Evidently, her Google Alert is still working, because there’s a link pasted beneath her words, and when I click on it, I see the story has only been up on the web for about ten minutes. I squint at the tiny caption at the top of the page, feeling my heart begin to pound inside my chest.
CROFT’S CONFESSION — CAUGHT ON CAMERA!
There’s a video clip below the headline, and after a moment of hesitation, I jab my finger viciously against the screen to queue the footage. The clip is choppy, but I recognize the Charles River running paths in the background, which doesn’t make much sense at all until Chase rounds a bend in the trail and jogs into view — whoever’s filming clearly knows his morning exercise route.
He looksgreat. There’s a dark stain of sweat on his gray t-shirt, his calf muscles stand out in sharp definition each time his sneakers hit the pavement, and his hair is damply disheveled in a way I’ve never seen before. I have to hand it to him — he never breaks stride when the reporters step onto the path and ambush him, their cameras already rolling; he just blows past, as if they aren’t even there, as if he’s done this so many times in the past, it doesn’t even faze him anymore.
The video stream gets bumpier as the cameraman picks up speed, running after Chase while his partner hurls questions rapid-fire.
Are you dating Gemma Summers?
Have you spoken to her since the kiss?
Are the rumors true? Have you two really moved in together?
I try not to freak out when they mention my name or the blatant lies associated with me, telling myself they’ll sayanythingto get a response from him. My grip goes so tight on my iPhone, I worry I’ll create even more fissures in the ruined screen, but I can’t stop watching. I’m relieved when Chase doesn’t turn, doesn’t react at all to their invasive questions. He knows better than to give them what they want.
Well, Ithoughthe did.
But then, he hears the next questions.
Should we expect an engagement?
Will there be a new Mrs. Croft anytime soon?
I’m pretty sure the reporter was trying to be funny, but Chase doesn’t seem to get the joke. As soon as those words leave the reporter’s mouth, Chase slams to a halt and despite the grainy quality, I see every muscle in his body go tense. He turns slowly to face the camera, and his face is set in stone — his expression harder, harsher than I’ve ever seen it. For a moment, he almost looks like he wants to kill the reporter who asked the question. Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so — the video bobs as the cameraman takes a hasty step backwards, away from Chase.
Something about those questions clearly struck a raw nerve.
But then, quicker than lightning, Chase’s lips twist up into the ghost of a smile — totally at odds with his eyes, which are still flat with anger. His voice is charming and more than a little condescending, when he speaks.
“Listen, boys, I’m gonna say this once, and then I’m never gonna address it again — mostly because there’s nothing to address. She seemed like a nice enough girl and she was in a tough spot at the game…” He shrugs, like he’s barely given it a thought. “I figured I’d help her out. But as for anything serious…” His smile turns wolfish. “Well, you boys know better than anyone, I’m not a one woman kind of man. Certainly not for an entire lifetime. Hell, sometimes not even for a single night, if you know what I mean.”
I feel my stomach clench and hug my blankets a little closer.
Everyone in America knowsexactlywhat he means — according to Chrissy, he was photographed on more than one occasion going home for the night with multiple women hanging on his arm, back in his party-boy years.
“So, no relationship?” The reporter asks again. “Nothing’s going on with you two?”
“Less than nothing.” Chase grins full out — that heart-stopping, panty-dropping grin — and starts jogging backwards away from the camera. “And, for argument’s sake, let’s just say, if I everamgoing to settle down… I doubt it will be with a girl like Gemma Summers.”
His words hit me like a bucket of ice water.
Done with the interview, he winks, turns, and jogs away down the path without another word. Seconds later, the video feed clicks off, and I’m left staring at the blank screen of my phone, feeling like an idiot of the highest order when tears start to prick at the back of my eyes.
Chase Croft is an asshole, jerk, buttfaced idiot.
But I’m an even bigger idiot for letting him get to me.
***
The answering machine beeps in my ear and I take a deep breath.
“Hi, Ms. Scarpozzi, it’s Gemma Summers fromPoint de Fuite. I’m just calling to let you know that I’ve finished drafting your paperwork. You’ll receive an invoice sometime within the next two business days. Once the wire transfer is complete, we’ll notify you, and then you can come pick up your new Lalanne. If you’re unable to pick it up, we offer delivery services for an additional fee. It was a pleasure working with you and your husband! Feel free to give me a call back if you have any questions, and thanks again for your business. Bye, now.”
I place the handset back in its cradle and file the Scarpozzi’s paperwork away in my desk drawer. The wealthy newlyweds uprooted to Boston a few months ago from suburban New Jersey, and came to the gallery with money to burn, determined to trade their cheetah-print for Chagall. I like them a lot, regardless of the fact that they’ve just earned me a commission big enough to pay my rent for the next month and put some much-needed cash flow back in my bank account. I also admire their attempt to reinvent themselves, even if I can’t fathom why anyone would want to join New England’s über-wealthy, old-money, elite circles. I doubt they’ll be successful, no matter how many expensive pieces of art line the walls of their penthouse. It’s a poorly kept secret that if you aren’t Boston bred, with ice blue Yankee blood in your veins, you’ll never ascend beyond the bottom rungs of the city’s high-society ladder.
My eyes lift to scan the gallery space, moving from the high ceilings to the whitewashed walls to the giant skylights overhead, where light filters in like translucent honey. I’ve always loved it here — a good thing, considering it’s been my mandatory home away from home for the past few years. The constant changeover as art pieces move in and out, along with the influx of new clients, assures that every day is fresh, like the first brushstrokes on a blank canvas. It keeps things busy — and keeps me from going out of my gourd with boredom.