If I Were You(Inside Out 01)(64)

“I’ve done a lot of things differently with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are you.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I, but I’m hoping to find out.”
There is an odd tightening in my chest. Emotion. I don’t want to feel any emotion but he pulls it from me anyway. “Can you tell me when you do?”
He smiles, and it’s a gorgeous smile that chips away at the tension prickling at my nerve endings. “You will be the first to know.” He turns serious quickly. “Who was he, Sara?”
“He who?” I ask, but I know where this is going.
“The man who f*cked with your head enough to make you celibate for five years.”
The waiter appears and saves me from answering. I don’t want to talk about Michael. I don’t want to remember him. He’s the past.
The waiter settles two glasses in front of us and then pulls a bottle of chilled wine from a silver ice bucket. The waiter works the cork from the bottle but Chris ignores him. He leans back and watches me, his eyes intense with scrutiny.
The wine is uncorked and a sample is poured for Chris. He smells the wine and tastes it. “Excellent selection,” he says to the waiter. “Give your wine expert my regards.”
The waiter fills our glasses, gives a small bow, and departs. “Yes, Mr. Merit. I absolutely will.”
I sip from my glass, and my taste buds explode with a tangy fruit flavor with a hint of oak I quite enjoy. Chris stares at me. “Who was he?” His voice is low, taut.
I inhale sharply and set my wine back down. “The past. Leave it at that.”
“No.”
“Chris--”
“Who was he, Sara?”
“My father’s prodigy, the son he never had.” The confession slides from my mouth without a conscious decision to allow it to.
“How long were you with him?”
“Six months.”
“How serious?”
“An engagement ring.”
Surprise flashes in his eyes. “That’s pretty serious.”
I run my hand over my tense forehead and for once, words escape me.
“Did you love him?”
“No,” I say immediately, dropping my hand. “I was infatuated. He was five years older — successful and confident. He was…everything my father wanted for me.”
“What about your mother?”
“She wanted whatever my father wanted. I barely know the person that would do anything to please…him.” I cannot bring myself to say Michael’s name, and not because I have any emotional connection. I simply dislike remembering who he made me, or rather, who I let him make me.
“Anything?”
I nod stiffly. “Even when I hated him for it.”
“Are we talking sex, Sara?”
I let my eyes shut, trying to make my suddenly thick breath leave my lungs. “Everything.”
“So the answer is yes. He made you do things you didn’t want to do.” It’s not a question.
My lashes snap open. “Because it was him and he treated me like I was his property put on this earth for his personal satisfaction.”
He studies me, his expression impassive, his features carved in stone. “And how do I make you feel?”
“Alive,” I whisper without hesitation. “You make me feel alive.”
A warm blanket of awareness wraps around us. “As you do me, Sara.”
Chris’s unexpected confession does funny things to my stomach. I make him feel alive?
“Your food has arrived,” the waiter announces in a far too efficient display of good, poorly-timed, service.
My salad, which is the size of Texas, is placed in front of me, and then the waiter sets down Chris’s burger.  I sip my wine and the chill helps calm the heat burning through my body.
“They have an impressive wine list here at the hotel,” Chris comments. “And they have a wine educator on staff. If you want, I can arrange for her to spend some time with you in the morning?”
“I’d like that,” I say, aware of how hard he is trying to show support for my job. It matters, I think again. Chris keeps doing things that matter.
We dig into our food and he launches into some interesting wine facts about the region and I am far more interested in wine than I was when I was simply learning names and wineries.
“Part of understanding wine is understanding the regions where it’s produced. Italian wine is so revered because of the soil and the climate. Napa is one of the few places that can compete in those arenas, at least in my opinion. The climate here is classified as “Mediterranean”. Only 2% of the earth’s surface is Mediterranean. Add summers and mild winters, and grapes grow all year long.”
“It allows the grapes to grow but does it change the flavor?”
“Absolutely. Ten million years ago, the collision of the techtonic plates created the mountains and terrain here, along with a multitude of volcanic eruptions. The result is over one hundred varieties of soil and each lends a different flavor and texture to the product produced.”
Impressed with his knowledge, I ask a lot of questions as we eat. “How do you know so much about wine?”
There is a slight crackle to the air, a subtle tension. “My father was a connoisseur of wine to an extreme and as you’ve notice, despite my preferences otherwise, wine and art meld together quite frequently.”
His father. I sense tension in him when his father is brought up and I’m fairly certain he is also why Chris prefers beer over wine.
“Your car has arrived, Mr. Merit,” the waiter announces, appearing by our table.