If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(12)

He gives me another one of those devastating smiles he’d used on me in the gallery and dangles my keys in the air. “You might need these to go wherever you’re going so fast.”

“Thank you,” I say and accept them. His fingers brush mine and electricity charges up my arm, across my chest, and steals my breath. My eyes meet his, and I see awareness in the deep green depths of his stare. Only, I’m not sure if it’s the same kind of awareness I feel. Maybe, it’s simply that I hide my feelings horribly and he now knows I’m reacting to him, and it amuses him.

“You’re leaving early,” he comments, his hands going to his hips, which pushes back his blazer enough for me to see the stretch of his black t-shirt across his impressive chest. I approve, as I’m sure the rest of the female population does as well.

“Yes,” I say and jerk my attention to his face, to a full mouth that has me a bit breathless, but then everything has me breathless tonight, it seems. ”I need to get home.”

“Why don’t I walk you to your car?”

He wants to walk me to my car. I’m not sure why he would want to do that. He doesn’t even know me. Is it possible that he felt that same electricity I did, or do I amuse him and he wants to continue the entertainment? Mark did say he has a strange sense of humor. “Why didn’t you tell me who you are?” I blurt, not liking the idea of being a joke.

His lips quirk. “Because then you would have told me you loved my work even if you hated it.”

My brows dip. I’m not sure how I feel about that. “That’s sneaky.”

“It spared you the awkwardness of pretending to like my work.”

“There wouldn’t have been any awkwardness. I like your work.”

“And I like that you like my work,” he approves, a warm glow in his eyes. “So...shall I walk you to your car?”

My escape has been further waylaid, but I’m not sure that is a bad thing anymore. “Okay,” I squeak, appalled at my lack of voice. There is a reason I don’t date much. I’m horrible at it. I get shy and I pick the wrong men, who use both of those very things against me. Dominant, controlling men, who seem to turn me on in the bedroom, and off in real life. It’s genetic. I’m quite certain that had I a sister, she would have been just as foolish about men as myself and as my mother had been. And while Chris, at first impression, doesn’t strike me as arrogant or controlling, his failure to tell me who he was earlier in the evening was in fact a way of controlling my reaction. Not that I think he is interested in me. I’m over-analyzing and I know it. Chris Merit could have his choice of women, and in fact, probably has. He doesn’t need to add little ol’ me to the list.

“You know my name,” he says, pulling me from my reverie. “It’s only fair I know yours.”

“Sara. Sara McMillan.”

“Nice to meet you, Sara.”

“I should be the one saying that to you,” I say. ”I wasn’t joking when I said I love your art. I studied your work in college.

“Now you’re making me feel old.”

“Hardly,” I say. “You started painting when you were a teen.”

He cast me a sideways look. “You weren’t joking when you said you studied my work.”

“Art major.”

“And what do you do now?”

I feel a little punch to my gut. “School teacher.”

“Art?”

“No,” I say. “High school English.”

“So why study art?”

“Because I love art.”

“Yet you’re an English teacher?”

“What’s wrong with being an English teacher?” I ask, unable to curb the defensiveness in my tone.

He stops walking and turns to me. “Nothing is wrong with it at all, except that I don’t think that’s what you want to do.”

“You don’t know me enough to say that. You don’t know me at all.”

“I know the excitement I saw in your eyes when you were in the gallery.”

“I don’t deny that.” A gust of wind rushes over us and goosebumps lift on my skin, I don’t want to be scrutinized. This man sees too much. “We should walk.”

He shrugs out of his jacket and before I know what’s happening, it’s wrapped around my shoulders and that earthy raw scent of his is surrounding me. I’m wearing Chris Merit’s coat and I am dumbstruck all over again. His hands are on the lapels and he is staring down at me. My gaze catches on the brilliant colorful tattoo that covers every inch of his right arm. I’ve never been with a man with tattoos, and never thought I liked them, but I find myself wondering where else he might have them.

“I saw you talking to Mark,” he says. “Did you buy something tonight?”

“I wish,” I say with a snort, and my embarrassment at the unladylike sound that comes too naturally only drives home reality to me. We are from two different worlds, this man and I. His is one of dreams fulfilled and mine is one of impossible dreams. “I doubt I could afford one of your brushes, let alone a completed piece.”

His eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t walk away from something that intrigues you.” His voice is a soft rasp of sandpaper that still manages to be velvet on my nerve endings.