Free Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) by Julie Johnson Page B

lake.
    The hands on my lap are so tightly clenched, my freshly manicured nails cut crescent-moons into my palms. I can feel the fine boning of my dress pressed tight against my ribs. For a split second, I think that thin fabric might be all that’s holding my quick-beating heart inside my chest.
    I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
    Okay, that’s a lie.
    I know exactly why I’m nervous.
    Nate.
    Just the thought of seeing him sends a thrill shooting through my nerve endings, makes every fine hair on my body stand up straight, evaporates every ounce of saliva from my mouth. I’m not even near him yet, but if I close my eyes I can almost feel his presence. That dark gaze. That gritty tone. The sinuous way he moves, like a panther gliding through shadow. All coiled power and restrained strength — held in total check, but unleashed at a moment’s notice.
    He’s always moved like that, I suppose, but for the last few years I’ve…. Well, not forgotten . You can’t forget a thing like that, not entirely. But, through Herculean effort, I’ve managed to push thoughts of sleek muscle and lithe strides to the back of my mind.
    Seeing him again last month, though…
    It was a stark reminder of his allure, of the pull I feel whenever I’m around him. Just one glance, one touch, one fractured instant with his chest pressed against mine and our eyes locked, and all those forbidden feelings shot straight back to the surface.
    Maybe that’s why he’s been stalking my dreams, every night since. My eyes press closed as I replay some of the (seriously NSFW) images my subconscious mind has conjured into existence during the past few weeks — the ones that make me wake suddenly, sheets twisted around my legs, heart racing inside my chest, hair mussed against my pillow, sweaty hands gripping hot blankets. Wishing I could hold onto something that would hold me back.
    I shiver against the leather seat and tell myself it’s from the chilly AC vent blowing air on me.
    Just dreams, Phoebe. I’m sure, in real life, sex with Nate isn’t remotely as…
    Athletic?
    Orgasmic?
    Bendy? 
    I’m startled out of my reverie when we pull up to the funky, brick waterfront building Gemma’s chosen as the space for her gallery. Warm light spills out of the large bay windows overlooking the Charles. As usual, I’ve chosen to be fashionably late — which will make Lila about as happy as a middle-school girl with braces on picture day — and can see there are already plenty of people milling around on the second floor sampling appetizers, making small talk, and pretending to study the art on the walls. A gleaming silver sign caps the doublewide doorway, stamped with a single word in clean, lowercase font.
    karma
    The place looks somehow elegant and edgy at the same time, tastefully decorated in an industrial-chic style. I can’t wait to get inside and congratulate Gemma on how well it turned out.
    She initially wanted a small, intimate opening — a few close friends, some crackers, maybe a bottle of champagne or four. But any successful gallery needs the rubber-stamp approval of Boston’s blue bloods… especially one like Karma, which is basically a non-profit in disguise.
    Tricking people into giving back through the brokering of ostentatiously expensive art!
    That’s what Gemma says, anyway.
    Every penny made on sales will be funneled into public school art programs across the city. Thus, true to the gallery name, every purchase is an instant karma point — stocking classrooms with paintbrushes, supplying the salary for much-needed art teachers, changing the lives of kids who’ve never held so much as a colored pencil.
    Apparently, Gemma came up with the idea while she was “lying around like a log in the hospital” — again, her words, not mine. That wasn’t even two months ago. I’m not quite sure how she’s managed to throw together the most exclusive event on Boston’s social calendar in such a short time. (Chase probably had