Being Me(Inside Out 02)(80)

Home together. I like how this sounds. I give him a small smile and nod. “I’d like that.”
We step off the elevator and Chris catches my hand and embraces me. “I’m not giving you time to change your mind. I’m arranging movers for your apartment.”
I have a fleeting moment of uncertainty but shove aside the millions of things that could go wrong. I’ve spent a lifetime sinking into the quicksand of life, and Chris is the only person who has ever set me on solid ground. I wrap my arms around his neck and take a leap of faith. “All right.”
He kisses me and leads me to the living room. Our living room.
Half an hour later, Chris and I have kicked off our shoes, and we’re watching the rest of the movie on the big screen over the fireplace, trying to eat pizza through our laughter. When the movie is over and our stomachs are stuffed, Chris replays a particular scene and we laugh all over again. I wipe tears from my eyes and he pulls me down to the couch beneath him.
As I stare up at him, I feel the low burn in my belly he creates so easily. And I realize that though I’ve had a hellish weekend, I’m laughing. I’m happy. Happiness is unfamiliar to me, but I feel it now.
Because of Chris.
Chapter Twenty-three

I walk into the gallery on Monday morning in a pale peach dress and black heels and with a smile on my face. How can I not be smiling? I woke up to a sexy, brilliant artist in my bed and now I’m going to work at my dream job. So what if said sexy, brilliant artist was worried enough about my safety to drive me to work? I choose not to dwell on that part or I’ll make myself sick with nerves.
“Morning, Amanda,” I say, and Amanda studies me with a keen eye.
“Morning. You look amazing today.”
“Well, thank you.”
I enter the back office and stop dead in my tracks when I come face-to-face with Mark. The man is so damn disarming.
Like fire scorching ice, he melts a girl right in her high heels.
“Morning,” I manage, and I wonder if he ever has a hair out of place, or a suit that isn’t as perfectly fitted as his choice today of a pale gray that makes his eyes all the more compelling.
His gaze sweeps my body and lifts. “Amanda was right. You look quite amazing today, Ms. McMillan.”
“Thank you.”
He steps aside and lets me pass. I have this moment of frozen, deer-in-the-headlights helplessness when I realize he’s going to watch me walk to my office. Damn this man and his power trips.
I don’t like this or how he has suddenly made my mind go to Michael and my father, and my fears that they still might cause Chris trouble. What does it say, that Mark reminds me of Michael?
I draw a small breath and take a step, trying not to wobble on my heels and blow the whole looking-good thing I’ve just been praised for. Not that I need Mark’s praise. I don’t.
But as I settle at my desk and put my things away, I bitterly acknowledge that I do need his praise. Why is this still who I am? I don’t want Mark; he’s too dominant. “No in between, all right,” I murmur.
“Something wrong, Ms. McMillan?”
Mark leans against my door frame, and my gaze flickers to the delicate roses of the O’Nay painting on the wall—the one he put here for Rebecca. What is wrong is that Rebecca is missing.
He is the Master in the journal, and he has to know more about where she has gone.
I open my mouth to say that, then close it, remembering the warning to be cautious. I don’t want evidence being tucked away, any more than I want to be in danger myself.
“I’m nervous,” I tell him. “I’m going to resign from the school today.”
One blond brow lifts. “Are you, now?”
“Yes.”
Approval gleams in his eyes and it pleases me to think he values my presence here enough to be pleased. “Well, then. Let me leave you to it.”
He disappears and I slump in my chair. I swear that man winds me up and leaves me exhausted from every encounter. My gaze goes back to the picture on the wall, my thoughts to Rebecca. I’m not taking your job. Come back. Be okay. And that goes for you, too, Ella. Just thinking of Ella sets me into motion. I sit up and dial the school. I have to leave a message. Great. More fretting.
Ryan calls and e-mails me staging pictures of the property I’m to help decorate, and I get to work looking for possible art purchases for the project. By midmorning I have a lag in my work, and I pull out Rebecca’s work journal and begin scouring it for helpful sales tips. My brows dip at a page of random notes.
Riptide auction piece. Legit? Find expert. I inhale sharply. Rebecca was looking into a counterfeit piece that was listed at Riptide?