Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  It’s raining, the sky is getting dark, and I’m sitting in the back of a town car as it winds through the streets of Boston, being carted around by Evan, the same salt-and-pepper-haired chauffeur I met the other night. Oh, and there’s a gorgeous, totally mysterious man sitting next to me, who I still know almost nothing about.

  We don’t speak as Brett’s neighborhood is left behind.

  We’re both lost — me in worry, Chase in fury. I can tell he’s barely holding on to his control; it’s there in the tight clench of his jaw, in the way the tips of his fingers press against his pant legs so tight, the skin around his fingernails goes white with lack of circulation. My mind churns with nerves as I replay my conversation with Brett over and over. In retrospect, everything he said seems like a thinly-veiled threat, a dark innuendo I missed at the time.

  You’ve got spirit…. Then again, so did his stallion.

  A shiver moves through my body.

  “Cold, miss?” Evan asks, his eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m okay. Thanks.”

  Swallowing hard, I turn back to the window and let my gaze go unfocused as the buildings whiz past. Chase doesn’t say a word, but after a moment, a big hand lands on my thigh and squeezes lightly, a silent offer of comfort. And right now, that’s enough. His warm touch seems to drive away some of the demons running rampant through my mind, and I feel a little of my panic ebb. Leaning back against the soft leather, my eyes slip closed — and stay that way, until I feel the car slow to a stop.

  When my lashes flutter open and I catch sight of the building outside my window, my eyes swivel to Chase, wide with confusion.

  “This isn’t my building.”

  His lips twitch. “Observant.”

  “I’ll rephrase,” I say, my eyes narrowing. “Why aren’t we at my building?”

  Chase shrugs. “Why would we be?”

  “You said you’d take me home!”

  “No,” he corrects softly. “I said I’d take you away from Brett. I never said I was taking you home, nor did you insist on going there.”

  A squeal of frustration escapes my lips. “It was implied.”

  “Implication and instruction are vastly different creatures, sunshine,” he drawls, sounding every inch the successful businessman.

  “So help me god, if you start quoting Sun Tzu right now…”

  His lips twitch as he reaches out and laces his fingers through mine. “Come on.”

  “Where are we?” My eyes swing back to the window, and I see we’re below ground, in a parking garage of some kind, but I don’t recognize it.

  “You’ll see.” His hand tightens on mine as he swings open his door and steps out of the car. I follow because, well, I don’t really have any other choice. My feet have barely cleared the car when Chase starts walking, towing me behind him at a quick clip toward a bank of elevators on the far side of the garage.

  “I don’t think I like you,” I mutter darkly to his shoulder blades.

  He glances back at me, a full-on grin on his face, and as soon as I catch sight of that straight row of pearly whites — so often concealed behind his stony mask of composure — I feel a little of my indignation slide away.

  What can I say? He gives good grin, even when he’s dragging me around like a caveman.

  We’ve almost reached the elevators when I look back over my shoulder at the town car, my only chance of escape dwindling faster than my will to fight for it. Evan hasn’t moved, leaning against the hood like he’s never been more relaxed in his life. He winks at me and grins reassuringly when he catches my eyes.

  I’m glad one of us is at ease with all of this, because I’m certainly not.

  I don’t even have time to smile back, because the elevator’s sliding open with a low chime and suddenly, I’m out of the parking lot and inside yet another floating metal box with a bossy billionaire I’d like to kick swiftly in the shins, at the moment, fed up with his brutish tendencies.

  Chase pulls a keychain from his pocket, slides a small access key into the button marked 30 — the penthouse — and up we go, neither of us saying a word as we ascend. We glide to a stop, the doors peel open, and I feel my eyes widen as they sweep the low-lit space.

  Chase’s apartment.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Butterflies

  It’s huge, probably almost 10,000 square feet, taking up the entire 30th floor of the skyscraper.

  Floor length windows cover every out-facing wall of the loft, which stretches from where we’re standing more than fifty feet across in every direction. There’s more behind us, I’m sure of it, but I can barely process what’s in front of me, so I purposefully don’t turn around as we step from the elevator.

  To my surprise, it has none of the coldness of Brett’s whitewashed, modern apartment. Instead, Chase’s space is full of color — the shining hardwood floors are deep mahogany, almost auburn in the dim light, offsetting the warm, cream-toned slivers of wall that peek out between the dominating glass window panels. His furniture isn’t sharp or angular; it’s sumptuous. One look at his sofa and I know it’ll feel like I’m sitting on a cloud.

  The loft is sparsely furnished — unsurprising; you’d need a helluva lot of stuff to make this much room seem cluttered — but that’s part of its appeal. I step further inside, my hand dropping away from Chase’s, and let my eyes sweep as I pivot in a slow circle on my heels, finally taking in the 360-degree view.

  Behind us, in the space beside the elevator, is a wide, open archway leading into what looks like a ginormous bedroom. Even from here, in the semi-dark, I can make out the shadow of a huge headboard, illuminated by the rainy afternoon light which pours in from Chase’s adjacent private rooftop balcony. I want to focus on the ocean views, on the fact that he’s got a freaking patio 30 floors above the earth, but my rounded eyes seem to be stuck on the bed, sliding from black sheets to black pillows…

  Gemma!

  Time to move on.

  Fighting a blush, my gaze skitters quickly back to the main room before I can dwell too much on the activities that happen inside Chase’s bedroom. On the left, set into the floor, there’s a sunken set of couches that could seat a ridiculous number of people, surrounding a stunning, square coffee table that, if I’m not mistaken, actually has a low-burning gas fireplace embedded in the center.

  I roll my eyes, and when they return from their trip up inside my sockets, they land on a dark, custom-colored pool table tucked into one corner, then skirt over an imposing oak dining table that makes the one in Da Vinci’s The Last Supper look like plastic kiddie seating. I totally ignore the sheer number of bookshelves lining the far wall, even though I’m itching to explore them, because, well, as everyone knows, if the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way to a girl’s is through a good book. Or, in this case, a bazillion good books. And, as much as I’d like to confirm that he really does have that copy of The Art of War on his shelves… I’m just not willing to risk it.

  A massive kitchen dominates the space to the right. Gleaming copper pots and pans hang from a ceiling rack, an impressive collection of knives are displayed on a metallic wall-strip above the stainless sink, and a giant refrigerator which probably holds more food than one man could ever eat in a lifetime sits unobtrusively in the corner. It’s a stunning set-up, as is — but the real shocker, the part that makes me lose my breath, is that it looks like someone actually cooks here.

  It’s not just some model kitchen, used as a prop for those whose dinners consist of Chinese takeout and dry martinis (I’m looking at you, Chrissy). There are dishes in the sink, garlic peels on the counter, a half-eaten baguette still sitting on a thick wooden cutting board.

  “You cook?” I ask, without turning around. My words are soft, but he hears me.

  “It’s a hobby.” His voice is low, close, barely two feet away.

  “Of course it is,” I say snottily, to cover my discomfort at his nearness.

>   Ugh. He’s probably a great chef. I’m not sure why I find that so annoying. Probably because he’s already pretty perfect in every other regard. There should be some kind of rule that says supremely attractive people aren’t allowed to have any other skills. It’s not fair to the rest of us.

  He chuckles. “You’re cute when you’re mean, you know.”

  I pointedly ignore his words, walking away from him until I reach the vast spread of windows. To my surprise, I recognize the view instantly.

  “We’re at Croft Industries.” Surprise colors my tone. “Aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “You live here? Above the offices?” I turn to face him, startled when I see he’s followed me across the apartment, his steps so silent I didn’t hear him approach. Our eyes lock and my stomach clenches, its movement unfortunately doing nothing to kill the flurry of butterflies who’ve apparently taken up residence there.

  Chase nods. “Just moved in a few weeks ago, when the renovations finished. In fact, you’re one of my first houseguests.”

  “Oh,” I say softly, staring at him. For some reason, I find that infinitely sad — all this space, and no one to share it with. “Does that mean you’re officially the new CEO?”

  He nods. “There’s a black-tie gala on Friday night — Jameson is planning to make the announcement after dinner. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be attending.”

  “Don’t want to wear a tux?”

  “Don’t want to see my family,” he corrects. “Usually, I avoid these things at all costs, but it seems I can’t get out of this one.”

  “That’s the trouble with being the guest of honor, I suppose.”

  He nods. “The whole Croft family has to make an appearance, along with a hundred or so business associates and friends of the family. Plenty of press, too.”

  “You don’t sound excited.”

  “I’ve got a lot of emotions when it comes to events involving my family members,” he says, his gaze steady on mine. “None of them are excitement.”

  I find it infinitely strange that a man with such clear disdain for his family could simultaneously show such loyalty to them.

  “Why come back at all?” I ask softly. “If you were happier during those years away…”

  “It’s complicated.”

  I don’t doubt that — every bone in Chase’s body is complicated, right down to his littlest finger.

  “Chase…”

  His eyes go liquid as soon as I say his name.

  The butterflies in my gut go crazy.

  “What is it, Gemma?” he asks, his voice husky.

  It’s there, on the tip of my tongue — the desire to ask him if he’s lonely, if he needs someone to talk to, if he needs a friend… but I worry it’ll be too much, too fast. Crossing lines I’m not even sure I’m allowed to cross.

  “I’m sorry about Titan,” I whisper instead, wanting to reach out and grab his hand but resisting the urge. “I didn’t get to say that, before.”

  His eyes get warm — warmer than I’ve ever seen them, so warm I worry I’m going to melt into a puddle at his feet if he stares at me like that for much longer.

  “Still mad at me?” he asks, his eyes dropping to focus my lips. I know he’s thinking about the elevator — hell, I’m thinking about the elevator — and just the memory of that searing kiss, of his hard lips against mine, of my legs wrapped tight around his waist, is enough to set my pulse thundering in my veins.

  I almost ask for what? — my brain is literally that scrambled by his presence — but thankfully, before the words leave my lips, I remember I’m supposed to be pissed about his alpha-male antics.

  “Furious,” I say, but there’s no heat to my anger.

  A slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face, like he knows I’m full of shit, and it makes my stomach feel all squirmy and warm. The feeling magnifies tenfold when he takes a step closer. Then another. And another, until he’s practically pressed up against me again.

  Danger!

  I blink hard, trying to refocus, and make my voice casual. “Why did you bring me here, Chase? Why can’t I go home?”

  My words are a stark reminder of reality. His eyes shutter almost instantly, and I mourn the loss of the heat in his gaze. When he speaks, his voice is utterly composed.

  “We need to talk.”

  “About?”

  In lieu of an answer, he reaches out, grabs my hand, and drags me over to the couches. This time, I don’t fight him. As soon as I settle in on the cushion beside his, my earlier predictions are confirmed — it’s cloud-soft and mega comfortable.

  “Brett.” Chase says flatly.

  “Do we have to talk about him?” I protest, having only just forgotten about his slime-ball of a cousin.

  “Yes.”

  I huff but don’t object.

  Chase leans back, one arm draped casually over the top of the couch. If he reaches out just the tiniest bit, the tips of his fingers will be touching my hair. Which isn’t distracting, or anything. At all.

  Cue butterfly storm.

  “And us,” he adds casually, like those two little words haven’t brought my world to a screeching halt.

  “U-us?” I stammer, looking at him with wide eyes. “What do you mean, us?”

  He holds my stare in a searching gaze. “Us. This.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You can try to deny it’s there, sunshine, but I’m sorry to break it to you — you’re a terrible liar.” He grins like he’s not even a little bit sorry.

  “I am not!”

  “You are.”

  “And there’s nothing between us!”

  His eyebrows lift, calling my bluff.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “Maybe there’s a little, tiny spark. But that’s it!”

  He just looks at me. Looks and looks, until my lie disintegrates into thin air and floats away. And then he says, in a simple voice that makes my heart stutter, “It’s more than that and you know it, Gemma.”

  More?!

  “But… you don’t even like me,” I protest.

  “Not true.”

  “Well, I don’t even like you.”

  “Gemma.” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Remember how I mentioned you’re a terrible liar?”

  Shit.

  “But…” I’m really grasping at straws, now. “You don’t date,” I remind him, desperate to believe my own words. “You don’t do more.”

  “That’s true.”

  Despite myself, I feel my heart deflate like a week-old balloon.

  “Maybe that’s because I wasn’t doing it with you.”

  My mouth falls open as equal amounts of hope and fear rush back into my chest, filling that damn balloon until it’s threatening to burst. Pulse pounding in my veins, I meet his eyes as panicked thoughts race through my head — about us, about the press, about his slime-ball cousin…

  “But…” I struggle to find the right words. “We can’t…”

  “Gemma.” His voice is steady and, when I look up at him, so are his eyes. “Breathe.”

  I nod, trying to breathe, but I’m kind of freaking out about the fact that Chase has just said he wants more — whatever that means — because it’s probably the worst idea ever, considering neither of us has ever had a functioning relationship, so far as I know.

  Chase senses that I need time to process and doesn’t push me. Instead, he smoothly changes the subject, so I can breathe again.

  “Time to talk about Brett.”

  It’s probably a bad sign that I’d rather discuss a sociopath than our relationship status, right?

  Oh well.

  Pushing the thoughts of more to the back of my mind, I take a deep breath and manage to calm myself down.

  “Okay. Lay it on me.”

  “I told you about Titan.” His voice is controlled, though I can still sense undercurrents of intense anger. Anger and pain, though he’d never admit to feeling any.

  Again, I h
ave to fight the urge to reach out to him.

  “That was the first time Brett took something from me. Something that mattered, anyway.” The hand by my head flexes with tension. “Before Titan, there was always competition between us, but it was small stuff, mostly, nothing out of the ordinary — going out for my spot on the rowing team, running against me for class president, spreading rumors about me to sabotage my friendships. Nothing extreme, just standard familial rivalry.”

  “Uh huh,” I say, thinking nothing about that sounds standard to me. At all.

  “But after that summer, it was like something had been unleashed inside him — he stopped trying to hide his manipulation, his efforts to hurt me, and became almost… blatant about it.” He sighs. “We both attended the same all-boys boarding school in Rhode Island. I’d snuck a girl into my room, one night, against the rules. Everyone at the Academy did it — we all looked the other way, had each other’s backs when it came to covering with the hall monitors.” His voice thrums with anger. “Except Brett. He reported it — along with all my other indiscretions — to the headmaster. And, when that wasn’t enough to blacken my academic record, he got inventive. Stirred up cheating claims with my teachers, accused me of stealing his essays, of forcing him to do my homework with threats and coercion. Total bullshit, of course — I made better grades than he ever did, so if I was going to cheat, it wouldn’t have been off him — but it sewed the seeds of doubt in the school board’s minds enough that they believed him when, one day, he showed up in the medical wing with a black eye and bruised ribs, spouting lies that I’d beaten the shit out of him. I hadn’t, no matter how often I’d considered it, but that didn’t matter. I was expelled for bullying, halfway through our senior year. Grandfather nearly disowned me.” Chase shakes his head. “There’s more, but it’s not worth getting into — I think you get the idea.”

  I nod in confirmation and, this time, I can’t stop myself — I reach out a hand and lay it against his knee. He tenses at the contact, but, after a few seconds, I feel his muscles relax under my fingers.

  He’s unused to being comforted, I think to myself. Unused to the idea that someone might reach out to give rather than take, requiring nothing in return.