If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(18)

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.”

If he notices my discomfort, he doesn't show it. His expression is impassive, unreadable. “Which brings my curiosity back to what we've already covered. Why not ask what wage you will be paid?"

“I have enough of an idea of the going rate to know why this has to be a summer job that I don’t do this full time.” A pinch of irritation and defensiveness sneaks up on me. "And you walked away before I could get the opportunity."

He laughs and it surprises me more than anything else he has done thus far. "I suppose I did." He turns somber quickly and considers me for so long and so intently that I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. What is he thinking? What is he about to say? I am being judged and I know it. I tell myself that I don't know him well enough for his opinion to matter, but like his approval, it does. He is of the world where I so yearn to belong.

"Perhaps," he says, "I didn't want to give you the chance to decline."

"I can certainly see you as a man who prefers to do the declining yourself," I say before I can stifle my reply.

He laughs again and sits up, scrubbing his clean-shaven jaw. "You don't pull any punches, do you?"

I shake my head. "Not today."

His smile widens and it is a gorgeous, handsome smile that could melt chocolate. "Let's see how true that is. Your top three Italian artists are whom?"

I sit up straighter, my blood pumping, immediately alert. My answer is immediate. “Present day — artist and sculptor Marco Perego. Pino Daeni for his soft romantic characters. Contemporary Italian Master artist, Francesco Clemente who is one of the most illustrious European trans-avantgarde artists today.”