If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(71)

I feel Chris’s return before I see him, a tingling awareness the hum of too much wine in my blood cannot diminish. My gaze lifts to the doorway as he enters, followed by Mike, who looks confused. “Where’s Katie?”

“She had an emergency with a guest I think.”

Mike scowls. “How long has she been gone?”

“Right after you two left.”

“Oh crap,” he grumbles. “I better go check on her.”

Chris hasn’t spoken and I really can’t read him. My head is too fuzzy. He saunters over to me and squats down in front of me, moving my chair to face him.

His hand settles on my leg. “You need to get some air?”

“Air would be good,” I confirm and he helps me to my feet and I study his face, cursing the wine I’ve drank. His happy mood has faded, and there is an edge to him I haven’t seen tonight. Whatever he and Mike talked about, it’s stolen my light-hearted artist.

I touch his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

He pulls me close, and his hand slides behind my neck, and sets off alarms. His dark side is back in full force. “You see too much, Sara.”

“And you, Chris, don’t let me see enough.”

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. We are frozen in place, and I am lost in his stormy stare, his turbulent mood radiating off of me. When he takes my hand to lead me toward the room’s back door, my footing is unsteady. Wine and Chris do not mix well, I think, and it is the one thought I cling to as we exit into a garden. Wine and Chris do not mix. Why? I intend to find out.





Chapter Twenty-Five





Even with too much wine in my system, and his hand still firmly wrapped around mine, I feel Chris closing off, erecting walls around him as we exit through a side door of the Chateau. We cross a small brick walkway to a wooden bridge that arches over a large pond. The night is upon us, and glowing orange lanterns dangle from poles mounted in the wooden rails, the stars above us dotting the black, cloudless canvas. I inhale the hot air; the cool breeze I’d hoped for to clear my head is nowhere to be found. The stuffy night is suffocating, as is the tension humming off of Chris.

He leads me down the wooden bridge toward a gazebo, and my nostrils flare with the sweet scent of roses. These flowers are haunting me everywhere I go. I can see the greenery entwining the wooden overhang, delicate buds clinging to the leaves. I do feel ready to bloom, ready to go wherever he leads me. That is what Rebecca felt for the man she’d been writing about. That is how Chris makes me feel.

Halfway down the walkway, I stumble and Chris reaches around and catches me, his strong arms circling my waist, my hand resting on his chest.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Fine.” I don’t look at him. This is the second time in a week he’s had to right my drunken footing and it’s embarrassing. I haven’t drunk too much since the day of my mother’s funeral.

Once we’re under the gazebo, he leans on the railing and I almost expect him to set me away from him. Relief washes over me when he pulls me into his arms and folds me against him. I settle my hand on his chest, over his heart, the soft thrum beating against my palm. The buzz in my head irritates me, clouding my ability to gauge Chris’s mood accurately.

“What’s upset you?”

“Who says I’m upset?”

“Me.”

“Like I said. You see too much.”

I ignore the comment. “Mike seemed eager to give you whatever he wanted to give you. I expected you to return pleased, not cranky like a bear.”

“Cranky like a bear?”

My lips quirk. “Yes. Cranky like a bear.”

He studies me with a hooded look, his lashes thick veils hiding his eyes from my prying gaze. He is beautiful in the starlight--and the wine, or perhaps Chris himself, has washed away my inhibitions.

I reach up and trace his full, sensual mouth that I know can both punish and please, studying him. My fingers travel his face, tracing his high, defined cheekbones, and down to the light stubble on his square jaw. I imagine how the stubble could scrape my bare skin. I am infatuated with his beauty, his talent, his wit…his body. But I want to know the man.

“Talk to me, Chris,” I plead when the silence stretches eternally.

He draws my hand into his and kisses the back. “Not an easy thing to do when you’re touching me.” He slides my hair behind my ear. “Especially when you’ve been drinking and I can’t do any of the many things I planned to do to you while you’re pantyless.”

A slow smile slides onto my lips. “And braless.”

“Thanks for reminding me because I’m not going to push you when you’ve had too much to drink.”

Push me? Please. I yearn to know what that means. “What happened to Mr. I’m-No-Saint?”

“Apparently he comes with limits, namely yours.”

I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about the wine I’ve consumed any longer and the hard lines of his expression tell me I’m right. “My limits aren’t as narrow as you think.”

“I guess that’s yet to be decided.”

My brows furrow. While he’s playful as usual, there is an undercurrent of tension in him that isn’t going away. “What happened with Mike?”