If I Were You(Inside Out 01)(60)

We exit in a garage and I immediately spot not one, not two, but three Harleys, and stop dead in my tracks. “Holy cow, they’re all yours, aren’t they?”
He grins. “Yeah. You ever been on one?”
I shake my head.
“We’ll have to fix that soon.” He clicks his key ring and the Porsche’s lights flicker.
We approach the car and next to it I admire a sky blue, classic Mustang that’s been remodeled. “Is this yours too?” I ask, pausing beside it.
“I have a thing for remodeling old Mustangs.”
“How many do you have?”
“Five.”
I blink at him. I know he has money. I know he’s sold a lot of work. But still. “How rich are you, Chris?”
He barks out a laugh, his eyes twinkling. He knows I’ve mimicked his words when he’d asked about my father. “My father was an accomplished musician and well paid for his craft. My mother was Danielle Wright — as in the founder of the cosmetic line that still exists today.”
Holy crap. He inherited a fortune on top of what he makes himself. “Do you own Danielle Wright Cosmetics?”
“I’m not a boardroom kind of guy. I sold out years ago and re-invested in things of more interest.”
Stunned does not describe what I feel. “You’re filthy rich, aren’t you?”
He laughs. “It depends on how you define filthy, sweetheart.” He wiggles a brow and opens the door to the Porsche.
“You don’t seem that rich. I mean, clearly you have money, but you don’t act like it.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult.” He doesn’t look insulted though, more entertained.
I study him a long moment, trying to see something I’ve missed in him. Some hint of what makes him like my father, or Michael—who rides my father’s coattails and acts like he’s successful on his own--but I see nothing. He doesn’t treat people like they are beneath him. In fact, when he’d given me the clothes, he’d acted like wearing them was a favor to him, not an honor he’d bestowed upon me.
I lean forward, push to my toes, and kiss him on his sexy, perfect mouth. “It’s a compliment, Chris. In every way possible.” I pull back and see a flicker of surprise on his face before I slide into the car, letting the soft leather absorb my weight. He said I was never what he expected. He is never what I expect. And when Chris slips behind the wheel, and revs the engine of the 911 into a soft purr, I do not think about the car’s connection to my father. I revel in how utterly male and sexy Chris is as he maneuvers the sleek vehicle onto the highway.
We are weaving through several side streets and Chris cranks up the radio to the old AC/DC song ‘Back in Black’ and I laugh. “Old school rock n’ roll? I guess it goes with a Mustang obsession.”
“I use music to paint by. This one reminds me of a particular work I created not so long ago.”
“Every piece of art has a song attached?” I’m thrilled to see inside his creative process.
“Some pieces I play the same song over and over. Some I have a collection of songs I use.”
“And this song goes to what work?”
“A ‘Stormy Night‘ San Fran  piece I sold at auction last year.”
We begin to cross the Bay Bridge and I am growing curious about our destination, but not as curious as I am about Chris. “A Dark Sea ,” I say, knowing exactly the work he means.
He casts me a sideways look. “You do know your art and artists, don’t you?”
I smile and sink lower into my seat, wondering if I will truly know this artist. “It sold for an astounding amount of money, Chris.” Seven figures.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “It did.”
I turn to face him, studying his profile. “How does it feel to have people pay seven figures for your creation?”
“Like validation.”
It’s not the answer I expect. “Surely you’re well beyond needing validation?” He steers the car out of the city and onto a major highway.
“I create in solitude and then take whatever I put on the canvas out to the world. And not all of my work sells for big money. A lot doesn’t.”
“You make millions a year on your art, Chris. That’s big money.”
“It’s not about the money. I donate most of it anyway.”
“You donate your art proceeds?”
“That’s right.”
“To whom?”
“Some years back, I was talked into an event held at the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital and it was pretty mind-blowing. All those brave kids, and the parents who were dying inside right along with them. I knew I had to do what I could to help and I have since.”
He donates his money to save dying children. There are so many layers to this man — deep, dark, wonderful layers. I know he’s f*cked up. I know he’s damaged. I know this need to help children must call to some part of him that’s raw and bleeding. Which part?
“Have you guessed where we’re going?” he asks, before I can find the words to express how much I admire what he’s doing.
I glance around and realize we are on highway 29 North. “Napa Valley?” And it hits me he’s taking me to a winery to show his support of my career.
“Have you ever been?”
I laugh. “No. I wasn’t kidding when I said I have zero knowledge of wine. Well, I guess now I can say I have some knowledge but not much.”
“We’ll fix that,” he promises.
My lips curve. I’m going to my first winery. I’ve always thought it would be a neat thing to do. “I’m excited, Chris. Thank you.”