Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  It’s a terribly sad realization.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my heart a little bit broken for him.

  “For what?” Chase asks, his eyes steady on mine. “It’s not your fault, Gemma.”

  “I know, it’s just…” My eyes drop to my hand, looking fragile and fine-boned where it lays against his knee. “I know how it feels to be disappointed by family — by the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally. It’s a betrayal of everything that makes us human. Frankly… it freaking sucks. I’m sorry you had to go through it, that’s all.”

  My eyes find his and I see they’re curious, active with thoughts — whether about my past or his own, I don’t know. His mouth is set in a stern line and the muscles beneath my fingers are rock hard once more. After a long while, the silence between us lengthens into a heavy thing, and I begin to worry he’s angry with me for intruding on his memories. My eyes drop as I wait for him to tell me to butt out, to go home, to get lost.

  He never does.

  A small eternity later, I feel the stirring of fingers in the hair by my temple. It’s not much — just one, simple stroke of the strands — but I know it’s his way of saying thank you even if he’s not ready to say it out loud.

  He clears his throat. “Even the expulsion Brett orchestrated wasn’t enough to hurt my chances at Harvard — which made him even angrier. He hadn’t counted on the cachet of the Croft name. Truth is, I could’ve been a felon, had a terrible GPA, called my college interviewer a jerkoff — it wouldn’t have mattered. My family legacy alone was enough to convince even the toughest admissions officers.”

  “Must’ve been nice,” I murmur thoughtlessly.

  His eyes harden, icing over as I watch. “It wasn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just…” I trail off, searching for the right words. “I didn’t go to college right away. My mom couldn’t pay for it, and I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to study. So, I moved to the city, worked my ass off at crappy coffee shops that barely paid the rent, and set aside every penny I could scrape together until I had enough for a few semesters of art school.”

  “But you had a choice.” His voice has gone surprisingly soft and I see his eyes have thawed a bit. “The only choice for me, for anyone in my family, is an undergraduate career at an Ivy League school, followed by one of three paths — an MBA, a law degree, or a medical degree, also from an Ivy League school. That may sound like a charmed existence but, believe me, when I hit eighteen and realized my whole life had already been scripted, that everything I’d ever wanted to do was out of reach because it didn’t fit the mold of what my family felt was acceptable… Well, let’s just say, the Croft name stopped being a gift and became a burden.”

  “Is that why you left five years ago?” I ask quietly.

  His eyes lock on mine and his lips twitch. “Been researching me, huh?”

  “No!” I flush. “My friends, Chrissy and Mark… they’re kind of…um…” I trail off, trying to think of the best way to describe my wackadoodle friends.

  Chase’s eyebrows lift with amusement, and his fingers begin absently toying with a strand of my hair, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. The look on his face is one I can’t easily describe — his features are torn between surprise and disbelief and maybe even tenderness as he stares at his fingers, siding through the dark silky locks.

  Fighting the urge to squirm, I try to pretend he hasn’t just forced my heart into overdrive and scrambled my brain to mush as I search for the right words. Or really any words, because if I go much longer without saying anything, he’s going to think I’m having a stroke.

  I clear my throat a little desperately as he leans closer, closing some of the space between our cushions, his eyes dropping to my mouth.

  Danger!

  “Um… Chrissy and Mark… They’re nosy. And protective. And maybe a little overbearing,” I finish, forcing the words out with a wince. “But it’s mostly out of love, I swear.”

  “They care about you,” he says simply, but there’s an edge of sadness to his words. His eyes flicker to mine, holding intently as he adds, “They love you.”

  I nod, feeling my heart skip a beat inside my chest. His mouth opens, and I think he’s going to say something else about it, but then I see his eyes flash as he changes his mind.

  “To answer your question,” he says instead. “No – the burden of being a Croft is not why I left.”

  “Oh.” My voice is soft, and I don’t push when he doesn’t offer more.

  “But that is why I came back,” he adds lowly.

  I open my mouth to ask what he means, but he cuts me off with a personal question that throws me.

  “Did you go to art school here in Boston?”

  “Mhm,” I confirm. “But only for a few semesters.”

  “Why didn’t you finish?”

  I shrug, embarrassed by the answer.

  I ran out of money.

  Instead I say, “Real life happened.”

  He nods. “Do you ever think about going back?”

  “Not really.” My eyes find his again. “My mother always taught me, you end up at the destination you fix your eyes on: look to the future and you’ll get there, keep looking at the past, and you’ll find yourself back where you started.”

  “A philosophy you live by?” he asks softly.

  “I don’t know about that. But, in my experience…” I play absently with the sun pendant at my neck, a nervous habit. His eyes watch my fingers move along the gold chain. “The past holds pain; the future holds promise.”

  Something flashes in his eyes, when I say that, but I can’t quite decipher it. Before I can analyze it too deeply, my purse starts beeping, my embarrassing text-alert tone — the first eight notes of the Harry Potter theme song — ridiculously loud in the silent loft.

  Do-dooo-do-do-dooo-do-dooo-dooooo.

  Chase’s eyebrows lift.

  Blushing furiously, I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, its cracked screen flashing Shelby’s name.

  “It’s just Shelby,” I say, pressing a button to toggle it into silent-mode. “I’ll call her back later.”

  My eyes lift to Chase and I see he’s staring at my phone, his intent eyes examining the cracks in my screen, the sparkly blue case I bought when I was twenty and still use because it’s such an old model, they don’t even sell replacement cases anymore.

  “Anyway…” I say, tucking the phone out of sight.

  Chase’s eyes return to my face. “Are you happy at the gallery?”

  I nod.

  “Have you ever thought of putting your own paintings on display somewhere?”

  My eyes cut to his. “What is this, an interrogation? Or perhaps a business inquisition, Mr. CEO?”

  One side of his mouth pulls up in a grin. “Sorry. Bad habit.”

  “Shrewd businessman pitted against unwitting artist,” I murmur. “The odds are not in my favor.”

  He laughs, full out. “Fine. How about a fair trade — you answer one, I answer one.”

  “Okay, but since I’ve already answered, like, five of yours, I get to ask you four in a row.”

  “One.”

  “Three!” I counter.

  “One.”

  “Two and a half!” I haggle, my voice rising.

  “What exactly would half a question entail?”

  I narrow my eyes and drop my voice low. “Two, final offer.”

  “One.” He shakes his head, amused.

  “Ugh!” I grunt. “You are so annoying.”

  He chuckles again, the big jerk.

  “Fine,” I grumble. “One.”

  His grin widens.

  “But I get to go first!” I demand loudly.

  “I was always planning to let you go first, sunshine.”

  “I don’t like you,” I inform him, cheerful despite the fact that I’ve just lost miserably at negotiations. You know what they say about bartering with a CEO�
�

  Actually, come to think of it, I don’t know.

  Is that even a thing people say?

  It’s probably not a thing.

  Moving on.

  I make a big show of lacing my fingers together and stretching them, like I’m preparing to do battle. “Okay, let me think…” I stare at him, trying to keep my expression badass, but he’s grinning at me again and it’s doing a funny thing to my insides. “Oh! I’ve got one! What’s your favorite—”

  The sound of a phone ringing cuts me off before I can finish my question.

  Chase sighs, pulls his cell from his pocket, and glances at the screen.

  “Fuck. It’s my CFO, calling about a new project. I have to take this.” His eyes lift to mine. “Will you wait here?”

  I nod.

  The phone chimes shrilly again. Standing, he starts to lift it to his ear, but pauses before answering, arm suspended midair. In a flash, his eyes return to mine and in a single, sharp move, he bends at the waist, plants his free hand against the couch next to my face, and, before I can blink, brushes his lips across mine in a soft kiss that leaves me breathless.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he whispers against my mouth, and I see his eyes have gone melty again. “We still have shit to discuss, sunshine.”

  I gulp, knowing he means us and more.

  “And, after that, I’d be happy to tell you all about my favorites.” His voice drops lower. “Maybe I’ll even show you a few of them, if you’re lucky.”

  My heart flips in my chest, thumping wildly at the implication in his words. I just wanted to know his favorite city — the man has been to thirty-seven countries, after all — but I’m pretty sure Chase has something else in mind.

  Something that involves me shedding more than just my self-control.

  I start to lean forward, not wanting the kiss to end… and freeze when his phone rings again, loud and insistent.

  With a final lip brush and a muttered curse, he’s gone, striding toward the archway across the apartment, rounding a corner, and disappearing from sight without a backward glance. He must have a private office in the space off his bedroom, because a minute later, I hear the sound of a door closing.

  And then, I’m alone in Chase Croft’s penthouse — somewhere I never in my wildest dreams imagined I’d wind up — and thoughts, dangerous thoughts, about how this bossy, annoying, elusive billionaire might just disprove my theory that all men (Mark excluded, of course) are rat bastards, begin to flutter through my mind.

  I press a hand to my stomach in an attempt to steady myself.

  Damn. The freaking butterflies have multiplied again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Baby

  He’s gone for a long time.

  So long, in fact, I forget to be polite, and start to wander.

  I play with the fireplace remote, delighted to find you can not only adjust the temperature and size of the flames, but also the speed at which they dance on the grate and even their color. I flip from blue to red to orange to green, feeling like a four year old who’s learned to make the automatic car window go up and down.

  Cool.

  Well, actually it’s hot, but… you know what I mean.

  Leaving behind my merrily-dancing magenta flames, I trace the felt-topped billiard table and lift a few of the heavy, striped pool balls from their pockets, each of which is engraved with the word CROFT in gold filigree letters. A bit excessive, in my opinion, but considering I’ve never played pool in my life, I’m not one to judge.

  I skim my fingertips along the glossy oak table, wondering with vague curiosity if Chase has ever had a dinner party with enough guests to fill all sixteen seats. Probably not a Croft family gathering, that’s for damn sure.

  Finally, I reach the bookshelves — which, if I’m being honest, were really my destination from the beginning — and start to work my way through his collection. It’s vast — everything from classics to modern literature, poetry to nonfiction. Books on business practices sit next to tomes on medieval archery; slim travel guides are shoved in next to glossy-paged photography books. There’s no rhyme or reason to their placement, which sends a happy thrill shooting through me; they look like my own messy, disorganized, well-loved shelves back in my apartment — though I’m nearly positive he paid more than the twenty bucks I spent at a flea market for mine last year.

  My fingers move gently, stroking the spines with a reverence I reserve only for the true loves of my life — words and works of art. For a good long while, I’m totally entranced — plucking out volumes, skimming their covers, inhaling their scent. Is there anything on earth that smells as good as the pages of a book — new or old?

  I swear, they should bottle this stuff and sell it as perfume.

  After a few minutes, I finally find what I’m looking for — a thin, off-white volume with a cracked spine and bright red lettering.

  Sun Tzu.

  Grinning, I pull it out, flip to the first page, and make my way toward a comfy-looking armchair by the windows. I’m so engrossed I barely register the sound of a phone ringing on the small table to my left. I jump about a foot in the air when the landline answering machine picks up and a sultry, unmistakably feminine — and unmistakably familiar — voice starts blaring from the speaker.

  “Chase, baby, it’s Vanessa.”

  I still completely at the sound. That voice — it’s the same one I heard just this morning at the gallery, hissing at me from the blonde’s perfect mouth. In all the drama with Brett, I’d completely forgotten about her — and what her presence in Chase’s life might mean.

  A quick glance behind me confirms he’s still locked away in his study, in the throes of a business call.

  “Why haven’t you called me?” the blonde continues, sounding clingier than plastic wrap. “You’ve been back in the city for weeks. I expected a call ages ago.”

  Apparently she doesn’t reserve that bitchy tone for accosting perfect strangers — she’s just as uppity, talking to answering machines.

  “You know I don’t like waiting.”

  I don’t know Chase all that well, but it’s really hard to imagine he’d date a woman this whiney. Plus, she did just say he hasn’t called her… so, maybe they’re just friends, or he dumped her and she can’t let go.

  Honestly, it shouldn’t matter to me who this woman is, because it’s not like Chase and I are together, or anything.

  It shouldn’t matter.

  But it does.

  Her voice drops lower, getting even more seductive. “I miss you, baby.”

  Okay, maybe she doesn’t sound whiney at all.

  Maybe she sounds exactly like she looks — tall and thin, with lots of hair and perfect skin.

  Damn.

  “I shouldn’t have to chase you, Chase,” she murmurs across the line.

  Clever.

  “I mean, baby, I’m your fiancée.” She huffs. “Don’t I deserve better?”

  Every muscle in my body goes completely still.

  “Think about it, baby,” she says, then clicks off with a wet, lip-smacking muah! noise.

  The book in my hands falls to the floor as I listen to the sound of static over the line, trying not to throw up as all my fears that Chase Croft is just like every, single other rat bastard man in my life come true, hitting me with one swift kick to the gut.

  All those stupid, hopeful butterflies swarming in my stomach die on impact.

  ***

  I don’t think about it.

  I just grab my purse from where I left it on the coffee table and bolt, choosing not to analyze the feelings of extreme disappointment and regret coursing through my veins. Leaning back against the elevator wall, I keep my eyes closed for the duration of my ride down to the first floor, trying not to remember another elevator ride, just an hour ago, which ended with my legs around Chase’s waist and his tongue in my mouth.

  He’s the worst of them all.

  Worse than my dad.

  Worse th
an third-grade spitballers.

  Worse than Rat-Bastard-Ralph.

  He’s the Rat-Bastard-King.

  The thought makes me want to cry.

  As soon as the penthouse-access elevator doors slide open, I’m running. It doesn’t take me long to find my way through the marble-floored labyrinth of hallways, back to the main lobby. I spot the bank of public elevators I took the last time I was here and know escape is close.

  Thirty seconds later, I fly past the front security desk, weave through the crush of commuters exiting the building on their way home for the night, and burst from the revolving glass door onto the sidewalk. I pull a gulp of damp, evening air into my lungs, the first real breath I’ve taken in minutes, and tell myself everything is going to be okay.

  For a tiny sliver of time, I feel nothing but sweet, undisturbed relief.

  And then the camera flashes start.

  ***

  “How bad is it?”

  “It’s—”

  “Wait!” I interject, hands pressed firmly over my eyes so I can’t see Shelby’s face. Or her computer screen. “Lie to me.”

  “It’s not that bad, Gem.”

  “Really?” I ask, hope lacing my voice.

  “No, not really. You asked me to lie to you, remember? It’s bad. Like, really bad.”

  I fall back against Shelby’s couch — a musty, springless, uncomfortable piece she swears is an antique — and groan, loudly. Thank god she was home, when I got here. As a freelance graphic designer, she makes her own hours and, more often than not, she spends her days out of the midsize, recently-renovated house Paul purchased for her in the suburbs four years ago, doing Pilates or Cross Fit or hot yoga or god only knows what other kind of torture.

  The one time she’d dragged me to the gym with her, I spent forty minutes flirting with a personal trainer named Drake and bouncing on the exercise balls like a five-year-old while she did a zillion crunches with such determination, you’d think a drill sergeant was standing over her. She never even got winded. As for me, I didn’t get Drake’s number — despite some of my best moves, including (but not limited to) hair-flips and flirty smiles — and I didn’t get another shot, since Shelby never invited me to the gym with her again.