Being Me(Inside Out 02)(25)

My mind is racing as I round my desk and head to the hallway. If I let fear of losing this dream control me, Mark controls me. I’ve worked too hard to make my life my own to let that happen. And damn it, if this dream isn’t going to happen for me, I need to stop teasing myself. The longer I do, the more painful my return to teaching will be. I can’t make a living on the pay I’ll get without the Riptide commissions. If I could, I’d have been working at this a long time ago.
My worries consume the short walk to Mark’s door and I am not surprised to find it shut. It’s not like the man invites a warm and fuzzy environment. Lifting my hand to knock, I pause as adrenaline slams into me and this time it’s not such a high.
Nerves assail me and I hate it. They are a weakness and I am so damn tired of weakness. Grinding my teeth through the very real fear of this meeting ending my dream job and mocking my bravado, I knock and hear Mark’s deep voice resonate a command to come in. Everything is a command with Mark.
After opening the door I step inside. I shut the door behind me before he has a chance to tell me to. Control, I think. I have to claim it. I turn to face him, taking in the oval-shaped office and the spectacular art on the walls surrounding me. Finally, I allow myself to glimpse the man behind the massive glass desk, who oozes power and sex in explosive quantities, and whom I’d dubbed “King” the first time I’d seen him behind his desk. It’s hard not to find him impressively male and highly intimidating, and to not be drawn to him. But there is something more compelling demanding my attention. My gaze slides beyond
Mark to the giant Paris-themed mural covering the entire wall and my teeth sink into my bottom lip at the delicate, familiar strokes of the brush I see in the work I know belongs to Chris.
“Yes,” Mark says, answering my unanswered question. “It’s Chris’s work.”
My attention slides to his face and I try to read him. I don’t know what happened between these two men, but I have no doubt it burns deeper for them both because they were once friends. “I assumed as much,” I reply when I can read nothing in the carefully schooled expression he wears on his too-handsome face and he seems too intent to say nothing more. “And it surprises me. You two don’t seem too close these days.”
“Money talks,” he says.
My brows dip before I can stifle the reaction, the defensive rise for Chris impossible to contain. “Chris doesn’t seem motivated by money.”
Mark gives me a deadpan look I think might hold a hint of irritation. “What can I do for you, Ms. McMillan?” Mark asks, clearly diverting the conversation. I get the impression he’s not pleased with me defending Chris. It’s a good reminder, though, that I’m trapped in a battle of wills between him and Chris, and it renews my resolve to get the answers I came here for.
I do not wait for him to ask me to sit. I walk forward, thankful my feet don’t trip on empty space again, and sit in one of the two armchairs in front of his desk, sinking into the expensive leather. “I want to talk about Riptide.”
He leans back, rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, and steeples two fingers together. “What about it?”
“You told me I wasn’t ready for Riptide. Why am I suddenly now?”
His expression is unreadable, unchanged. If he feels put on the spot, he shows nothing. “There is no suddenly about this.”
“You said I had to learn about wine, opera, and classical music.”
“I told you,” he says slowly. “I was testing your dedication.
And I’d still like you to learn those things. I thought you’d be pleased. Unless … you don’t plan to stay here after the summer ends?”
“I haven’t been offered a job beyond filling in for Rebecca.”
A thought slams into me with my own comment. I barely contain the urgency in my voice as I ask, “Has she resigned?” And would he tell me if she has? Or would he think I’d be less motivated to create a new spot for myself out of assumed stability?
“I haven’t heard from Rebecca in weeks,” he informs me. “If she decides to come back, I’ll make room for her, but I cannot operate a business with an absentee employee dictating my moves.”
I study him and look for some hint of discomfort, of a lie, but see nothing. I do not believe he has heard from Rebecca. “Did you expect her return, or at least some communication, by now?”
“Yes,” he replies without hesitation.
“Are you worried about her?”
“Displeased,” he says, and the tone is that and more. He is not worried about her. He’s furious that she has disobeyed him.