If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(32)

“I go wherever I feel right at the time with one exception. Every October I’m in Paris to participate in the annual celebrity charity event at the Louvre Museum.”

“Where the Mona Lisa is on display.” There is a wistful quality to my voice I don’t even try to hide. I would die to see the Mona Lisa.

“Yes. Have you ever seen it?”

“I’ve never been out of the States, let alone a famous Paris museum. Actually, aside from my childhood home in Nevada, this is it for me.”

“That’s unacceptable. Life is too short and the world is too large and too full of the art you love, not to see everything you can.”

“Well, the nice thing about the art I love is its ability to allow the viewer to experience a piece of the world, or a story that can never be theirs, through someone else’s eyes. I’ve certainly seen Paris through yours.” I briefly think of the mural behind Mark’s desk, but shove aside the thought. I don’t want to change the tone of the light conversation.

“Sounds like you’re convincing yourself you don’t need to travel when you want to travel.”

Ouch. I almost flinch. Talk about hitting a nerve. First, about teaching instead of working in the art world, and now this. “Some of us are not rich and famous, and able to soar around the world at will.”

“Ouch,” he says, repeating the word I’d only dared in my mind. “That hurt.”

“Good, because pointing out that you can see the world and I cannot, was insensitive, Mr. Rich and Famous Artist.”

He wiggles a brow. “Who looks cool in leather.”

“And that helps your case right now, how?”

“I can offer to show you around Paris.”

I blink. Did he just suggest I go to Paris to see him? No. No. I’m reading too much into it. “Paris is a big order. I’ve decided to start my travel goals with New York City in the number one spot.”

“For any specific reason?”

“Opportunity. Mark seems to think I’m Riptide material. That’s why he’s forcing me to learn wine, opera, and classical music.”

His expression doesn’t change but the charge in the air does, snapping tight with tension. “Mark told you that he’s going to get you a job at Riptide?”

“Well, I guess he more alluded to it.”

“Alluded how?”

“The general gist was that he sees bigger things for me than a summer on the gallery floor, but to achieve those things I need to be ready to interact with the type of clientele Riptide events attract.” I frown to realize his finger is tapping on the table. “What? What is it?” My cell rings with horrible timing and without taking my eyes off of Chris, I dig it from my purse. I glance down and cringe at the sight of Mark’s number before I look at Chris again. “It’s…” My voice trails off. I don’t think Mark’s name will go over well right now. “I have to take it.” I punch the ‘answer’ button and immediately hear Mark’s voice.

“Have you quit your job without notice, Ms. McMillan?”

I cut my eyes to my plate, trying to hide my stress over the agitation crackling in my boss’s question from showing to Chris, and willing my heart to stop racing. “I’m grabbing a late lunch. It was after two and I hadn’t eaten all day.”

“It’s after three.”

I bite my lips. Crap. How did I let time get away from me? “I’m headed back now.”

“Now would be good, Ms. McMillan. Amanda needs to review details with you for Friday night’s event. Call me when you get to the gallery.”

“Yes. Of course, I-“ The line goes dead. I glance up at Chris.

“That was Mark,” he supplies.

I give an awkward nod. “I’m late back to work.”

He grabs his wallet from his pocket and tosses a hundred dollar bill on the table for what I estimate to be a forty dollar ticket. He’s sliding on his jacket, clearly ready to go, and I quickly reach for my purse to pay my half of the tab.

“Don’t even think about it,” he says and his easy-going manner is nowhere in sight. My hand freezes on my wallet and I open my mouth to argue but decide against it. He is edgy and…mad? Surely not. Why on earth would he be mad?

“Thank you.” I slip my purse over my shoulder.

He pushes to his feet and motions to the door. I stand up and fit my briefcase strap over my shoulder with my purse. “You don’t have to walk me back.”

His eyes glint with a hardness that matches the set of his jaw. “I’m walking you back, Sara.”

His tone is steely and almost as sharp as Mark’s had been. Uncomfortably, I head to the exit, unsteady on my heels as he holds the door and I step outside. What’s wrong with him? Why has he gone from fire to ice?

We begin our walk, faster this time, and the cold wind has nothing on the chill between us. Conversation is non-existent, and I have no clue how to break the silence, or if I should even try. I dare a peek at his profile several times, fighting the wind blowing hair over my eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Why won’t he look at me? Several times, I open my mouth to speak but words simply won’t leave my lips.

We are almost to the gallery, and a knot has formed in my stomach at the prospect of an awkward goodbye, when he suddenly grabs me and pulls me into a small enclave of a deserted office rental. Before I can fully grasp what is happening, I am against the wall, hidden from the street and he is in front of me, enclosing me in the tiny space. I blink up into his burning stare and I think I might combust. His scent, his warmth, his hard body, is all around me, but he is not touching me. I want him to touch me.