Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  “Gemma…”

  My eyebrows lift at the medley of emotions in his voice — longing, reluctance, lust, restraint — and though all he’s said is my name, I intuitively know what’s coming.

  Rejection.

  For some ludicrous reason, I feel tears threatening to prick at my eyes. Which, honestly, is the most absurd thing in the history of things, because I don’t cry. Ever.

  Not at the end of The Notebook. Not at funerals. Not at weddings or baby showers or any other sob-inducing events.

  I dismiss the unfamiliar sensation, chalking it up to temporary insanity, which has pretty much been the theme of my night.

  I don’t like-like boys. (Men. Whatever.)

  I don’t get butterflies.

  I don’t cry for no reason. (Heck, I don’t even cry for good reasons.)

  And yet…

  I know it’s crazy, stupid… but sitting here, waiting for him to speak, I almost feel like he can see straight through me, down to my soul. As though, somehow, amidst this game of lies, he’s pushed though and found the heart of me, beating too-fast inside my chest — a wild, frothing animal trapped in a cage of ribs, made of flesh and blood and vulnerabilities I’ve never shared with anyone.

  Like any good predator, he has an innate ability to root out weaknesses. He senses my wild, wounded heart with the ease of a shark smelling blood in the water from miles away, or a spider feeling the vibrations of its victim in a web long before it ever sets eyes on it.

  It’s an uneasy feeling. Edgy, uncomfortable, inexplicable. Like my skin’s gone see-through, and he somehow knows all my secrets before I’ve ever voiced them.

  His mouth opens, then snaps shut again, as though he’s searching for the right words to let me down easy. As though I don’t already know what he’s going to say.

  “Just say it,” I whisper, unable to wait anymore. “The suspense is killing me.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “You can’t guess the answer?”

  “You’re right handed, Gemma.” He sighs. “But that’s not what I mean.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t do this with you.”

  My brow wrinkles in confusion as I wait for him to clarify.

  “One night. No strings.” He casts his eyes to the ceiling. “God help me, but I can’t do it. Not with you.”

  “You’re the one who set the terms.” My voice is affronted, angry. “You’re the one who put that idea on the table.”

  “I know. Christ, Gemma, I know that.”

  “So, what? You changed your mind? Decided I’m not hot enough for you?”

  His eyes return to mine, narrowed with emotion. “You’re gorgeous.”

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “I thought I could… But with you… It’s just… I underestimated…”

  He’s tongue-tied.

  This smooth-talking, Sun-Tzu-reading, control freak is actually at a loss for words, because of me. It should be endearing, but I’m too pissed to be endeared.

  “Thanks,” I drawl. “That really clears it up.”

  His eyes flash. “Gemma, this isn’t about you — don’t make it. It’s all on me.”

  I snort. “Wow.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t think you were the kind of guy who’d use the it’s-not-you-it’s-me line.”

  “It’s not a line,” he counters.

  “Don’t tell me — you’re also working on yourself. Oh, and you’d like to still be friends.”

  “Gemma.”

  “What?” I snap. “It’s not polite to get a girl all hot and bothered with the promise of a night of endless orgasms, and then back out. In fact, it’s downright rude.”

  His gaze drops to my mouth as it fires angry words at him, and I see his eyes are dilated with desire and anger and a million other emotions I can’t name.

  “Whatever. I never would’ve gone through with it, anyway,” I say, not sure whether my words are true or false. My eyes are smarting again, as inexplicable rejection courses through my system.

  It’s not lost on me that I’m more upset about the sexy green-eyed stranger turning me down than I was about breaking up with the only guy I’ve ever attempted to date.

  God, what the hell is the matter with me?

  (Don’t answer that.)

  His eyes are still on my mouth as he reaches blindly to his right and presses a button to activate the intercom. When he speaks, it isn’t to me. “Evan?”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s time to drop Gemma off, now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Seconds later, I feel the car turn, though I don’t take my eyes off the man mere inches from me.

  “If you’re so eager to be rid of me, let me out here,” I snap childishly. “I’ll walk.”

  “No.” A flat denial.

  “You’re annoying.”

  “You already told me that.”

  “Well, I meant it.”

  “Good,” he says, his tone serious. “It’ll make it easier for me to stay away from you.”

  I stare at him for a while, not knowing how to respond to that, until I finally summon courage I didn’t even know I had, and whisper the question haunting my thoughts.

  “What if I don’t want you to stay away?”

  His eyes flash dangerously. “You don’t have a choice about it.”

  “I’m not some innocent, little girl you need to shield from the world,” I tell him, my voice hushed. “And I’m not looking for love or romance or whatever bullshit you apparently think girls like me need.” I lean closer to him. “You might think you’ve got me pegged, but you don’t know anything about me. I’m not a relationship kind of girl. Ralph was the closest thing I’ve come to commitment and, well, you saw how that turned out.”

  His eyes flash again.

  I lean closer. “Maybe I don’t want to date you. Maybe I am interested in learning what not dating you looks like.”

  A threatening sound, almost like a growl, erupts from the back of his throat. “I already told you — I can’t.”

  “You can. We can.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

  One brazen word — a taunt — pops from my mouth before I can stop it.

  “So?”

  “You’re playing with fire,” he grits out. “Do you know what happens when sugar hits flame?”

  I shake my head, barely listening as my eyes move over his chiseled face, its planes and angles stunning even in the dim light of the car. I can’t stop myself from questioning what it would be like to kiss him again, from wondering what he’d do if I closed the gap between us and pressed my lips to his.

  “It turns to ash.” He growls again. “Gemma.”

  My dazed eyes drift up to his. “What?”

  “Stop.”

  Registering the sheer steel in his tone, I sigh in resignation. He’s not going to change his mind. He doesn’t want me.

  The realization should embarrass me, but for some reason, all I feel is crushing disappointment.

  “Fine,” I mutter, turning to look out the window.

  Less than a minute later, we’re pulling up outside Chrissy’s building — an ancient, classic brownstone with flower boxes and picture windows.

  “Thanks for the ride, Green Eyes,” I say, shrugging out of his coat and casting one fleeting glance in his direction as my hand closes around the door handle.

  Those very eyes widen slightly as they move over my face, as though they’re memorizing my features. “Green Eyes?” he asks, amused.

  “Well, I suppose I could’ve gone with knight-in-shining-town-car or destroyer-of-self-esteem, but neither of those quite roll off the tongue.”

  He shakes his head, his mouth twitching with amusement again, though his eyes are serious.

  “Do something for me?”

  My eyebrows lift.

  “Don’t keep the key to your apartment under the doormat, anymore. The

thought of that asshole getting back into your place…” He trails off, his expression suddenly dark.

  Before I can stop myself, I’m reaching out and laying a hand on his arm. His eyes jerk up to meet mine as soon as my cold fingers make contact with his skin, and I know he must feel it too — the static current that jolted through me as soon as I touched him.

  It’s eerie. Electric. I pretend not to notice it, though the charge seems to grow stronger the longer my hand rests on his arm.

  “I won’t,” I promise gently, a little bit touched that this stranger cares more about my well being than the man I dated for the past four months ever did. “I promise.”

  He nods, a look I can’t quite decipher in his eyes as he stares at me.

  Before he can say another word or I can do something stupid, like throw myself at him again, I turn and slide out of the car, into the rain. Dashing for the brownstone entrance, I slam to a halt on the stairs when his voice reaches my ears.

  “Gemma!”

  I spin and see he’s followed me out and is standing on the sidewalk, getting totally drenched in the downpour. His t-shirt is plastered to every contour of his muscular chest. I think I see the outline of a serious six-pack beneath the fabric, but it’s hard to tell from this distance. And his eyes — they’re burning into mine again. I feel that electricity charging the air around us once more, and he’s not even touching me this time.

  Uh oh.

  “Gemma,” he repeats, a little quieter this time. My eyes lift to his.

  “Yeah?”

  I’m frozen in place on the first step as he crosses the sidewalk and stops directly in front of me. With a full stair’s height advantage, we’re eye-to-eye for the first time. His gaze, from this distance, is so intense, it nearly swallows me whole. I don’t feel the cold rain on my skin or the chilly breeze off the river — in fact, with his eyes on mine, I’m suddenly so warm I think I might combust.

  It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t even know this person.

  But I can’t stop remembering how his lips felt against mine back at the stadium. I can’t stop my eyes from dropping to linger on his mouth. And I can’t stop the words that slip out in a thready whisper as I stare at his stunning, rain-covered face.

  “Did you want something?”

  My question is tremulous. When he doesn’t answer, my gaze flies back to his. I somehow manage to keep it steady, unwavering, as he leans forward until our lips are mere centimeters apart.

  “Yeah,” he says gruffly, one of his hands reaching up to push a soaked strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I did.”

  Before I can ask what, his lips slam down on mine once more.

  Chapter Seven

  Details

  “Holy crap!” Chrissy squeals as soon as the door swings open, scanning me from head to toe. “You ruined my bridesmaid dress!”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I take a step over the threshold. “It’s not like I meant to—”

  “Wait!” She throws out her hands to stop my movement. “Stay there! You’ll ruin the hardwood.”

  I freeze on the welcome mat, and a puddle immediately begins to pool by my drenched sneakers as water streams off my limbs. My eyes scan the apartment. It’s a stunning open-floor plan — full kitchen and a granite-topped breakfast bar on the left, spacious living room with a fireplace and a white sectional set on the right, and three doors leading to the main bedroom, nursery, and bathroom on the far wall. With crown moldings, high-ceilings, and hardwood, the whole space screams understated wealth. The sofa alone costs more than my rent.

  Chrissy shakes her head at me in disbelief, her short blonde bob flying in all directions, then turns to face her half-closed bedroom door. “Mark! MARK!”

  “What?” a male voice calls from the next room.

  “Get a towel!”

  For such a petite woman, she’s got a pretty commanding yell.

  “Why? Did your water break?” His voice is teasing.

  “You’re not funny!” she yells back.

  A minute later, Chrissy’s husband — cute, early-thirties, average build, with dark brown hair and soulful brown eyes — appears in the doorway with a fluffy white towel in hand. He rolls his eyes at his wife before passing it to me. Burying my face in the fabric, I manage to both dry myself off and hide my grin from Chrissy. At eight months pregnant, she’s a little more hormonal than usual and tends to be extra sensitive when she thinks she’s being teased — especially by the man who knocked her up.

  When I’m semi-dry, Chrissy takes the towel from my hand, waddles to the sofa, and drapes it over one cushion. She gestures for me to sit before collapsing on the other side of the couch and propping her swollen ankles up on the coffee table.

  I stare wordlessly from my friend to the towel.

  She rolls her eyes. “What? It’s Pottery Barn. Do you know how much it’ll cost to reupholster this thing? And, no offense, Gem — you look like you fell off a duck boat and landed in the Charles.”

  With a sigh, I lower my still-damp limbs onto the towel and turn to look at her. “Nice to know your priorities are in order, Chrissy.”

  I hear the sound of the refrigerator opening in the kitchen area behind us.

  “Hey, Gemma, you want a beer?” Mark calls.

  Chrissy answers before I can.

  “Mark!” she hisses in a whisper-yell. “I just got Winston to sleep! Stop yelling!”

  I half-turn to catch Mark’s eyes before he does something stupid, like argue with his very pregnant wife about their one-year old son who, evidently, is asleep in the nursery, but he unwisely launches in before I can stop him.

  “But, hon, you were just screaming at me to get a tow—”

  “Oh, yes, blame me!” Chrissy’s eyes begin to well with tears as twin spots of red appear on her cheeks. “It’s my fault! Always my fault!”

  I glance from my friend to her husband, who I fully expect to have recoiled in total fear of his hormonal spouse. To my surprise, he looks totally composed — even a little bored. He meets my eyes as he presses a cold bottle of beer into my hand.

  “This happens a lot. It’s best to just ignore the crying. It passes. She’ll be okay again in about…” He glances at his watch. “…thirty seconds, give or take.”

  I try my best to hold in my laughter as Mark settles in on the far side of the sectional. Looking at me across the coffee table, he lifts his beer in a wordless toast, before taking a long pull from his bottle. I quickly follow suit.

  Like magic, thirty seconds later Chrissy’s tears have evaporated and she’s smiling again.

  “Anyway, Gemma, care to share why you’re soaked to the bone?”

  “It’s a long story,” I hedge, shrugging.

  “Does it have anything to do with Chase Croft?” Mark asks casually.

  Both Chrissy and my eyes fly in his direction.

  “What?” we exclaim in unison.

  “Chase Croft,” Mark says slowly, looking at us like we’re both insane. “The billionaire.”

  I feel my face pale and my grip on the beer bottle grows dangerously tight.

  Chrissy snorts. “Honestly, Mark, have you been sneaking pot into your brownies? What on earth would Chase Croft have to do with Gemma?”

  “Um,” I whisper, my eyes blinking rapidly as thoughts whiz through my mind.

  “Mark?” Chrissy prompts.

  I take another sip from my bottle.

  Mark looks from me to his wife. “Well,” he says, scratching his stubble with his free hand. “I mean, I just figured since she was making out with him an hour ago, and all…”

  I choke on my beer.

  ***

  Foam sprays from my mouth in all directions.

  Chrissy’s so stunned, she doesn’t even notice when a few drops land on her pristine white sofa. She’s looking from me to her husband with an expression of acute disbelief.

  “What?” she hisses. “Mark, how the hell would you even know that?”

  “I was watching the game.” He shrugs. “Apparently, when the guy whose family owns the team starts kissing the girl sitting next to him, it’s important enough to show on national television.”

  “He owns the team?!” I squeak.

  “He really kissed you?!” Chrissy squeals.

  “Personally, I would’ve preferred a little more footage of that sweet three-pointer Bradley sunk — but that’s just me.” Mark looks at me. “No offense, Gem.”

  “None taken,” I whisper in a detached voice, my mind occupied by alarming thoughts.

  I threw myself at a billionaire.

  God, he must think I’m a total idiot.

  God, I am a total idiot.

  “Gemma!” Chrissy grabs my arm in a tight grip, her manicured fingernails digging into my flesh.

  I look at her and see her eyes are glassy again, the telltale sign of impending tears. Hoping for a little guidance, my gaze swings in Mark’s direction.

  “Beats me.” He shrugs. “Any emotion — excitement, happiness, sadness, fear, joy, whatever — seems to manifest as crying these days. I have a hard enough time knowing when I’ve done right or screwed up under normal circumstances. The weeping just adds a whole new level of mystery.”

  Chrissy hurls a decorative pillow at her husband, which he dodges in a well-practiced move, then turns to face me again.

  “Details,” she says adamantly. “I want — I need — details.”

  I sigh and launch into the story, describing everything from Ralph’s refusal to hang up his cellphone to the kiss-cam landing on me. I skim over my humiliation and focus on the rescue: Green Eyes — sorry, Chase — pulling me from my seat, dipping me back, and kissing me like he meant it.

  “Holy wow,” Chrissy breathes, grabbing a magazine off the coffee table and fanning herself. Even Mark, who’s typically bored to sleep by our girl-talk sessions, is staring at me with interest.

  …and they haven’t even heard the rest of the story yet.

  “Well, I’m sure it’s not that weird.” I try to sound indifferent. “Billionaires don’t live by the same rules we do. I’m sure he goes around kissing people on national television all the time.”

  Chrissy and Mark glance at one another.

  “What?” I ask, knowing Chrissy — whose obsession with gossip, pop-culture, and all things scandalous remains unparalleled — undoubtedly has the scoop on him. “Come on, lay it on me.”

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