If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(39)

A full five minutes passes, and the woman chatter amongst themselves and finally leave. I exit the stall and stare into the mirror, barely recognizing the woman in the reflection. My hair is a wild, dark brown mass and my lips are swollen. My eyes are dark with unfulfilled desire.

High heels sounds outside the door and my heart leaps with the inevitable newcomer. I haven’t had time to process what to do about Chris, how to act when I exit the bathroom, but I don’t want unwanted scrutiny either. I smooth my hair and dart for the door and I am shocked at who stands on the other side.

“Ava,” I blink.

“Sara!” She exclaims and I join her in the hallway, only to be pulled into a hug and she announces, “I was hoping I’d get here in time to see you.”

I scan over her shoulder, seeking out Chris, but he is nowhere visible. His absence gnaws at my gut, but I tell myself he’s still here. He’s being discreet.

Ava releases me and I step back, noting how her long, silky black hair is styled with ringlets around her face and she is wearing a red siren dress. “You look terrific.”

“Thank you. I love the excuse the gallery gives me to dress up, but I barely made it. I flew in today.”

“Oh? Where’d you go?”

Her lips curve with mischief. “A little last minute romantic getaway. It was fabulous. Listen, I don’t want to get Mark mad at you. I know you have to work the floor, but how about lunch on Monday?”

Mark. She’d called him Mark when no one else did. “I’d love that,” I say, and remind myself she isn’t an employee of the gallery, so why would she use his formal name?

A few minutes later, we’ve arranged a meeting spot, and I head to the gallery floor. Nervously, I look for Chris and don’t see him. Mary is helping a customer and Amanda and the rest of the crew seem to be hanging out at the front door, bidding customers goodnight. I quickly check in with the few lingering guests, and try not to let my mind go wild over Chris. But it is. He’s gone. He used me to piss Mark off, kissed me, and then left. I am hurt and yes, I am angry all over again. My final customer is all about sampling wine, and this time, I dive right in. I’m going to be fired. I’ve been used and abused and turned on in a hallway I shouldn’t have been doing naughty things in. I have a free ride home. I’m going to drink some damn wine.

By the time the final guests are gone, and I’ve gathered my jacket and purse, the staff is gathering for a cab line at the door. At this point, my head is buzzing and I feel a little queasy. I don’t want to talk to anyone, and I sure as heck don’t want to see Chris or Mark. Not that seeing Chris appears to be an option, but Mark is unavoidable since he’s standing by the door, having what looks like a tense conversation with Ava—or the wine is distorting my impressions, which is quite possible--and the two of them are having a happy chat. Nah. Mark isn’t the happy chat kind of guy. More the whips and chains, and pleasure me baby, kind of guy. Oh boy, the wine has worked me over good and my mind is running a marathon of ridiculousness. Empowered by wine, and feeling quite the daring butterfly, I decide it’s time to go home, and to do so with answers.

Unsteady, but with nothing to lose that I haven’t already lost, I walk right up to Mark. He glances at Ava, a silent command in his look, and even she obeys him, waving to me as she departs. The world does what this man wants. Well, the world minus Chris.

“Am I fired?” I demand, fairly certain no one else is around, which on a non-wine night wouldn’t be good enough. It works just fine for me now though.

He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and studies me with—what?—Interest? Irritation? The man is impossible to read. “Why would you be fired, Ms. McMillan?”

“Because of Chris.”

“Chris made us both a lot of money tonight. Making money is not a terminating offense. Now, using Chris to manipulate me for money would be, but you wouldn’t do that, now would you?”

“No,” I say, and dare to go where I would normally never go, but then nothing is normal about the past few days. “And I don’t want to be a part of the ‘who’s got the bigger sword’ contest you two have going on either. I don’t do cock-fights. I just want to do my job and do it well.”

He chuckles, and I think it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh. I’m not sure how I feel about my wine induced braveness sparking amusement in a man so difficult to amuse.

“Smart decision, Ms. McMillan. Once you’ve slept off the wine, I suggest you begin studying again. I’ll test you on Monday.”

I open my mouth to protest and he arches his brow. It’s a testament to his natural-born authority that I’ve already come to know that arched brow as a warning. “I’ll be ready,” I state, and with a little rebel left in me, I don’t bother with ‘goodnight’. I head for the door.

“Ms. McMillan.”

I stop at Mark’s command and glance over my shoulder, fearful my escape isn’t as imminent as I’d hoped.

“Pain meds and a bottle of water before you sleep,” he orders.

My boss is dictating my preventive hangover care and I’ve just used the word ‘swords’ in reference to his obvious cock-fight with the man I just made out with in a public hallway. I am truly in an alternate universe.

“Yes sir, Mr. Compton,” I say and continue on my way.