If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(26)

With a vow to form my own identity at the gallery, I sink deeper into my leather chair, behind my desk. Before me sits my impulsive purchase of a new, beautifully jeweled, red leather journal that I’d picked up at Ava’s coffee shop a few minutes earlier. My hope is that writing down my own thoughts will help me stop thinking obsessively about her thoughts, or at a minimum help me to understand why confusion rules my every waking moment.

I pick up the red ink pen I’d also purchased and open to the first blank page, where I write ‘August 21, day two at the Gallery’. Guilt twists in my chest, and I set the pen down again. You are not forgetting about Rebecca. You’re simply clearing a path to finding her.

Inhaling, I pick up the pen again and stare down at the journal, seeing only a mental image of the drawing of me that Chris had left me the night before. Or rather, of a woman who looks like me, but different. I am not the girl that a famous artist is inspired by, but yet, I am, or I was yesterday.

A buzz from the phone on my desk jolts me from my thoughts and I answer automatically. “This is Sara McMillan.”

“Good morning, Ms. McMillan.” There is an unexpected smile in my new boss’s tone and I relax, if only marginally.

“Good morning, Mr. Compton.”

“I’ve been called away to New York on Riptide business until Thursday.”

The tension in my gut uncurls and my spine relaxes. Breathing room. Yes. Yes. Yes.

“That doesn’t mean you can sneak onto the sales floor,” he chides, as if he’s plucked the idea from my brain before I ever had it. Which I hadn’t, but, well, I would have. “Friday, Ms. McMillan. Your goal is to be as ready to impress me then as you possibly can be. I trust you studied well last night?”

“I certainly did.” I want this opportunity. I will not allow a knowledge barrier to defeat me.

“Excellent. Then you can log into your email and click on the link I’ve sent you to begin testing. I won’t grade the test, at least not for now. It’s simply a tool for you to use to see how you’re progressing.”

The good news keeps coming and I know my smile can be heard in my voice. “That sounds perfect.”

“Ms. McMillan,” he says sharply, prompting a reply that I dutifully offer.

“Yes, Mr. Compton?”

“Have a good day.”

The line clicks and goes dead.

***

Two hours later it’s nearly noon, and I’m making myself crazy. The names and regions of wines, and wine manufacturers, are running together and I decide to turn to my old faithful solution to all that is wrong in life. Coffee. It is my one real vice, so I figure why not indulge with an Olympic-style commitment? Besides, Ava mentioned having lunch together. She hadn’t been at the coffee shop when I’d bought the journal and I haven’t heard from her either. I figure it can’t hurt to try and catch up with her now. My curiosity over what she might share about this strange new world I inhabit is killing me. And despite my grand declaration of owning my new office and job, on some level I know I will never fully feel that I do, not until I uncover the mysteries of Rebecca’s whereabouts.

After heading to the front desk and making idle chitchat with Amanda and a few of the other staff members, I barely contain the urge to help a customer. Amanda warns me off the action with a promise of Mark’s wrath, and I quickly head to the coffee shop again. I scan the empty tables and there is no denying my disappointment to find Chris nowhere in sight.

Choosing the same table I’d worked at yesterday is an easy decision. Habits, things that feel normal—these are things I crave, just as I do the coffee I am about to order.

By two o’clock, neither Ava nor Chris have appeared in the shop. I’ve thirstily downed two White Mochas and switched to black coffee. There is no denying I am shaky and need food. Waiting to eat in hopes of sharing lunch with Ava has not paid off. The good news, though, in the hazy tunnel that is my caffeinated high, is that my knowledge of the featured wines for the tasting Friday night is rapidly expanding.

The kid from behind the counter approaches my table and refills my coffee without me asking and grins. “Mr. Compton says to keep your cup full.”

Right. Mr. Compton says. I manage a tight-lipped smile and a “thank you”, but I am uneasy with my new boss having my drinks monitored. It is as if he is trying to…hmm what? The answer comes to me immediately. Control me. A variety of emotions flash inside me and slowly expand. There is something very sexy about a man like Mark Compton in control, but sexy or not, it’s also quite uncomfortable for all kinds of reasons I’ve found better left under the rug.

Comfortable is overrated, a voice in the back of my head screams and I know that inner voice is my subconscious mind demanding to finally be heard. The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent every day since college graduation wallowing in boring predictability. Except when you were with Michael. I grind my teeth. Predictable is far better than what I was with him.

I remind myself there are ways out of predictable ruts that do not include men like Michael…or Mark. Right. Other ways. It had taken me reading someone else’s words, stepping into their life, to find excitement. How sad am I? I squeeze my eyes shut and reprimand myself. This is not her life. It’s yours.

Resolve forms. I am determined to get to work, to make today count toward a new career. I force my eyes open and reach for my book, effectively knocking the coffee from the table. Fabulous. Just fabulous. Coffee is on my table, the floor, and yes, my only pair of good black heels that match my staple black skirt. My cheeks are no doubt, as rosy as my silk blouse.