If I Were You

Page 11

A buzz from the phone on my desk jolts me from my thoughts and I answer automatically. “This is Sara McMillan.”
“Good morning, Ms. McMillan.” There is an unexpected smile in my new boss’s tone and I relax, if only marginally.
“Good morning, Mr. Compton.”
“I’ve been called away to New York on Riptide business until Thursday.”
The tension in my gut uncurls and my spine relaxes. Breathing room. Yes. Yes. Yes.
“That doesn’t mean you can sneak onto the sales floor,” he chides, as if he’s plucked the idea from my brain before I ever had it. Which I hadn’t, but, well, I would have. “Friday, Ms. McMillan. Your goal is to be as ready to impress me then as you possibly can be. I trust you studied well last night?”
“I certainly did.” I want this opportunity. I will not allow a knowledge barrier to defeat me.
“Excellent. Then you can log into your email and click on the link I’ve sent you to begin testing. I won’t grade the test, at least not for now. It’s simply a tool for you to use to see how you’re progressing.”
The good news keeps coming and I know my smile can be heard in my voice. “That sounds perfect.”
“Ms. McMillan,” he says sharply, prompting a reply that I dutifully offer.
“Yes, Mr. Compton?”
“Have a good day.”
The line clicks and goes dead.
***
Two hours later it’s nearly noon, and I’m making myself crazy. The names and regions of wines, and wine manufacturers, are running together and I decide to turn to my old faithful solution to all that is wrong in life. Coffee. It is my one real vice, so I figure why not indulge with an Olympic-style commitment? Besides, Ava mentioned having lunch together. She hadn’t been at the coffee shop when I’d bought the journal and I haven’t heard from her either. I figure it can’t hurt to try and catch up with her now. My curiosity over what she might share about this strange new world I inhabit is killing me. And despite my grand declaration of owning my new office and job, on some level I know I will never fully feel that I do, not until I uncover the mysteries of Rebecca’s whereabouts.
After heading to the front desk and making idle chitchat with Amanda and a few of the other staff members, I barely contain the urge to help a customer. Amanda warns me off the action with a promise of Mark’s wrath, and I quickly head to the coffee shop again. I scan the empty tables and there is no denying my disappointment to find Chris nowhere in sight.
Choosing the same table I’d worked at yesterday is an easy decision. Habits, things that feel normal—these are things I crave, just as I do the coffee I am about to order.
By two o’clock, neither Ava nor Chris have appeared in the shop. I’ve thirstily downed two White Mochas and switched to black coffee. There is no denying I am shaky and need food. Waiting to eat in hopes of sharing lunch with Ava has not paid off. The good news, though, in the hazy tunnel that is my caffeinated high, is that my knowledge of the featured wines for the tasting Friday night is rapidly expanding.
The kid from behind the counter approaches my table and refills my coffee without me asking and grins. “Mr. Compton says to keep your cup full.”
Right. Mr. Compton says. I manage a tight-lipped smile and a “thank you”, but I am uneasy with my new boss having my drinks monitored. It is as if he is trying to…hmm what? The answer comes to me immediately. Control me. A variety of emotions flash inside me and slowly expand. There is something very sexy about a man like Mark Compton in control, but sexy or not, it’s also quite uncomfortable for all kinds of reasons I’ve found better left under the rug.
Comfortable is overrated, a voice in the back of my head screams and I know that inner voice is my subconscious mind demanding to finally be heard. The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent every day since college graduation wallowing in boring predictability. Except when you were with Michael. I grind my teeth. Predictable is far better than what I was with him.
I remind myself there are ways out of predictable ruts that do not include men like Michael…or Mark. Right. Other ways. It had taken me reading someone else’s words, stepping into their life, to find excitement. How sad am I? I squeeze my eyes shut and reprimand myself. This is not her life. It’s yours.
Resolve forms. I am determined to get to work, to make today count toward a new career. I force my eyes open and reach for my book, effectively knocking the coffee from the table. Fabulous. Just fabulous. Coffee is on my table, the floor, and yes, my only pair of good black heels that match my staple black skirt. My cheeks are no doubt, as rosy as my silk blouse.
I snatch up the few napkins I have beside me and wipe the table to salvage my computer before it becomes a victim of my shaky hands. Task complete, I squat to attend my dripping wet shoe and the floor.
“Looks like you need these.”
The familiar voice tingles along my nerve endings and blood rushes to my cheeks. No. Please. Do not let this be happening. He squats in front of me, and my gaze locks on his powerful thighs where his hands rest. Strong, artistic hands that are holding napkins for my spill. Slowly, my gaze lifts to find a set of alluringly green eyes belonging to Chris Merit staring into mine. Once again, this famous, gorgeous man is squatting on the ground in an effort to help me recover from a mishap.
“You have the most amazing knack for showing up to witness my acts of clumsiness,” I accuse.
His lips curve and his green eyes twinkle with specks of yellow. No. More like light flecks of gold shimmer. “I prefer to think of it as a knack for coming to your rescue,” he declares huskily and winks, before he proceeds to wipe up my mess. Oh good God. I’ve made Chris Merit my janitor. And, he winked at me. I can barely breathe.
He stands up and heads to the trash, moving with a confident male grace that is momentarily spellbinding. I’m frozen in place. I can only stare at him in wonder. Which, I realize, snapping to my senses, is not a good thing when I am in a skirt and squatting on the ground.
I pop to my feet and then have to lift my foot and swipe a remaining wet spot off my shoe. I’ve just dropped the used napkins inside the empty cup when he returns and stands by my table. Close to me. Really close. A spicy, wonderful scent teases my nostrils, and stirs longing inside me. I love how this man smells and I have a new found liking for faded jeans and biker boots I doubt I will ever lose. And try as I might, I cannot help but remember him holding the leather jacket he’s wearing today around me the other night.
“Ah, thanks,” I manage to say, sounding as frazzled as I feel. “I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” His eyes are warm, and remind me of summer green grass, his voice rich with sincerity. “I think you’re adorable.”
“Adorable,” I repeat, my tone deadpan. “Not what a girl wants to be.” It’s what a man calls a kid sister, or the girl he doesn’t want to date. Not that I thought he wanted to date me. I don’t know what I thought, what I think now.
“Then what does a girl want to be?” There is a teasing tone to his words that matches his expression.
Beautiful. Sexy. I want to be either or both to this man, but I wouldn’t dare to say such things so I settle on, “Not clumsy.”
“You’re interesting.”
“Interesting?” I query. What is it with him and Mr. Compton and the whole interesting thing? It has to be an artsy thing I’m out of touch with. “I…well. I guess that’s better than clumsy.” I’m not sure it’s better than adorable. I just don’t know.
“You still don’t like that choice of word.”
“It’s…fine.”
“You inspired me to draw you.”
“The adorably interesting and clumsy inspiration,” I say, feeling self-conscious, but then quickly feel bad about the remark. I soften my voice and add, “But thank you. I’m flattered you drew me and I was absolutely breathless when I opened the envelope.” I can’t contain my silly smile. “Now I own a Chris Merit original.” My brows dip. “Unless you want it back?”
He laughs. “Of course, I don’t want it back.” He hesitates. “You like it?”
Is there a hint of uncertainty in his voice, deep in those gorgeous eyes? Surely not. He’s made millions off of his work. He can’t have an uncertain bone in his spectacular body.
I press my hand to my racing heart and pat it. “I love it.” Unfortunately, my heart isn’t the only thing in high gear. My stomach growls and not softly. In fact, it’s loud. Very loud. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel my cheeks, once again, flush red.
A soft, sexy laugh slides from his lips. “Hungry?”
I dare to look at him and feign ignorance. “What gives you that idea?”
“Just a guess,” he teases. “But since I’m starving, I was hoping you might be, too.”
He gives me a hopeful smile that I feel clear to my toes. He’s smiling at me, but not laughing at me. I like this about him, the way he makes me ultra-aware of him, but somehow comfortable, too.
My stomach growls again and I laugh. “Oh my gosh, I do believe I am hungry.” I shake my head. “You have a way of finding all my weaknesses.”
“If food’s a weakness then I have it, too. Do you like Mexican? Diego Maria’s is a few blocks down the road. It’s a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place but it’s good eating. I hang out on their patio and sketch some afternoons.”
“Do they serve wine?” I ask.
“They’re more of a beer and tequila kind of joint.”
“Good, because I don’t even want to see wine on a menu for the next hour.”
“I take it Mark is still trying to force the wine thing down your throat?”
“If you mean, Mr. Compton, then yes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Mr. Compton, my ass.” He lifts his chin at me. “You in for Diego Maria’s?”
I nod and smile and he looks pleased, even relieved? No. That’s silly. I shake off the ridiculous notion and try not to grin like a school girl. I’m going to lunch with Chris Merit and I’ll have the chance to talk to him about his work. He heads to the table he’d been sitting at yesterday and hikes a backpack he’s yet to unpack to his shoulder. Relief washes over me. I did not want to find out he’d been watching me again and I hadn’t been self-aware enough to know.
I quickly pack my red leather bag and am about to slide it to my shoulder when he reaches for it. “I’ll carry it for you.”
My lips twitch. “I really think you should let me carry it. I fear the cute girly bag will blow your cool artist in leather image. Besides, it’s light. I’m good, but thank you.”
With obvious reluctance he drops his hand. “If you change your mind, I’ll happily risk my cool artist in leather image that I didn’t know I had.”
A smile slides easily to my lips. “And I’ll have my phone camera ready if I do.”
He chuckles and the sound of that rough, masculine laughter does funny things to my chest, and well, pretty much my entire body.
We step outside and the cool wind off the ocean screams a welcome and has me grateful my blouse is long-sleeved. I suppress a shiver for fear Chris will offer me his coat again, though the idea isn’t an unpleasant one. I simply don’t understand the dynamic between us and I’m not sure I can be clear-headed with anything that has been on this man’s body touching mine.
We begin the short stroll to the restaurant and I am intensely aware of how close he is, how big he is. I am so confused with this man. He makes every nerve ending I own buzz and yet, I am oddly comfortable with him. There is something beneath the surface I can’t put my finger on, something that defies his easygoing exterior and I burn to understand what it might be.
He cuts me a sideways look. “How’s the gallery stack up to your school teaching so far?”
“I’ve become student instead of teacher, which was really the last thing I expected when I dove into this new adventure.”
“That confident you know your art, are you?”
“Yes. I am. I know my art. I know my artists. Well, I thought I did. I had you pictured as your dad for some reason.”
A smirk plays on his lips, and I get the feeling he’s enjoying some secret joke. “Did you now?” he asks, and motions to the opening in the black steel-encased patio of the restaurant. “We can just grab a table out here and they’ll send someone to take our order.”
Being mid-afternoon, there’s no crowd, and we have a choice of all of the six tables inside the black steel. I head for the one against the railing so we can lean against it and view the Golden Gate Bridge along with miles and miles of beautiful blue water. It’s a view I never get tired of enjoying and as hard as it is in the compact city, I manage to avoid it far too often.
I settle into my seat and the wind rushes over me, pulling a shiver from me before I can contain my reaction. I look up to find Chris standing above me. No. More like towers over me.
“You’re cold.” It’s not a question.
“No,” I assure him. “I love this view. I’m-“ A gust of hard wind overtakes me and there is simply no escaping the impact, or the chattering of my teeth. “Okay.” I hold my hands up in surrender. ”I’m cold.”
Surprising me, his hand gently wraps around one of my wrists and he pulls me to my feet. We are close, toe to toe, and I cannot seem to breathe. In defiance of the chill of my skin, heat forms beneath his touch, and begins to climb a path up my arm and over my chest. He stares down at me, and though his expression is impassable, I can feel the tension curling between us.