If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(37)

The couple erupts into laughter I don’t dare indulge in, and turn expectant gazes on Mark. I wonder which is worse for Mark—the use of his first name, or the request for a beer. “Oh please,” the woman pleads,” bring us a Corona, too. What fun to tell our friends we had a beer at a wine tasting with Chris Merit.”

“Unfortunately,” Mark replies, proving he can roll with the proverbial punches, “the beer didn’t arrive as expected.” He waves at a waiter who rushes over. “But I can certainly supply wine.”

Chris doesn’t push for the beer I doubt he really wanted, and soon we all lift our glasses in a toast. “To the painting I’m going to leave with by Chris Merit,” the wife declares.

“I can’t believe you asked for beer,” I whisper when he takes my glass.

His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Believe it, baby. I’m a rebel with a cause.” He hands off our glasses to a waiter.

“And what’s the cause?” I ask, while Mark and the couple continue to chat.

“Right now,” he replies. “You.”

My lips part in surprise but there is no time for a real reaction. The fuss has garnered attention, and suddenly we are surrounded by people who want to meet Chris. Graciously, he chats with the various customers, and I am both surprised and pleased as he introduces me to each.

A good hour passes, and Chris is as attentive to me as he is the visitors. At this point, he’s doing all the selling, but the wine tastings have continued. The longer the event continues the more I think I need to learn how to avoid drinking at events like this one. I am unsteady, and in need of food.

Mark joins the small group we are talking with and Chris hones in on him. “You got a minute?”

Mark inclines his head. “Anything for the artist of the night.” And while the statement is true-- Chris is the ‘artist of the night’--his tone drips saccharine.

Mark turns and walks away, and I expect Chris to follow. Instead, he slides his fingers through mine, and pulls me with him.





Chapter Thirteen





I am all too aware of Chris’s hand intimately twined with mine as we pursue Mark, or rather, as he drags me along for the ride. There is a possessiveness to his touch and I have the sense I am a token in these two men’s ‘who’s dick is bigger’ contest, and now I am the one who is not pleased. In fact, I’m freaking out, and my heart is about to explode from my chest.

“What are you doing?” I demand, gently tugging on Chris’s hand.

Still walking, he cuts me a sideways look. “What I came here to do. Protecting you.”

I gape at this ridiculous notion. What is it with him and this ‘protection’ hangup? I contain the urge to jerk hard against him and demand he stop and explain himself, simply because we are in public. My mind races in search of a more discreet plan of escape before I end up trapped in one of the offices in the middle of their obvious war.

Mark surprises me and halts in the center of the gallery, away from the fifteen or so guests still mingling amongst themselves, where low voices mean discretion. Chris stops with him, and I don’t have an option but to do the same since my fingers remain tightly tucked inside of his.

“I came here tonight to support Sara,” Chris announces without preamble. “I expect her to get the commission off my sales.”

What? I scream in my head. Oh my God. This can’t be happening.

“Ms. McMillan and I will discuss her compensation amongst ourselves,” Mark replies, and his tone is icy, his refusal to look at me damning. My heart sinks to my feet. I am as good as fired.

“That’s fine,” Chris states, “as long as the outcome of your conversation includes her getting twenty-five percent of my sales for tonight.”

My stomach knots at both the ridiculously high figure, and the demand Chris has made. Dread fills me as I realize what this must be about. Chris wanted me out of here. He told me to leave. I didn’t listen so he’s forcing me out. Why? Why does this matter to him?

Mark’s eyes flash with ice and settle on my face, and I am certain he is either going to fire me here and now, or he’s planning my dismissal for the near future. Instead, he shocks me with a curt, “Twenty-five percent, Ms. McMillan but be clear. Future rewards will be negotiated between you and I or not at all. Understood?”

I blink at him, speechless, but still manage to calculate twenty-five percent of the roughly three hundred grand Chris has sold tonight. Surely Mark has not just agreed to pay me fifty thousand dollars.

“Ms. McMillan,” he snaps. “Are we clear?”

“Yes,” I rasp. “Yes. I…of course. Understood.”

Mark’s gaze shifts back to Chris. “If there’s nothing else, I have customers to attend and so does Ms. McMillan.” He doesn’t wait to find out if there is anything else. He turns on his heel and departs, leaving me reeling with the impact of what has happened. My adrenaline surges through me, anger curling in my stomach and chest.

Whirling on Chris, I barely muster the will to keep my voice low, and it’s all I can do to remember the customers who might be watching. “What have you done?” The question comes out a hiss and I jerk my hand back with as much discretion as I can muster considering I’m shaking, but he holds it still.