“Let me go,” I hiss, hitting him with my coldest glare.
His hand tightens reflexively. “Not until you let me explain.”
My eyebrows go up as my face contorts into an impatient, uppity expression that says hurry up, jerk, I don’t have time for this.
His eyes scan my face and his lips twitch again — he thinks I’m amusing.
Amusing!
I begin to tug at my arm, trying to escape his grip, but it only tightens at my efforts.
“Gemma.”
I still at the sound of my name. Not on purpose, of course — it’s just an involuntary reaction to watching those lips form the syllables when they’re so close to mine.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is gravelly again.
I jerk my chin, rejecting his insufficient apology without words.
His eyes flash and my belly contracts as he stares at me. “I thought if I made this about business, it would be easier.” He exhales sharply. “It’s not.”
Still silent, I wait for him to explain. I, for one, am done talking.
“I just got back to town. I have…” His gaze cuts sharply away from mine, but I can see thoughts working behind his eyes. “…certain obligations, if you will, that I have to focus on right now. I can’t afford to be distracted.”
My eyes widen and my voice drops to a snarl of indignation. “And I’m a distraction?”
He hesitates a beat, then nods.
I can’t help myself. I lean in closer. “You are so damn full of yourself.”
His eyes fly back to mine, narrowing as I watch.
My voice drops to a furious whisper. “You think because we kissed, like, twice, that I’m interested in you? That you can snap your fingers and have me in your life, distracting you all damn day?” I snort. “Ha! Maybe you billionaires just assume you can have whatever you want, whenever you want it, but I’m sorry to inform you…”
His eyes start to glint with anger.
“…I’m not for sale.”
With that, I yank my arm free in a vicious tug I know is going to bruise, grab the door handle, and disappear into the hallway before he can catch me again. I don’t look back as I cut through the lobby, ignoring Anita as I jam my finger into the elevator call button a million times, shifting nervously from one high-heel to the other, waiting for a hand to close around my bicep once more.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief when the doors slide open, and I step inside.
The tension uncoils from my shoulders as I turn, eyes on the panel of illuminated buttons, and find the one that will whisk me back to ground level. The doors are sliding shut again when I look up and realize my relief was premature. Every muscle in my body locks into place, frozen with fear and anticipation and, if I’m being honest, excitement, as I catch sight of him standing in his unfinished office lobby. It’s like seeing Michelangelo’s David amidst a disheveled world of paint cans, drop cloths, and drywall dust. He doesn’t move to stop me — he just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, gaze burning into mine so intensely, I worry I’ll actually catch fire.
I somehow manage to hold myself together until the doors finally close, cutting off my view of him, but as soon as I’m alone, I collapse back against the elevator wall. My heart is pounding so hard, I worry it might simply give out, and I press my eyes closed in a vain search for composure.
Somehow, after the last half hour, I don’t think I’ll ever be composed again.
Chapter Twelve
Hot-Shit
I knock three times and wait, listening to footsteps crossing the apartment, until the door swings open.
“Babe.” Mark stares at me across the threshold, doorknob still in his hand. “Not gonna lie, you’ve looked better.”
“Mark!” Chrissy yells from the sectional. “That is not what you say to a girl after she’s had a tough day. You either say, ‘would you like me to pour you a glass of wine and massage your feet?’ or you say nothing at all!”
“Hon, I don’t think Gemma wants me to massage her feet,” he yells over his shoulder, before glancing back at me warily. “Do you?”
I grimace and shake my head.
“Mark! It’s not about actually doing it. It’s about the offer to do it.” She snorts. “God, it’s like he’s learned nothing after nearly three years of marriage.”
Mark rolls his eyes. “Do you want to come in? Join the party? Do a little husband bashing?”
I step into the apartment, ruffle his hair, and grin — the first time I’ve actually smiled all day. “As long as you have an empty wine glass I can borrow,” I say, pulling a jumbo-sized bottle of Pinot Noir from my bag. “Or a really long straw. Either one.”
Laughing, Mark closes the door behind me, grabs the bottle from my hands, and heads for the kitchen.
I cross the apartment to Chrissy, who’s sprawled out on one half of the sectional like a queen on a litter, her ankles propped up on a pillow and a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on her swollen belly.
“Look, Ma! No hands!” She grins and steadies the bowl as I throw myself onto the couch beside her. “I’m not too proud to admit, I’ll miss the built-in-belly-table function when this baby decides to pop out.”
I reach over and grab a handful of popcorn, shoving it in my mouth just as Mark returns with a brimming glass of wine and passes it to me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, my words muffled by a mouthful of kernels.
He smiles and settles in on a chair across the room.
“So, what is it this time?” Chrissy asks. “Did you dance with an Arabian Prince at a rock concert? Seduce a handsome heir at a football game? Ensnare a wealthy benefactor in line for coffee?”
“You’re hysterical,” I mutter darkly.
A tinkling laugh escapes her lips. “Sorry. You know I’m cooped up all day. The mind tends to wander.” Her eyes swivel to her husband. “If someone would just let me out of the apartment every once in a while…”
“You heard what the doctor said.” Mark is unmoved. “Bed rest. Minimal movement, except for trips to the bathroom.” He looks at me. “Which is pretty much every ten minutes, so it’s not like she could even go anywhere, anyway, unless she feels like wearing an adult diaper.”
“Ugh!” Chrissy huffs, her eyes narrowing. “You are so annoying.”
Mark grins at her, his eyes soft. “I love you too, babe.”
She giggles.
I roll my eyes. “You two are disgusting.”
They both turn their smiles in my direction. “We know,” they say in unison, further affirming their gross levels of cute.
I groan.
“So, tell us about the day,” Chrissy says, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “I want all the juicy details. I’ve been tracking the story on social media, but besides some pictures of the outside of your apartment building, they don’t have anything new.”
I nearly choke on my wine. “I’m sorry… did you just say you’ve been tracking me?”
Chrissy nods. “I set up a Google Alert. Every time a new story goes up about you, my phone dings! Isn’t that great?” she exclaims. “Mark showed me how.”
My eyes fly to Mark, who’s suddenly looking guilty.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, avoiding my eyes.
I sigh. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing they don’t have anything new.” My voice is audibly relieved, and I take a big sip of wine. “The last thing I need is them hounding me at work, after the day I’ve had.”
“Ohmigod!” Chrissy squeals. “For a second there, you looked worried! Does that mean there’s something you thought they might find out about? Did something happen today? Did you see him again?” With each question, Chrissy’s voice gets louder, until her tone is piercing.
I stare at the crazy woman who used to be my best friend, genuinely concerned for her sanity.
“Hon, calm down—” Mark starts.
“Shhh, Mark!” Her eyes never waver from my face. “GEMMA, TELL ME!”
“She’s a littl
e scary,” I say instead, looking at Mark.
He nods. “Preaching to the choir, babe.”
“Gemma Summers, if you don’t spit out your story right this minute I’ll—”
We never get to hear what form of deadly punishment she intends to inflict on me, because at that exact moment, someone starts knocking on the door. It’s not the polite knock of a stranger or a deliveryman — it’s the insistent, constant pounding of an angry fist against wood.
I freeze for a minute, my eyes flying from Chrissy to Mark to the door and back again.
“I’ll get it,” Mark says casually, rising to his feet and crossing the room. I find my heart is in my throat as I watch his hand move through the air, turn the knob, and tug open the door.
“Well, it’s about damn time!” a sassy female voice snaps.
Oh, thank god.
I relax back against the couch cushions.
“Hiya, Shelbs,” Chrissy calls to the tall, toned brunette who’s just stepped over the threshold. Her usually pretty face is contorted in a glare.
“Don’t Hiya, Shelbs me, you bitches!”
“Hey!” Chrissy huffs in protest.
“What did we do?” I ask, my eyes widening.
“Oh, um, I don’t know,” Shelby says, coming to a stop next to the coffee table with her hands planted on her hips. “Maybe made out with a billionaire on national television and then dodged my calls for the next twenty-four hours?”
“Oh.” I gulp. “Right, that.”
Her eyes narrow. “Yes, that. I’ve been calling you all day. You never answer your home line or your cell. I even went to your damn apartment, and you weren’t there, either!”
“Well—”
“And let me tell you, the twenty-five reporters outside your building practically stampeded when they spotted me. Apparently all brunettes are created equal, because it took me a good ten minutes to convince them I wasn’t you.”
“Damn, they’re still there? I was hoping they’d given up by now,” I mumble. “And I’m sorry, Shelbs, really. I wasn’t ignoring you — I ducked out of work early and went to Crumble, that new cupcake-slash-coffee shop on Beacon, to stuff my face and clear my head for a few hours. My phone died and I didn’t want to risk going home to charge it.”
Some of the anger fades from her expression and she flops down on the sectional beside me. “Well, whatever, you still could’ve called from Chrissy’s phone. I’m so out of the loop.”
“She only got here like five minutes ago,” Mark says, coming to my defense.
“And she hasn’t even told us anything,” Chrissy adds, glaring at me again. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Christ,” I mutter, taking another large swig of wine.
“He won’t save you now.” Shelby’s eyes are gleaming. “Spill, bitch.”
I sigh.
Then, I spill.
***
Forty-five minutes later, it’s totally silent in the apartment. Chrissy and Shelby are staring at me with identical expressions of stunned disbelief. Even Mark, who’s usually unruffled, looks a little shocked.
I can’t blame them. I’ve laid it all out there, every single mortifying detail of the trip to what I’ve only just learned is Croft Tower. (That particular tidbit would’ve been helpful to know before I arrived on the 29th floor.)
“Well?” I ask, swallowing hard. “What do you think?”
For once, Chrissy and Shelby are at a loss for words. Surprisingly, it’s Mark, who jumps in first.
“I think he’s a Grade-A asshole, and he better hope we don’t cross paths in a dark alley. Billionaire or no, I’d be more than happy to introduce my fist to his face.” His expression is dark.
“Mark!” Chrissy exclaims, turning to her husband. “Honey, don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?”
“No,” he mutters decidedly.
“But you’re a pacifist! You marched in the Peace Parade last spring,” Chrissy reminds him.
“And didn’t you write an Op-Ed in the Herald around Christmas, campaigning for a reduction in televised violence during primetime?” Shelby offers.
Mark shrugs off their words. “Did you not hear what he said to Gemma?”
“Well—”
“But honey—”
“I know men like him.” Mark cuts them off. “The type of men who think they own whatever woman they’re with, because they have X amount of money or power or influence.” He shakes his head swiftly, his eyes on mine. “He’s not the kind of man for you, Gem.”
“I know that,” I say, my voice wavering a little. “But you don’t have to worry. Men like that don’t go for girls like me, anyway.”
In unison, three sets of eyes narrow on me.
“What?” I ask, startled.
“Do you own a mirror?” Shelby is staring at me like I’m a nutcase. “Seriously, do you?”
Chrissy sighs. “Gemma, honey, how many times do we have to tell you? You’re mega hot. Off-the-charts hot. Intimidating-to-most-guys hot.”
“Oh, please—” I protest.
“Mark!” Chrissy turns to her husband. “What, did you give that little macho speech and use up your daily quota of words?” She snorts in exasperation. “For god’s sake, tell Gemma she’s hot.”
He turns to his wife. “I don’t think Gemma needs me to tell her she’s hot.”
I shake my head to confirm this.
“MARK!” Chrissy’s face is turning red and her voice is getting loud. “A year ago, I pushed your watermelon-sized baby out of my vagina. In another month, I’m going to do it all over again. So, goddammit, just TELL GEMMA SHE’S HOT!”
Mark chuckles, totally undisturbed by his wife’s outburst. When his eyes move to mine, they’re full of good humor. “Gemma, babe…. you’re hot-shit.”
I grin. “Thanks.”
“And I’m not just saying that because I was coerced by my formerly hot-shit, now totally bat-shit wife.”
My grin gets wider.
Chrissy glares at Mark.
Shelby turns to me. “Well, I for one think it’s too soon to judge.”
“What?” I ask.
“What?” Mark growls.
Shelby shrugs. “Well, everyone knows the Crofts are, like, the Kennedys, the Vanderbilts, and the Wests combined.”
I tense at her mention of some of New England’s most prominent families.
“They’re American royalty. They’ve got it all — wealth, notoriety, and a stake in every viable economic pool, whether it’s acquiring tech companies or funding startups or owning sports teams. They built their family dynasty from the ground up, essentially achieved world domination with Croft Industries, and somehow stayed on top of the international business world for over fifty years… until five years ago, when there was some big rift in the family. No one really knows what happened for sure, but after that, Chase disappeared. Now, suddenly he’s back, and it’s rumored he’s taking over Croft Industries as CEO. Gemma basically just confirmed that when she told us he’s completely redesigning the office space in his taste.”
“So?” Chrissy asks, impatient as ever. “Why does this matter?”
“Well, maybe it doesn’t.” Shelby sighs. “But you know how Paul works in finance?”
We all nod — Shelby’s husband Paul is almost always working, and hardly a day goes by without her moaning about the demands of the financial world and his long hours away from her.
“Apparently the guys at his office were talking about Croft coming back to town, and everyone was really surprised that the company is passing to Chase, who’s apparently something like the family black sheep, instead of his cousin, Brett. See, Jameson Croft — Brett’s father, Chase’s uncle — was the previous CEO, and I guess it was always expected he’d hand over the reins to his son when he was ready to retire… but nobody thought that would be anytime soon. Jameson himself only took control of the company about ten years ago.”
“Weird,” Chrissy whispers.
“Anyway, aroun
d the time Chase left, everything changed,” Shelby continues. “Company stock plummeted. Rumors circulated about mergers, bankruptcy, you name it. The family never confirmed or denied any of it, though. They never even made a statement about it.”
“Yeah.” Mark is nodding. “Now that you mention it, I remember hearing something about all this.”
“Paul told me there’s a lot of bad blood between Chase and his cousin.” Shelby shrugs. “So, all I’m saying is, maybe he wasn’t pushing Gemma away to be an asshole. Maybe he’s just dealing with a lot of shit right now, and doesn’t want to drag her into the middle of it, considering how crazy everyone already is over him coming back to town, then the big playoff game kiss incident…”
Chrissy’s face is contemplative. “Plus, I’m sure the Crofts have some pretty serious skeletons in their closets — the last thing that family needs is to be under a media microscope. Think about it, Gem… if your relatives make the Borgias look friendly, would you want to bring someone else into that?”
I’m silent for a moment, thinking back to this afternoon. Green eyes flash in my mind, and I hear his voice, rumbling in my direction like a train barreling down the tracks.
I thought if I made this about business, it would be easier.
It’s not.
I just got back to town.
I have certain… obligations.
I can’t afford to be distracted.
He’d told me — granted in his cryptic, close-mouthed, controlling way — that he had things in his life he needed to sort out. I just hadn’t been in the mood to listen, too insulted at being called a distraction to hear him out or give him the benefit of the doubt. And, if I’m honest with myself, too hurt and insecure at the idea that he’d never look at me the way I looked at him to stand there for another minute.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Am I an idiot?” I ask quietly, causing all three of them to look sharply in my direction.
Chrissy lays a comforting hand on my arm. “Of course not, honey. You had every right to storm out of there, after what he said. But…”
I look at her expectantly. “But what?”
“Well, I don’t think he’d make the effort of bringing you all the way across town to his office if he just wanted to check in on you. A man like that doesn’t do anything without a purpose — and, honey, I’d assume the purpose in this scenario was to get a better look at what he sampled last night at the game.”
Not You It's Me Page 9
