If I Were You (Inside Out #1)

“It’s…fine.”

“You inspired me to draw you.”

“The adorably interesting and clumsy inspiration,” I say, feeling self-conscious, but then quickly feel bad about the remark. I soften my voice and add, “But thank you. I’m flattered you drew me and I was absolutely breathless when I opened the envelope.” I can’t contain my silly smile. “Now I own a Chris Merit original.” My brows dip. “Unless you want it back?”

He laughs. “Of course, I don’t want it back.” He hesitates. “You like it?”

Is there a hint of uncertainty in his voice, deep in those gorgeous eyes? Surely not. He’s made millions off of his work. He can’t have an uncertain bone in his spectacular body.

I press my hand to my racing heart and pat it. “I love it.” Unfortunately, my heart isn’t the only thing in high gear. My stomach growls and not softly. In fact, it’s loud. Very loud. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel my cheeks, once again, flush red.

A soft, sexy laugh slides from his lips. “Hungry?”

I dare to look at him and feign ignorance. “What gives you that idea?”

“Just a guess,” he teases. “But since I’m starving, I was hoping you might be, too.”

He gives me a hopeful smile that I feel clear to my toes. He’s smiling at me, but not laughing at me. I like this about him, the way he makes me ultra-aware of him, but somehow comfortable, too.

My stomach growls again and I laugh. “Oh my gosh, I do believe I am hungry.” I shake my head. “You have a way of finding all my weaknesses.”

“If food’s a weakness then I have it, too. Do you like Mexican? Diego Maria’s is a few blocks down the road. It’s a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place but it’s good eating. I hang out on their patio and sketch some afternoons.”

“Do they serve wine?” I ask.

“They’re more of a beer and tequila kind of joint.”

“Good, because I don’t even want to see wine on a menu for the next hour.”

“I take it Mark is still trying to force the wine thing down your throat?”

“If you mean, Mr. Compton, then yes.”

He rolls his eyes. “Mr. Compton, my ass.” He lifts his chin at me. “You in for Diego Maria’s?”

I nod and smile and he looks pleased, even relieved? No. That’s silly. I shake off the ridiculous notion and try not to grin like a school girl. I’m going to lunch with Chris Merit and I’ll have the chance to talk to him about his work. He heads to the table he’d been sitting at yesterday and hikes a backpack he’s yet to unpack to his shoulder. Relief washes over me. I did not want to find out he’d been watching me again and I hadn’t been self-aware enough to know.

I quickly pack my red leather bag and am about to slide it to my shoulder when he reaches for it. “I’ll carry it for you.”

My lips twitch. “I really think you should let me carry it. I fear the cute girly bag will blow your cool artist in leather image. Besides, it’s light. I’m good, but thank you.”

With obvious reluctance he drops his hand. “If you change your mind, I’ll happily risk my cool artist in leather image that I didn’t know I had.”

A smile slides easily to my lips. “And I’ll have my phone camera ready if I do.”

He chuckles and the sound of that rough, masculine laughter does funny things to my chest, and well, pretty much my entire body.

We step outside and the cool wind off the ocean screams a welcome and has me grateful my blouse is long-sleeved. I suppress a shiver for fear Chris will offer me his coat again, though the idea isn’t an unpleasant one. I simply don’t understand the dynamic between us and I’m not sure I can be clear-headed with anything that has been on this man’s body touching mine.

We begin the short stroll to the restaurant and I am intensely aware of how close he is, how big he is. I am so confused with this man. He makes every nerve ending I own buzz and yet, I am oddly comfortable with him. There is something beneath the surface I can’t put my finger on, something that defies his easygoing exterior and I burn to understand what it might be.

He cuts me a sideways look. “How’s the gallery stack up to your school teaching so far?”

“I’ve become student instead of teacher, which was really the last thing I expected when I dove into this new adventure.”

“That confident you know your art, are you?”

“Yes. I am. I know my art. I know my artists. Well, I thought I did. I had you pictured as your dad for some reason.”

A smirk plays on his lips, and I get the feeling he’s enjoying some secret joke. “Did you now?” he asks, and motions to the opening in the black steel-encased patio of the restaurant. “We can just grab a table out here and they’ll send someone to take our order.”

Being mid-afternoon, there’s no crowd, and we have a choice of all of the six tables inside the black steel. I head for the one against the railing so we can lean against it and view the Golden Gate Bridge along with miles and miles of beautiful blue water. It’s a view I never get tired of enjoying and as hard as it is in the compact city, I manage to avoid it far too often.

I settle into my seat and the wind rushes over me, pulling a shiver from me before I can contain my reaction. I look up to find Chris standing above me. No. More like towers over me.

“You’re cold.” It’s not a question.