If I Were You(Inside Out 01)

Chapter Nine

Description: butterfly

The bells on the coffee shop door chime but I barely hear them. I’m still looking at Chris and he’s still looking at me. His eyes are warm and I am warmer. I’ve known plenty of good looking men, but this one affects me beyond good looks, he sets every nerve I own to tingling.
“He comes here almost every day,” Ava whispers, and my gaze jerks to hers. I glance beyond her and see her employee has returned.
“You mean Chris Merit?” I ask, hungry for what insights into the artist she might share with me.
She nods. “There’s something about him, aye?”
“Aye,” I agree wholeheartedly.
“It’s the mystery I think. No matter how I try, I can’t draw him into a conversation of any substance. Well, that, and let’s just face it, the man makes denim and leather look as edible as chocolate.”
The bells ding again and a group enters the building. Ava sighs. “Regretfully I must attend the counter. We’ll have to chat later.”
I muster a smile, still feeling Chris’s stare, still tingling all over. “I suppose that steals my excuse to put off my homework.”
“Homework,” she repeats and rolls her eyes. “Mark really is the proverbial principal with a ruler in his hand. I feel sorry for his employees. How about lunch one day this week? We can set it up before you leave.”
“Yes, great,” I agree without hesitation. Ava seems quite nice and surely she knew Rebecca. Knows, I correct silently. There is no past tense. Rebecca is fine. “I’d like that.”
My cell phone rings and Ava scurries off to help her customer who has now morphed into several more. I dig my phone from my purse and forget everything but the call when I see Ella’s number. ”Ella?” I answer excitedly.
The line crackles with electricity. “Sara!”
“Ella?!”
More crackling.
“I’m okay. Travel....” crackle. “...am... road trip...beautiful...” More crackling and then nothing. The line is dead.
I sigh and set the phone down next to my computer, glaring at the device where it rests. Why has hearing Ella’s voice, confirming she is safe, not brought the comfort it should? I’m worried about her beyond reason. Everything just feels so...off.
“Is everything okay?”
I look up and blink in surprise to find Chris standing in front of my table and the worries of moments before are temporarily banked. His light blondish brown hair is mussed up, like he’s been running his hands through it and he’s wearing a dark blue snug-fitting t-shirt and dark blue jeans. Unlike Mark, he is not classically good looking, but more raw male hotness. He looks scrumptious and add to that how sexy his talent is to me, and I am suddenly more self-conscious than ever. I try to reassure myself I’ve done nothing ridiculous and foolish that he might have bore witness to. I’m fairly certain I inhaled the volcanic muffin in a rather unladylike fashion.
“Okay?” I ask, my voice raspy, affected. I am so incapable of playing it cool with this man, or really any, for that matter, but this one more than most.
“You looked like the call upset you.”
“Oh no,” I assure him quickly, and it hits me that not only was he watching me, he isn’t shy about admitting it. “My friend was calling from Paris, and we had a bad connection. I really wanted to hear how she was doing.” I seize the opportunity to find out how long Chris is in town. “Didn’t I read that you live in Paris?”
He motions to the seat. “Can I sit?”
“Yes. Of course. I should have offered.”
“And yes,” he says, settling into the chair across from me. “I own a place in Paris but I split my time between here and there. San Francisco stirs my creativity. I can’t stay away long.”
I’m thrilled to discover he lives here, and intrigued by his creative process. I yearn to ask questions about his work but I hesitate, after Ava’s reference to him being a private person. Besides, the table is small and I can smell the same spicy male scent he wore last night, and the effect is drugging. I’m not sure I can ask intelligent questions so I settle on easy, small talk. “I had no idea you were local but then, I’ve been pretty removed from the art scene for the past few years.”
“But you’re back now.”
“For the summer,” I agree, watching him closely as I add, “or until Rebecca returns.”
His brow furrows. “She’s coming back?”
“You don’t think so?”
He shrugs. “Not a clue. I barely know her, but she’s been gone so long that I assumed she’d found a new job.”
“Mark says she’s on a leave of absence. From my understanding, some rich guy whisked her away to travel the world.”
“And you have no idea how long until she returns?”
“You summed up the general gist of the situation. I’m here until she’s here.” Or until I prove I’m worthy of staying around when she returns, I remind myself.
“Hmmm,” he murmurs. “That open-ended vacation is rather...odd.”
“She must be an exceptional employee.”
“Right. Must be.”
I don’t miss the hint of sardonicism tingeing his tone, and I am quite certain he doesn’t like Mark any more than Mark seems to like him.
“Wine?” he asks, indicating the book on the table with a lift of his chin.
“Apparently, it’s not enough to know art to sell art. I must acquire a knack for talking about fine wine, opera, and classical music, about all of which I am clueless. I’m being tested and since I do like a glass of wine, here or there, it seems the least intimidating.”
His lips thin with disapproval. “You don’t need to know anything but art to sell art.”
“As much as I agree, I’m a slave to Mark’s demands.” Rebecca’s writing plays in my head, catching me off guard. You know I have to punish you. I am immediately uncomfortable, and my nervous rambling tendency proves it is alive and well. “My knowledge of opera, or classical music, amounts to absolutely nothing, and frankly I don’t enjoy either.” My misspeak washes over me immediately, and I can feel blood drain from my cheeks. His father had been a famous classical pianist. “Oh God. I’m sorry. Your father- ”
“Was brilliant,” he says and his expression is unreadable, his tone even, “but as with all things, music can be an acquired taste. How ‘clueless’ are you about wines?”
I blink at the abrupt change of subject, and I’m so off kilter, I don’t seem to possess the ability to filter my comments. “I know how to point to the name on the menu and the waiter brings it.”
Amusement dances in Chris’s pale green eyes and his mood is instantly transformed from intense to relaxed. “And you pick the wine you point to how?”
“It’s a highly complex method,” I explain. “First, there is my mood. Do I want red or white? Once that choice is made, I move to the choice of chilled or not chilled. Finally, step three, comes down to--what is the cheapest glass of wine that meets my decided upon criteria.” He is smiling, but not laughing at me, and I am both charmed and pleased.
“You do know you live in wine country, right?” he teases. There is a sultry flirtation to his voice that I hope I am not imagining.
“Neither my apartment, nor the school where I teach sport vineyards in the backyards. I suppose I’m highly uncultured.”
His mood turns somber. “You’re not uncultured, far from it, but I assume you feeling that way is the whole idea in all of this. Mark looks for a weakness and uses it to disarm people. Not that a lack of knowledge in those areas is a weakness. Not unless you allow it to be.”
I tilt my head, studying him. “You don’t like Mark, do you?”
“Liking him is irrelevant. He gets the job done.”
In other words, he doesn’t like Mark. “Has he tried to find your weakness?”
“He tries to find everyone’s weakness.”
He’s avoiding a direct answer and I can’t think of a way to ask again. “I fear he’s found my weakness, or rather weaknesses, rather easily.”
“You’re better off to let your customers be experts in everything else, while you ask questions, and feed their egos. You stick with art and you’ll be golden.”
“A brilliant plan if I ever heard one.”
His lips quirk. “Brilliant? I like your choice of words.”
I purse my lips. “Like you don’t hear brilliant about your art all the time.”
“I don’t listen to my own hype. Besides, for every ‘brilliant’ there’s a critic.”
I study him a moment, his strong jaw, his intelligent green eyes and I realize I’ve stopped being all nerves and fear. I’m remarkably at ease right now considering Chris has managed to wake every hormone I own and some I didn’t know I had. “I sold two more of your paintings today.”
His eyes soften and warm at the same time. “And you did it without any knowledge of wine and opera. How is that possible?”
I find myself laughing easily and it feels good. Until this moment, I didn’t realize just how tense I am, how on edge, and it amazes me that this man I barely know has disarmed me. Our laughter dissolves into crackling current that steals my breath away.  Our eyes lock and heat pools low in my belly. I want this man but I am so out of my league. I know this but my body doesn’t seem to care. I am but a ship passing by, a teacher headed back to class, and he is talented beyond belief, a man who’s worth millions, who has seen things I have only read about.
“Are you one of those wine snobs?” I ask, hungry for details about what makes a talent such as his tick.
His mood shift is instant, the shutters over his eyes dropping, the tension in the air almost palpable. I regret the question though I don’t know what was wrong with it.
“I know wines very well,” he says, his tone flat as he glances at the thick leather watch he’s wearing that is far more biker than the millionaire he is, and then back at me. “I’m booked for a meeting with your boss I need to get to.” He studies me for an intent moment and his eyes warm again, and I can almost see the ice melting before me. “Don’t play his games, Sara, and he can’t beat you at them.” He pushes to his feet. “Until next time.”
“Next time,” I repeat softly, wondering if there will be a next time. He saunters to his table and grabs a leather backpack and leather coat. He is wearing biker boots, black leather, with silver buckles. I’ve always favored men in suits, men who were refined, and well, like Mark. Chris isn’t those things, and yet he intrigues me in every possible way.
I expect him to pass my table, and I hold my breath, waiting, trying to think of some witty, cool something to say to him, wondering what he will say to me. Instead, he disappears down a back hallway I assume must be an exit. He is gone and I am left wondering if it’s for good, if I will ever see him again.

***

An hour after my encounter with Chris, my cell rings, and Mark orders me back to the gallery. Like a good little soldier, I pack up my things, and prepare to do as told.
“Okay,” Ava declares, appearing by my side, “we have to do lunch. I’ve never seen Chris Merit talk to anyone as long as he did you. I want the scoop.”
I blink at her. The scoop? I do not have a scoop to give, but if I did, my little encounter with Chris feels private and personal. I wouldn’t want to share it. “There’s nothing to tell. I sold several of his paintings and he was thanking me.”
She wiggles a dark brow. “You made him richer than he already is. Now there’s a way to get a man’s attention. And boy did you grab his attention. He looked like he wanted to gobble you up. I’ll call you tomorrow so we can set up lunch, unless I see you here first.” She rushes away and I stare after her.
Gobble me up? Chris looked like he wanted to gobble me up? I replay my encounter with Chis in my mind, and try to think of a steamy moment she might have witnessed. There were times when I thought I‘d felt a spark between us, but didn’t dare believe it was more than my wishful thinking.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mark. Still waiting. I grimace. He is such a control freak that I have no problem seeing him as the dominating man in the journal. It is an idea I find both erotic and scary at the same time because I do not know where Rebecca is. Deep in my core, I am certain she is lost forever, damaged in an irrevocable way.
I shake off the grimness of my thoughts and head back to the gallery to find Amanda packing up her things for the day behind the counter.
“Mark’s waiting for you in his office,” she says.
“Which would be where?”
She smirks. “Door at the end of your hall. Good luck and I really do hope I see you tomorrow.”
I blanch. “Hope?”
She holds up her hands. “Oh no, you took that so wrong. I didn’t mean you were going to get fired. I meant that I hope you come back. I know you don’t care for all the testing.”
I relax a fraction. “I’ll be back.”
She smiles and slips her purse over her shoulder. “Good. Excellent. And, you know, I’m happy to quiz you if it would help any.”
“You’re versed in wines, opera, and classical music?”
“Nope,” she says, “and I don’t want to be. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you study. I happen to think you’ll be great to have around. It’s just a feeling I have.”
A smile touches my lips. “Thank you, Amanda. I appreciate your offer and I might just take you up on it.”
“I hope you do,” she assures me. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She lowers her voice. “Good luck with the beast. That’s what we call him. It’s so very appropriate.”
With a much needed laugh at the nickname, I reluctantly head through the door to the right of the desk that leads to the offices. The sense of balancing uneasily on a tightrope about to tumble off consumes me. I knock on the corner door and hear Mark’s deep voice tell me to ‘enter’. The one word is more of a command than most can muster in a full sentence. The man really is one big ball of bossiness.
Hoisting my briefcase and purse fully onto my shoulder, I shove open the door, wishing I’d dropped my things by my office. The minute I bring Mark’s office into view, I forget the dull throb of the load I’m carrying for the spectacular sight of the oval shaped room with a massive glass desk in the center. I am overwhelmed with the magnificent art on the walls to my right and left. On some level, I am certain Mark wanted me to see this place, to see him looking powerful, more king than man, in the center of it all.
But it is the spectacular mural covering the entire half moon wall hugging ‘the king’ I find utterly spellbinding. My eyes travel the exquisitely painted design of the Eiffel Tower, and I instantly know the technique and the artist. This is Chris’s mastery. These two men were once friends. They had to have been and yet now they barely tolerate each other.
“How was your coffee, Ms. McMillan?”
I snap my attention from the painting to Mark, wondering how he manages to make a question sound like a demand.  Don’t play his game and he can’t beat you at it. Chris’s words repeat in my head and they resonate within me but I feel trapped. I cannot be fired before I find out what happened to Rebecca.
“My coffee was excellent, and thank you for the second cup. It certainly helped clear the fog of too many wines and not enough time.”
“Sit and tell me what you studied and what you learned.” He motions to the brown leather chairs in front of his desk, indicating he wants me to sit in the one to his right. My urge is to claim the one to his left, all too aware this action would displease him. I am clearly conflicted over this man. I want to please him. I do not want to please him. But experience with overbearing men such as Mark prevails and I choose to do neither. How high I jump now will determine how high he expects me to jump later.
When I don’t move, he arches a brow. “Am I so intimidating, Ms. McMillan, that you do not want to sit?”
My chin lifts and I meet his steely gray eyes. “As much as you try to be, Mr. Compton, no, you are not. Your tests, however, are. I’d prefer to wait to be drilled on my knowledge until I can adequately impress you. I do not, however, want to wait to work the sales floor until such time.”
“We do not always get what we want, Ms. McMillan.” His expression is inscrutable, but his voice is lower, velvety, and not for the first time today, I’m not sure we are talking about my job. “Everything I do is calculated and with purpose. You’ll learn that sooner than later. There’s a wine tasting here on Friday night. The attendees are not high school students. They’re wealthy, refined customers, with refined tastes. I need you ready for them. I need you focused on preparing for that event.”
Refined. There was that word again and it bites with insult; be it real or imagined, it has the same effect on me. A sense of inadequacy fills me, a long lost enemy, threatening to bring me to my knees. Anger flares its ugly, unexpected head, and it’s far easier to embrace. “Then I guess I’d better get home and study.” Somehow, my voice is steady.
His eyes narrow and darken, and I’m pretty sure he knows he’s hit a hot spot with me. I’ve got to learn to control my reactions, and put on a game face.
“Are you aware that Riptide hosts a variety of wine tasting events in conjunction with some of the top wine producers in the world?”
I blink. ”No. I am not.”
“Are you aware that we hold an annual charity event in conjunction with the Siberian Orchestra?”
My stomach falls to my feet. Why didn’t I do my research? “No. No, I am not.”
“Then I’m sure you’ve now realized that I am only trying to help you, Sara,” he says. “I see something bigger than a few weeks on my local showroom floor for you. If that’s not what you want, then by all means, I’ll set you free in the gallery tomorrow to sell to your heart’s content.”
My anger transforms into near panic. “No. I don’t want that. I want to do more. I can do more.”
“Then trust me.”
I swallow hard, taken aback by his words. “Yes. I...okay. I’ll learn what you need me to.”
His eyes light with approval. “Good. I’ll give you a reprieve tonight. Go home and study. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll test you to see just how far we are from where we need to be.”
It is a dismissal confirmed by his reaching for his phone.
“Thank you,” I murmur, and head for the hallway in a blur of confusion. It baffles me how I’ve let a summer job become a plea for a new life but it has, and there is no looking back. To work for Riptide, even through this gallery, would be a dream come true. I want this as I have not wanted ever in my life.
I pass my door and scent the roses from the hallway. Back stepping, I realize I’ve left the candle burning for all these hours. I’m eager to escape this place, to get home and try to analyze what has happened to me today, what has happened to me since the day I began reading Rebecca’s journal.
Quickly, I blow out the flame and note a letter sized envelope on my chair with my name scribbled on it. I recognize the handwriting. I’ve studied his signature, his script. Rounding the desk I snatch the envelope and rush for the door. I do not want to stay here and open it. I want to be alone before I dare a peek.
Finally, when I am locked inside my car with the engine running, I stare at my name on the yellow paper, not sure what I am waiting for. In a frenzied rush of movement, I unseal the flap and pull out a piece of drafting paper and gape.
Inside is a drawing of me sitting at the coffee shop table in deep concentration, and signed by the artist. I have become a Chris Merit original.