If I Were You

Page 12

Hair blows into my eyes, and he releases my arm, and tenderly brushes the hair from my eyes, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “Let’s go in where it’s warm.” His voice is as gentle as his fingers sliding from my face.
He opens the door for me and I enter, nervously avoiding eye contact, trying to will my heart to stop beating at an impossible pace. Soft Mexican music touches my ears and I see no more than ten tables, only one of which is occupied.
He lifts his chin at the small, two-seater table inside a bay window. It is both out of the reach of the wind, and by my standards, intimate. “Looks like the best seat in the house to me. How about to you?”
I nod my approval. “As long as it comes with a few hot peppers to warm me up, I think it’s perfect.”
“A daring eater, are you?” he asks, as we head to our seat.
“Eating is the one thing I can say with certainty I do without a single inhibition.”
He pulls out my chair for me and his eyes twinkle with evident mischief. “Eating is one of many things I do without inhibition.”
My eyes go wide before I can stop them and he laughs before adding, “Don’t worry. I won’t share the other things unless you ask nicely.”
I sit before I dare to ask what things he’s talking about, surprised by how close I am to taking the bait. “Sounds like a question to ask over tequila, which would never work anyway. I’d be too tipsy to remember your answers.”
He settles my briefcase on the back of the chair and his fingers brush my arm, the silk is no barrier to the sweet friction of this man’s touch. I suck in a breath at the impact, and my gaze is captured by his for several intense seconds.
“No tequila allowed then,” he comments softly, before he moves to his seat and grabs a plastic menu from beside the napkin holder and hands it to me.
I eagerly accept it, looking over my options, my head spinning with this man’s wild ride.
“If you’re as daring an eater as you claim to be,” he comments, “I highly recommended the chicken fajita tacos with fire sauce.”
“I’ll take that dare,” I agree readily.
A fifty-something robust Hispanic waitress rushes to our table and greets Chris in Spanish, and even if I didn’t have a basic handle on the language—-as in barely even basic--the way her face lights up as she speaks to him tells me she is quite fond of Chris. It’s also clear that Chris is not only equally as fond of her as she is him, but his Spanish reaches well beyond entry level.
The two of them chat a moment, and Chris shrugs out of his jacket. My gaze goes to his tattoo and I cannot make it out completely because of his sleeve. I’m intrigued by the design, and the rich colors. Is it…could it be…? Yes. I think it’s a dragon.
“Sara,” Chris says, switching back to English, and pulling my attention from the intricate design, as he adds, “this is Maria of the ‘Diego Maria’ Restaurant name. Her son is Diego, the main chef.”
Maria laughs and it’s a friendly, infectious laugh. I like her and I like this place. “Chef?” she demands. “Ha. He’s the cook. We don’t need him getting fancy ideas. He’ll let them go to his head and have us expanding across the country when I like it right here at home.” She gives me a half bow. “And it’s very nice to meet you, Sara.”
“Nice to meet you as well, Maria.”
Chris holds up the menu that matches the one I haven’t looked at. “You in for the taco recommendation?”
I nod eagerly. “Si, dame el fuego.” Or ‘Yes, give me fire.’
They both laugh.
“You speak Spanish, señora?” Maria asks hopefully.
“Badly,” I assure her and she grins.
“Come in often and we will change that.”
“I’d like that,” I say, and I mean it. I really do like this woman and I know it’s because she’s everyone’s mother, just the way my mother had been.
“Corona for me, Maria” Chris orders and glances at me. “You want one?”
“Oh no,” I say quickly. “I’m a lightweight. I have to work.” I glance at Maria. “Tea. No. Wait. I’m on a caffeine high I need to come down from. Make it water.”
“The Corona will bring you right down,” Chris suggests.
“From spilling things to falling over,” I say. “You really don’t know what a lightweight I am. I better not go there.”
Maria rushes off to fill our order and another man sets chips and salsa in front of us before filling our water glasses.
I’m eager to learn more about Chris, both as a man and an artist, the instant we are alone I take advantage of the opportunity. “So you’re trilingual? I assume you must speak French to live part of the year in Paris.”
“Je parle espagnol, français, italien, et j'aimerait beaucoup dessinez-vous à nouveau. Modele pour moi, Sara.”
The French rolls off his tongue with such sexiness my throat goes dry and I feel tingly all over. “I have no idea what you just said.”
“I said that I speak Spanish, French, and Italian.” He leans closer, and his eyes find mine. “And then I said that I would very much like to paint you. Pose for me, Sara.”
Chapter Eleven
Chris wants to sketch me again? No. Not sketch. He wants to paint me, and I think he means in his studio. I am stunned speechless. My throat is dry and my mouth will not form words. This silent reaction to stress I’m developing is new to me, but then, I’m always an extremist. Mute silence or ramblings at the speed of lightning, there really seems to be no in-between. Still without words, I blink at Chris who is watching me intently, and I cannot read anything but expectation in his expression. He is waiting for a reply. Say something, I silently order myself. Say anything. No. Not anything. Something witty and charming.
Thankfully, I am saved from my mental scramble for the perfect reply when Chris’s beer appears in front of him. A soft flow of air escapes my lips, as Chris launches into a conversation in Spanish with the man who now stands by our table. I grapple for what to say when we return to our topic of Chris painting me, but I am pulled into the conversation before I resolve my thoughts.
“Sara, meet Diego,” Chris says, “the other half of ‘Diego Maria’.”
I try to focus on the conversation with Diego, who is about Chris’s age, and has a sleek goatee and warm brown eyes but I am ultra-aware of Chris’s long fingers as he squeezes his lime into the beer. It’s crazy to be so drawn to someone’s hands, but of course, I remind myself, his hands are gifted in ways most could never be. I’m light-headed with his impact on me, not to mention a very real need to eat, so as the two men talk, I am content to mostly listen while I nibble on several yummy, warm salted chips with some salsa. Diego, it seems, is planning a trip to Paris, and is seeking advice about where to stay and what to do that Chris is graciously offering. I am taken aback by the way Chris, a famous, millionaire artist, acts as if he isn’t those things at all.
Our waiter, the real one, not Diego, appears with our food, and Diego excuses himself to allow us to be served. “Sorry about that,” Chris says. “He’s been off every time I’ve been by since I got back from Paris three weeks ago.” He motions to my plate. “How’s it look?”
I inhale the spicy aroma and my stomach cheers with joy. “It looks and smells absolutely divine.”
He picks up his lime and motions to one on the side of my plate. “They aren’t the same if you don’t use this.” He squeezes the juice onto his food.
“I’ve never put lime on my tacos, but I’m game to try.” I quickly follow his example, relieved we’ve turned our attention to food, not me posing for him.
“Before you dig in, I should warn you that hot means hot. Really hot. So if you aren’t sure you can take it, then-“
I’m too hungry for caution. I pick up my taco and open my mouth, with my stomach cheering me on and welcoming substance.
“Wait-” he says, but it’s too late for me to stop, even if I consider it an option, which I don’t.
Fire shoots through my mouth, and bites a path down my throat. I gasp and almost choke. Oh my god, I said bring the fire, but I didn’t mean literally. I drop the taco and curl the fingers of one hand around the cloth napkin in my lap while my other hand goes to my throat.
Chris shoves his beer at me, and I don’t even hesitate. I grab it and gulp several, long, cold swallows and still I can barely breathe. When the heat finally eases, I am breathing hard. “I should never have said bring the fire.” I take another drink of his beer, the bitterness of the liquid somehow easing the burn. Sanity returns and I stare at the half empty bottle and then at Chris. I drank his beer, right after I made a fool of myself, and all but choked. I shove the beer toward him. “Sorry. I forgot myself.” Why do I keep embarrassing myself with this man?
He grins and slugs back a drink of the beer. My lips part and my fingers curl on both sides of the table as I watch the muscles of his throat bob. I am acutely aware of the intimacy of sharing his drink, of my mouth having been where his is now. He sets the nearly empty bottle down, his eyes locking with mine, the steam in his stare telling me I’m not alone in my thoughts.
“You really do have quite the knack for witnessing me embarrass myself,” I manage in a voice raspy from the heat of the food, or maybe, simply because this man exists on planet earth.
“I told you, I’d prefer it to be called a knack for rescuing you.”
Rescuing me. Though this is the second time he’s said those words, they radiate through my body, deep into my soul, and something long suppressed within me stirs, then raises its ugly head. I don’t need to be rescued. Do I? In that deep down spot the words have touched, an old part of myself screams yes, yes, yes. You need to be rescued. You want to be rescued. You want to be taken care of. I straighten and twist my fingers together in my lap. Silently, I battle my inner self. No. No. No. I do not want to be rescued. I do not need to be rescued. Not anymore. Not for a long time now. Not ever again.
Chris lifts a hand towards the kitchen. “Diego,” he calls out. “Can we get Sara an order minus the fire sauce?” They exchange comments in Spanish before Chris refocuses his attention on me. He studies me intently, and I can tell he’s trying to read whatever emotion is stamped on my face. Good luck, I think, because I can’t even read what I’m feeling myself.
“How’s your mouth feeling?”
I wet my burning lips and his gaze follows, his expression darkening, and every nerve ending I own tingles in reply. “Fine,” I comment, “but no thanks to you. You should have warned me how hot it was.”
“I distinctly remember warning you.”
“You should have tried harder. You knew I was starving.”
“You say that past tense. Are you saying you’re not anymore?”
“My tongue is raw and may never be the same, but actually, yes, I’m still starving.”
“Me too,” he says softly. “Ravenous, in fact.”
My throat goes dry. Really dry. More dry than the other ten or so times he’s caused such a reaction in me. There is a charge in the air, crackling all around us, to the point I almost think sparks must be evident. I can feel this man in every part of my body and he has not even touched me. I don’t remember ever feeling this aware of a man in my life. I don’t want this to be my imagination but I’m not sure I am confident enough in myself to be with this man. I thought I was past all my self-doubt, but I’m not sure I am.
Desperate for a reprieve from whatever this thing between us is that threatens to consume me, I reach for a distraction. “You should eat before your food gets cold.”
“Señora.” Diego appears by my side and takes my plate. “Are you okay? Our fire is real fire.” He casts Chris a disapproving look. “I thought Señor would have warned you.”
Chris holds up his hands. “Hey, hey. I did warn her.”
“After I took a bite,” I counter, enjoying my opportunity to join in with Diego and give him a hard time. In some small way, it takes just a bit of the edge from my embarrassment.
“Before you took the bite,” he corrects.
Diego says something in Spanish that sounds like frustration directed at Chris, and then looks at me. “He should have told you before you took a bite. I am sorry, Señora.”
“Don’t worry about me or keep apologizing,” I plead. “Really. I’m more than fine, or I will be, when you two men stop watching me like I’m about to go up in flames.”
A waiter appears and sets a new plate in front of me before taking my old plate from Diego and disappearing with it.
“I had them include two sauces on the side for you to try,” Diego explains. “The green is mild. The red is medium. Neither will burn your mouth.”
I give him an appreciative nod. “Gracias, Diego. I should have tested the sauce before I took a big bite but the food just looked and smelled so good I couldn’t resist digging in.”
His face colors with the compliment, but it doesn’t stop him from mercilessly worrying over me a full extra minute before he rushes off. I am now left under the amused scrutiny of this brilliant, too sexy, artist who hasn’t eaten a bite because of me.
“Please eat,” I urge him softly. “Your food is even colder now than before.”
“Try your food first and make sure it’s okay.”
“Oh no,” I scoff. “I’m not going to try it while you watch me do something else ridiculously clumsy.”