t help my eyes from sliding to hers.

  She looks like me, five years ago.

  The realization slams into me, harder than a punch to the gut. We’re almost the same height, both petite with compact, curvy frames — hers, at the moment, is zipped into a stunning ivory gown that floats down to mid-calf, and strappy, skyscraper-high heels I’d never be able to walk in. Our hair is the same shade, though hers is straight as a pin and cut into a sleek, angular bob — shorter in the back, with longer ends that just brush her shoulders in the front. She’s got awesome bangs across her forehead — the fringed, too-long-on-purpose kind that hang into her eyes — and she radiates confidence, just standing there looking at me.

  When her eyes lift to mine — almond-shaped, hazel, sparkling with life — I’m so dazzled by the beauty of them, I don’t even feel relief that they aren’t blue, marking at least one difference between our looks.

  “Brett don’t be so stuffy.” She sticks her hand out with a roll of her eyes and a grin on her lips. “It’s just Phoebe.”

  For a minute, I struggle for composure, staring at a girl who clearly has no idea who I am, wondering how on earth I should possibly act around her. Thankfully, Chase’s hand tightens on mine in a quick squeeze, and I snap out of my stupor.

  “Gemma,” I murmur, reaching out with tentative fingers to take her hand. “Gemma Summers.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gemma Summers.”

  I attempt to smile back at her. “You too.”

  “Killer dress.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I glance down at myself, still in disbelief that such a gorgeous design is on my body. “I borrowed it from a friend.”

  “Well, it’s fabulous. I’ve been staring at it all night — and not just because it’s the only spot of color amidst all this navy and black.” She makes a gagging face. “My great aunt Tessie is more daring with her fashion choices than some of these women, and she’s ninety-six. Then again, she’s also been known to strip down to her birthday suit and run through the halls at the nursing hom
e, so she’s not always the best judge of proper attire.”

  I laugh, despite myself. “Well, if the people here had as much life as your aunt, it would probably be a much better party.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  I grimace. “Though I could do without seeing some of these people in the nude.”

  She laughs with such infectious, uninhibited joy, I can’t help but smile at the sound of it.

  “Phoebe, why don’t you and Gemma get a drink?” Brett’s voice cuts through the moment like a knife strike. “My cousin and I have some things to catch up on.”

  My eyes move to Chase, a question in their depths, and he gives a terse nod.

  “But—” I start to protest.

  “Just for a minute, sunshine.” Chase squeezes my hand tight before dropping it and turning back to Brett, anger radiating from his every pore. I open my mouth, fully prepared to insist on staying by his side, but the feeling of an arm looping through mine distracts me.

  “Another glass of wine sounds perfect,” Phoebe says, leading me toward the bar with such familiarity, you’d think she’d known me years, not minutes. “They probably have to discuss something terribly boring, like a merger. An acquisition. Profit margins.” She makes another gagging sound. “It’s enough to drive a girl to drink.”

  “Hence the open bar.”

  “Thank god for that.” She shakes her head as we reach the bar. “Now, for the most important question of all…”

  I raise my brows.

  “Red or white?”

  I laugh. “Red.”

  “Me too,” she says, grinning as she gives a waiting bartender our order. Mere seconds later, he slides two heavy crystal goblets across the marble countertop. Phoebe passes one to me, clicks her glass against mine, and takes a hearty sip.

  As my fingers curl around the glass, I dart a glance at Chase. He’s still talking to Brett and whatever they’re discussing is not making him happy. In fact, his expression has grown so dark, I worry his head is about to explode.

  I take a sip of my wine and turn back to Phoebe. I’m mid-swallow when she makes a startling announcement.

  “I’ve decided we’re going to be friends.” Her eyes twinkle with humor. “Because I’ve been to enough of these functions to know, you can’t get through them alone.”