If I Were You
Page 7
She laughs without humor, a hint of unease in its depths. “Everyone wants a piece of that man.”
I tilt my head to study her, noting the emphasis on everyone. “You included, Amanda?”
With a wave of her hand she dismisses that idea. “I am so beneath him and most of the customers who come in here.”
Her insecurity washes over me, stirring old feelings I don’t like but I can identify with. “That’s not true. You are not beneath him, or anyone, for that matter.”
“I appreciate that but after this summer, I’ve decided that geology and dig sites are where I belong. A little dust and sun will do me better than champagne and fine art.”
“Don’t make that decision because you feel beneath Mark.”
Her expression turns solemn. “I’m not. I…” She seems to consider her words, and decides against them, instead motioning over her shoulder. “Why don’t I show you the break room. I need to get some coffee started and there’s some paperwork for you to fill out. I can explain while I make it.”
A few minutes later, Amanda has shown me the exact measure of coffee that Mark wants used if I’m ever the first one to arrive, and I’m sitting at a small wooden table across from her as she fills two ceramic cups. No Styrofoam like in the teacher’s lounge for this place.
“How long has Rebecca been gone?” I ask.
Amanda sits down across from me. “Well,” she ponders thoughtfully, pouring sugar into her coffee, as I opt for straight powder creamer. “I started two months ago and she was already gone, so at least that long.”
“She must have something pretty serious going on.”
“No one has ever said, at least not to me, and I’m just glad Mark looked at the summer schedule and decided to hire.” She slides a piece of paper my direction. “That’s the summer schedule.”
I glance over a calendar with growing excitement as I note weekly wine tastings, several exciting artists that will be visiting, and a number of private parties. This is the world I have longed to live in for, well, ever.
“It’s a busy schedule, right?” Amanda asked, seeking my agreement.
“Very, but that’s a good thing.”
“Not when Rebecca was at the helm of most of it and even knowing this Mark has interviewed at least fifteen people and hired no one until you. Thank goodness you did whatever you did to win him over because I’ve been helping and I’m way over my head.”
Whatever I did to win him over, I repeat in my mind. I did nothing and he hired me without so much as a question. Why? Because I asked about Rebecca? Because I pretended to know her. Oh crap. I told Mark that I had a sister. This is why I hate lies. They always come back to haunt you. My heart begins to thunder in my chest at the idea of being cornered and busted in this one. I’m still contemplating how to best make this right, what my story will be, when Amanda slides a folder across the table.
“This is the new hire paperwork and some test Mark said you need to take.”
“Test?”
“Yes. Test. Do you have a problem with that Ms. McMillan?”
Mark’s voice, dark and commanding, draws my gaze, and I barely stop myself from sucking in a breath at just how striking my new boss really is. He is wearing a light gray suit that enhances the unique silvery quality of his eyes that are more pale blue than gray as I had first thought. His features are finely carved, his bottom lip full, his jaw strong. He is tall, and athletic, his blonde hair neatly styled. He is…beautiful.
“I’m a school teacher, Mr. Compton,” I finally manage to say. “I love a good test. I’m simply curious as to what kind of testing?”
“We’ll start with basics and I’ll decide where we go from there,” he says, cutting a quick look at Amanda. “I’ll finish up the paperwork with Ms. McMillan, Amanda.” He is curt, authoritative. Intimidating. Intimidatingly sexy.
“Oh yes,” she says, popping to her feet like a jack-in-the-box who’s just had her handle cranked. She wasn’t kidding about being intimidated by the man, and with him present, I am not without understanding of how she feels.
“Coffee is ready, by the way,” she announces to him, and I can feel her angst, her plea for his approval that she doesn’t get. She grabs her cup and heads toward him and he steps aside to allow her to exit, but his eyes are locked on me, impassive, unreadable. That insecure part of me that Michael played on flares its ugly head inside me, that part of me so like Amanda. Heat lashes through my veins and I will it away. I could so easily want to please this man and it terrifies me that I still have that in me.
You are not the same person you were with Michael, I tell myself. I’m not naive. I’m not inexperienced. I will not be captivated by this man’s power, his presence, even if I am not blind to his appeal. I am in control. Besides, he is my boss, not my lover.
He saunters to the coffee pot and fills a cup, and without asking, refills my cup. His eyes meet mine before he moves away, and I see the steel there, I see the dominance in the otherwise polite act. He didn’t ask if I wanted more coffee. He simply decided I did and thus I do. I need to establish parameters with this man and do so now. I am not going to touch that cup.
In an instant, he’s claimed the seat across from me, and the entire room along with it, and I am staring into those silvery grey eyes and I do not dare look away. I tell myself it’s my show of strength, but deep down, I know I am captivated, commanded, to hold his stare.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show up today,” he finally says.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Several seconds tick by before his lips quirk slightly and he reaches into the folder and passes me a piece of paper and a pencil. “I hired you without so much as a reference check, on pure instinct. My instincts, Ms. McMillan, are very good. I’d like you to prove that an accurate statement.” He reaches for the powdered creamer.
I glance down at the paper and see ten questions, and quickly determine they are all related to medieval art.
“Begin,” he orders softly.
I glance up at him to find him settling back into his seat, clearly intending to watch me write the test. He wants to intimidate me and I do not want to let him. My jaw sets and I reach for the pencil. I can feel him watching me and I am flustered to realize my hand shakes ever-so-slightly. Men like him do not miss such details. He knows it’s shaking. He knows he’s affecting me.
I forcefully clear the haze from my mind and focus on the questions which are quite advanced, but well within my expertise. I finish them quickly and flip the paper around for his review.
He’s still leaning back in his chair, deceptively casual, watching me, his gaze hooded, his expression once again impassive. He doesn’t reach for the test, but instead, his attention flicks to my cup.
“You aren’t drinking your coffee, Ms. McMillan.”
“I’m over my limit for the day.”
“Limits are meant to be pushed.”
“Too much caffeine makes me shaky.” The words, the lie, is out before I can stop it. Where are all these lies coming from?
He leans forward and I can smell his clean, spicy male scent. “Sharing a cup of coffee,” he says, “is a bit like celebrating a new partnership, don’t you think?”
The challenge he has just issued crackles in the air, along with some other, unnamed electricity, that had my throat thick, and my heart racing. It’s just a cup of coffee but yet I sense that this is about so much more, that this is another test that has nothing to do with skill, but rather, him. Me. And I don’t know why I want to comply, to please him. Of course I do, I tell myself. He’s the kind of man who expects those around him to follow his lead. I cannot fight his will and be here. I tell myself that is why I comply, why I do as I wish. I tell myself I am not weak, and he is in control of the job, not me. I reach for the coffee.
Chapter Seven
I sip from the nearly cold beverage, peeking at my new boss from under my lashes as he reviews my test. He is powerful, this man, controlling, arrogant, everything I swear each day I do not want in my life, and yet I am drinking the coffee to please him. This would be acceptable if it were simply because he is my new boss. But it's not. Deep in my core, I know I am seduced by this place, and by him. He is interesting to me in ways I don't want him to be, in ways I know spell trouble.
I tip the cup back again and try to savor the bitterness as a reminder of what this kind of man does to me. It strokes my tongue with acid and it’s too much to take. I down the rest of the cup.
Immediately, his gaze lifts to mine, and I barely contain a grimace. His strong mouth hints at a curve, his eyes glint with something I can't quite identify, and I wish I don’t want to as badly as I do. “Congratulations, Ms. McMillan. You passed your first test.”
I have the distinct impression that he isn’t talking about the one on paper, but rather, something completely different. My compliance with his 'request' I drink my coffee despite my discomfort, I am almost certain.
“You doubted that I would?” I challenge, telling myself that I am talking about the questionnaire, not the coffee.
“I hired you without an interview.”
“Yes,” I say and my fear he'd done so because I'd been asking about Rebecca, that he sees me as the next her--and I'm not sure that is a good thing, in fact that I’m fairly certain that it is not--twists me in knots. I press forward with a facade of courage. “Why exactly is that? You don’t seem like a man who makes rash decisions.”
"Why did you take the job without asking how much you will be paid or even what time to arrive, Ms. McMillan?"
My heart skips a beat but I refuse to cower to this man, or any other, again. I've lived that experience too many times in my life. "Because I love art and I have the summer off. And since I know far more about the gallery than you do about me, it wasn't an uneducated decision. That puts the ball back in your court, Mr. Compton. Why hire me without an interview?"
He does not appear amused by my counter. In fact, I'm not sure he isn't a bit irritated. He studies me for an eternal moment, those silvery eyes so intense they are like ice that turns me to ice and fire at the same time. He is unnerving. I do not want this man to have the ability to rattle me.
"You want to know why I hired you?"
"It wasn't what I expected."
"Why offer your services if you don't expect them to be accepted?"
"A moment of passion," I admit. "And a summer of freedom."
He gives me a tiny incline of his chin, as if accepting of that answer. “I could feel your passion. It spoke to me."
My throat goes instantly dry as the words drop between us, heavy with implication, the air thick with a rich, creamy awareness that I tell myself I am imagining, that I reject. He is not for me. This place is not even for me. It's Rebecca's.
“You impressed me, Ms. Macmillan," he adds softly, "and that doesn’t happen easily.”
My breath nearly hitches at his words and I am shocked to realize, despite my thoughts moments before, just how much I want this man's approval, how much I need confirmation it's real. I don't want to want it. I don't want to need it. Yet…I do. I wait three beats to calm my racing heart and then ask what I must know. "How exactly did I do that in such a short time?" My voice is not as steady as it was before and he must notice. He is too keen not to.
“As I'm sure you know, there are cameras in most galleries, including this one. I was watching when you bewitched the couple that was shopping the Merit display with an absolute passion for art. If not for your guidance, they may have gone home to think about the purchase.”
Even the idea of him watching me on camera, as disconcerting as it is, doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads through me at his compliment. He is everything Amanda said he was but he is even more. He is successful and he belongs in a world I have only borrowed, but long to own. Oh yes. I so want his approval and I hate myself for needing it. Hate. It's a strong word, but I have a history that makes it so damn right for this occasion.
“Knowledge and competence are far easier to find than true passion," he adds, each word drawing me further into his spell. "I believe you have it, which is why I can't quite figure you out."
“Figure me out?” I ask, straightening a bit, uneasy that this might be headed toward my claim of knowing Rebecca. Towards the sister I don't have and haven't thought of a way around.
He sinks back into his chair, studying me intently, his elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Why is someone so clearly enthralled with this world teaching school?”
“What’s wrong with teaching school?” I ask, just as I had when Chris Merit had thrown the same ball at me.
“Absolutely nothing."
I wait for him to continue and he doesn’t. He just stares at me with keen observation that makes me want to shift in my chair.
“I love teaching," I state.
He arches a skeptical brow at me in reply.
“I do,” I insist, but quickly, reluctantly add, “But no, it’s not my true passion.”
His reply isn't instant. He lets me squirm a bit under his scrutiny. “So I ask you again,” he finally repeats. “Why are you teaching school?”
For a moment, I consider some fluffy answer designed for avoidance and decide he won't let that slide. My chest tightens as I admit something that I keep bottled up where I don't have to deal with it. Something I have told no one but I am telling him. Maybe it's liberating. Maybe I need to say it out loud once and for all. I feel so damn guilty that teaching isn't fulfilling. It should be fulfilling. “Because," I say in a voice that to my dismay cracks slightly, "a love of art doesn’t pay the bills.”
I tilt my head to study her, noting the emphasis on everyone. “You included, Amanda?”
With a wave of her hand she dismisses that idea. “I am so beneath him and most of the customers who come in here.”
Her insecurity washes over me, stirring old feelings I don’t like but I can identify with. “That’s not true. You are not beneath him, or anyone, for that matter.”
“I appreciate that but after this summer, I’ve decided that geology and dig sites are where I belong. A little dust and sun will do me better than champagne and fine art.”
“Don’t make that decision because you feel beneath Mark.”
Her expression turns solemn. “I’m not. I…” She seems to consider her words, and decides against them, instead motioning over her shoulder. “Why don’t I show you the break room. I need to get some coffee started and there’s some paperwork for you to fill out. I can explain while I make it.”
A few minutes later, Amanda has shown me the exact measure of coffee that Mark wants used if I’m ever the first one to arrive, and I’m sitting at a small wooden table across from her as she fills two ceramic cups. No Styrofoam like in the teacher’s lounge for this place.
“How long has Rebecca been gone?” I ask.
Amanda sits down across from me. “Well,” she ponders thoughtfully, pouring sugar into her coffee, as I opt for straight powder creamer. “I started two months ago and she was already gone, so at least that long.”
“She must have something pretty serious going on.”
“No one has ever said, at least not to me, and I’m just glad Mark looked at the summer schedule and decided to hire.” She slides a piece of paper my direction. “That’s the summer schedule.”
I glance over a calendar with growing excitement as I note weekly wine tastings, several exciting artists that will be visiting, and a number of private parties. This is the world I have longed to live in for, well, ever.
“It’s a busy schedule, right?” Amanda asked, seeking my agreement.
“Very, but that’s a good thing.”
“Not when Rebecca was at the helm of most of it and even knowing this Mark has interviewed at least fifteen people and hired no one until you. Thank goodness you did whatever you did to win him over because I’ve been helping and I’m way over my head.”
Whatever I did to win him over, I repeat in my mind. I did nothing and he hired me without so much as a question. Why? Because I asked about Rebecca? Because I pretended to know her. Oh crap. I told Mark that I had a sister. This is why I hate lies. They always come back to haunt you. My heart begins to thunder in my chest at the idea of being cornered and busted in this one. I’m still contemplating how to best make this right, what my story will be, when Amanda slides a folder across the table.
“This is the new hire paperwork and some test Mark said you need to take.”
“Test?”
“Yes. Test. Do you have a problem with that Ms. McMillan?”
Mark’s voice, dark and commanding, draws my gaze, and I barely stop myself from sucking in a breath at just how striking my new boss really is. He is wearing a light gray suit that enhances the unique silvery quality of his eyes that are more pale blue than gray as I had first thought. His features are finely carved, his bottom lip full, his jaw strong. He is tall, and athletic, his blonde hair neatly styled. He is…beautiful.
“I’m a school teacher, Mr. Compton,” I finally manage to say. “I love a good test. I’m simply curious as to what kind of testing?”
“We’ll start with basics and I’ll decide where we go from there,” he says, cutting a quick look at Amanda. “I’ll finish up the paperwork with Ms. McMillan, Amanda.” He is curt, authoritative. Intimidating. Intimidatingly sexy.
“Oh yes,” she says, popping to her feet like a jack-in-the-box who’s just had her handle cranked. She wasn’t kidding about being intimidated by the man, and with him present, I am not without understanding of how she feels.
“Coffee is ready, by the way,” she announces to him, and I can feel her angst, her plea for his approval that she doesn’t get. She grabs her cup and heads toward him and he steps aside to allow her to exit, but his eyes are locked on me, impassive, unreadable. That insecure part of me that Michael played on flares its ugly head inside me, that part of me so like Amanda. Heat lashes through my veins and I will it away. I could so easily want to please this man and it terrifies me that I still have that in me.
You are not the same person you were with Michael, I tell myself. I’m not naive. I’m not inexperienced. I will not be captivated by this man’s power, his presence, even if I am not blind to his appeal. I am in control. Besides, he is my boss, not my lover.
He saunters to the coffee pot and fills a cup, and without asking, refills my cup. His eyes meet mine before he moves away, and I see the steel there, I see the dominance in the otherwise polite act. He didn’t ask if I wanted more coffee. He simply decided I did and thus I do. I need to establish parameters with this man and do so now. I am not going to touch that cup.
In an instant, he’s claimed the seat across from me, and the entire room along with it, and I am staring into those silvery grey eyes and I do not dare look away. I tell myself it’s my show of strength, but deep down, I know I am captivated, commanded, to hold his stare.
“I wasn’t sure you’d show up today,” he finally says.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Several seconds tick by before his lips quirk slightly and he reaches into the folder and passes me a piece of paper and a pencil. “I hired you without so much as a reference check, on pure instinct. My instincts, Ms. McMillan, are very good. I’d like you to prove that an accurate statement.” He reaches for the powdered creamer.
I glance down at the paper and see ten questions, and quickly determine they are all related to medieval art.
“Begin,” he orders softly.
I glance up at him to find him settling back into his seat, clearly intending to watch me write the test. He wants to intimidate me and I do not want to let him. My jaw sets and I reach for the pencil. I can feel him watching me and I am flustered to realize my hand shakes ever-so-slightly. Men like him do not miss such details. He knows it’s shaking. He knows he’s affecting me.
I forcefully clear the haze from my mind and focus on the questions which are quite advanced, but well within my expertise. I finish them quickly and flip the paper around for his review.
He’s still leaning back in his chair, deceptively casual, watching me, his gaze hooded, his expression once again impassive. He doesn’t reach for the test, but instead, his attention flicks to my cup.
“You aren’t drinking your coffee, Ms. McMillan.”
“I’m over my limit for the day.”
“Limits are meant to be pushed.”
“Too much caffeine makes me shaky.” The words, the lie, is out before I can stop it. Where are all these lies coming from?
He leans forward and I can smell his clean, spicy male scent. “Sharing a cup of coffee,” he says, “is a bit like celebrating a new partnership, don’t you think?”
The challenge he has just issued crackles in the air, along with some other, unnamed electricity, that had my throat thick, and my heart racing. It’s just a cup of coffee but yet I sense that this is about so much more, that this is another test that has nothing to do with skill, but rather, him. Me. And I don’t know why I want to comply, to please him. Of course I do, I tell myself. He’s the kind of man who expects those around him to follow his lead. I cannot fight his will and be here. I tell myself that is why I comply, why I do as I wish. I tell myself I am not weak, and he is in control of the job, not me. I reach for the coffee.
Chapter Seven
I sip from the nearly cold beverage, peeking at my new boss from under my lashes as he reviews my test. He is powerful, this man, controlling, arrogant, everything I swear each day I do not want in my life, and yet I am drinking the coffee to please him. This would be acceptable if it were simply because he is my new boss. But it's not. Deep in my core, I know I am seduced by this place, and by him. He is interesting to me in ways I don't want him to be, in ways I know spell trouble.
I tip the cup back again and try to savor the bitterness as a reminder of what this kind of man does to me. It strokes my tongue with acid and it’s too much to take. I down the rest of the cup.
Immediately, his gaze lifts to mine, and I barely contain a grimace. His strong mouth hints at a curve, his eyes glint with something I can't quite identify, and I wish I don’t want to as badly as I do. “Congratulations, Ms. McMillan. You passed your first test.”
I have the distinct impression that he isn’t talking about the one on paper, but rather, something completely different. My compliance with his 'request' I drink my coffee despite my discomfort, I am almost certain.
“You doubted that I would?” I challenge, telling myself that I am talking about the questionnaire, not the coffee.
“I hired you without an interview.”
“Yes,” I say and my fear he'd done so because I'd been asking about Rebecca, that he sees me as the next her--and I'm not sure that is a good thing, in fact that I’m fairly certain that it is not--twists me in knots. I press forward with a facade of courage. “Why exactly is that? You don’t seem like a man who makes rash decisions.”
"Why did you take the job without asking how much you will be paid or even what time to arrive, Ms. McMillan?"
My heart skips a beat but I refuse to cower to this man, or any other, again. I've lived that experience too many times in my life. "Because I love art and I have the summer off. And since I know far more about the gallery than you do about me, it wasn't an uneducated decision. That puts the ball back in your court, Mr. Compton. Why hire me without an interview?"
He does not appear amused by my counter. In fact, I'm not sure he isn't a bit irritated. He studies me for an eternal moment, those silvery eyes so intense they are like ice that turns me to ice and fire at the same time. He is unnerving. I do not want this man to have the ability to rattle me.
"You want to know why I hired you?"
"It wasn't what I expected."
"Why offer your services if you don't expect them to be accepted?"
"A moment of passion," I admit. "And a summer of freedom."
He gives me a tiny incline of his chin, as if accepting of that answer. “I could feel your passion. It spoke to me."
My throat goes instantly dry as the words drop between us, heavy with implication, the air thick with a rich, creamy awareness that I tell myself I am imagining, that I reject. He is not for me. This place is not even for me. It's Rebecca's.
“You impressed me, Ms. Macmillan," he adds softly, "and that doesn’t happen easily.”
My breath nearly hitches at his words and I am shocked to realize, despite my thoughts moments before, just how much I want this man's approval, how much I need confirmation it's real. I don't want to want it. I don't want to need it. Yet…I do. I wait three beats to calm my racing heart and then ask what I must know. "How exactly did I do that in such a short time?" My voice is not as steady as it was before and he must notice. He is too keen not to.
“As I'm sure you know, there are cameras in most galleries, including this one. I was watching when you bewitched the couple that was shopping the Merit display with an absolute passion for art. If not for your guidance, they may have gone home to think about the purchase.”
Even the idea of him watching me on camera, as disconcerting as it is, doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads through me at his compliment. He is everything Amanda said he was but he is even more. He is successful and he belongs in a world I have only borrowed, but long to own. Oh yes. I so want his approval and I hate myself for needing it. Hate. It's a strong word, but I have a history that makes it so damn right for this occasion.
“Knowledge and competence are far easier to find than true passion," he adds, each word drawing me further into his spell. "I believe you have it, which is why I can't quite figure you out."
“Figure me out?” I ask, straightening a bit, uneasy that this might be headed toward my claim of knowing Rebecca. Towards the sister I don't have and haven't thought of a way around.
He sinks back into his chair, studying me intently, his elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Why is someone so clearly enthralled with this world teaching school?”
“What’s wrong with teaching school?” I ask, just as I had when Chris Merit had thrown the same ball at me.
“Absolutely nothing."
I wait for him to continue and he doesn’t. He just stares at me with keen observation that makes me want to shift in my chair.
“I love teaching," I state.
He arches a skeptical brow at me in reply.
“I do,” I insist, but quickly, reluctantly add, “But no, it’s not my true passion.”
His reply isn't instant. He lets me squirm a bit under his scrutiny. “So I ask you again,” he finally repeats. “Why are you teaching school?”
For a moment, I consider some fluffy answer designed for avoidance and decide he won't let that slide. My chest tightens as I admit something that I keep bottled up where I don't have to deal with it. Something I have told no one but I am telling him. Maybe it's liberating. Maybe I need to say it out loud once and for all. I feel so damn guilty that teaching isn't fulfilling. It should be fulfilling. “Because," I say in a voice that to my dismay cracks slightly, "a love of art doesn’t pay the bills.”
