If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(29)

“No tequila allowed then,” he comments softly, before he moves to his seat and grabs a plastic menu from beside the napkin holder and hands it to me.

I eagerly accept it, looking over my options, my head spinning with this man’s wild ride.

“If you’re as daring an eater as you claim to be,” he comments, “I highly recommended the chicken fajita tacos with fire sauce.”

“I’ll take that dare,” I agree readily.

A fifty-something robust Hispanic waitress rushes to our table and greets Chris in Spanish, and even if I didn’t have a basic handle on the language—-as in barely even basic--the way her face lights up as she speaks to him tells me she is quite fond of Chris. It’s also clear that Chris is not only equally as fond of her as she is him, but his Spanish reaches well beyond entry level.

The two of them chat a moment, and Chris shrugs out of his jacket. My gaze goes to his tattoo and I cannot make it out completely because of his sleeve. I’m intrigued by the design, and the rich colors. Is it…could it be…? Yes. I think it’s a dragon.

“Sara,” Chris says, switching back to English, and pulling my attention from the intricate design, as he adds, “this is Maria of the ‘Diego Maria’ Restaurant name. Her son is Diego, the main chef.”

Maria laughs and it’s a friendly, infectious laugh. I like her and I like this place. “Chef?” she demands. “Ha. He’s the cook. We don’t need him getting fancy ideas. He’ll let them go to his head and have us expanding across the country when I like it right here at home.” She gives me a half bow. “And it’s very nice to meet you, Sara.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Maria.”

Chris holds up the menu that matches the one I haven’t looked at. “You in for the taco recommendation?”

I nod eagerly. “Si, dame el fuego.” Or ‘Yes, give me fire.’

They both laugh.

“You speak Spanish, se?ora?” Maria asks hopefully.

“Badly,” I assure her and she grins.

“Come in often and we will change that.”

“I’d like that,” I say, and I mean it. I really do like this woman and I know it’s because she’s everyone’s mother, just the way my mother had been.

“Corona for me, Maria” Chris orders and glances at me. “You want one?”

“Oh no,” I say quickly. “I’m a lightweight. I have to work.” I glance at Maria. “Tea. No. Wait. I’m on a caffeine high I need to come down from. Make it water.”

“The Corona will bring you right down,” Chris suggests.

“From spilling things to falling over,” I say. “You really don’t know what a lightweight I am. I better not go there.”

Maria rushes off to fill our order and another man sets chips and salsa in front of us before filling our water glasses.

I’m eager to learn more about Chris, both as a man and an artist, the instant we are alone I take advantage of the opportunity. “So you’re trilingual? I assume you must speak French to live part of the year in Paris.”

“Je parle espagnol, fran?ais, italien, et j'aimerait beaucoup dessinez-vous à nouveau. Modele pour moi, Sara.”

The French rolls off his tongue with such sexiness my throat goes dry and I feel tingly all over. “I have no idea what you just said.”

“I said that I speak Spanish, French, and Italian.” He leans closer, and his eyes find mine. “And then I said that I would very much like to paint you. Pose for me, Sara.”





Chapter Eleven





Chris wants to sketch me again? No. Not sketch. He wants to paint me, and I think he means in his studio. I am stunned speechless. My throat is dry and my mouth will not form words. This silent reaction to stress I’m developing is new to me, but then, I’m always an extremist. Mute silence or ramblings at the speed of lightning, there really seems to be no in-between. Still without words, I blink at Chris who is watching me intently, and I cannot read anything but expectation in his expression. He is waiting for a reply. Say something, I silently order myself. Say anything. No. Not anything. Something witty and charming.

Thankfully, I am saved from my mental scramble for the perfect reply when Chris’s beer appears in front of him. A soft flow of air escapes my lips, as Chris launches into a conversation in Spanish with the man who now stands by our table. I grapple for what to say when we return to our topic of Chris painting me, but I am pulled into the conversation before I resolve my thoughts.

“Sara, meet Diego,” Chris says, “the other half of ‘Diego Maria’.”

I try to focus on the conversation with Diego, who is about Chris’s age, and has a sleek goatee and warm brown eyes but I am ultra-aware of Chris’s long fingers as he squeezes his lime into the beer. It’s crazy to be so drawn to someone’s hands, but of course, I remind myself, his hands are gifted in ways most could never be. I’m light-headed with his impact on me, not to mention a very real need to eat, so as the two men talk, I am content to mostly listen while I nibble on several yummy, warm salted chips with some salsa. Diego, it seems, is planning a trip to Paris, and is seeking advice about where to stay and what to do that Chris is graciously offering. I am taken aback by the way Chris, a famous, millionaire artist, acts as if he isn’t those things at all.