If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(17)

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?"