If I Were You (Inside Out #1)

The line crackles with electricity. “Sara!”

“Ella?!”

More crackling.

“I’m okay. Travel....” crackle. “...am... road trip...beautiful...” More crackling and then nothing. The line is dead.

I sigh and set the phone down next to my computer, glaring at the device where it rests. Why has hearing Ella’s voice, confirming she is safe, not brought the comfort it should? I’m worried about her beyond reason. Everything just feels so...off.

“Is everything okay?”

I look up and blink in surprise to find Chris standing in front of my table and the worries of moments before are temporarily banked. His light blondish brown hair is mussed up, like he’s been running his hands through it and he’s wearing a dark blue snug-fitting t-shirt and dark blue jeans. Unlike Mark, he is not classically good looking, but more raw male hotness. He looks scrumptious and add to that how sexy his talent is to me, and I am suddenly more self-conscious than ever. I try to reassure myself I’ve done nothing ridiculous and foolish that he might have bore witness to. I’m fairly certain I inhaled the volcanic muffin in a rather unladylike fashion.

“Okay?” I ask, my voice raspy, affected. I am so incapable of playing it cool with this man, or really any, for that matter, but this one more than most.

“You looked like the call upset you.”

“Oh no,” I assure him quickly, and it hits me that not only was he watching me, he isn’t shy about admitting it. “My friend was calling from Paris, and we had a bad connection. I really wanted to hear how she was doing.” I seize the opportunity to find out how long Chris is in town. “Didn’t I read that you live in Paris?”

He motions to the seat. “Can I sit?”

“Yes. Of course. I should have offered.”

“And yes,” he says, settling into the chair across from me. “I own a place in Paris but I split my time between here and there. San Francisco stirs my creativity. I can’t stay away long.”

I’m thrilled to discover he lives here, and intrigued by his creative process. I yearn to ask questions about his work but I hesitate, after Ava’s reference to him being a private person. Besides, the table is small and I can smell the same spicy male scent he wore last night, and the effect is drugging. I’m not sure I can ask intelligent questions so I settle on easy, small talk. “I had no idea you were local but then, I’ve been pretty removed from the art scene for the past few years.”

“But you’re back now.”

“For the summer,” I agree, watching him closely as I add, “or until Rebecca returns.”

His brow furrows. “She’s coming back?”

“You don’t think so?”

He shrugs. “Not a clue. I barely know her, but she’s been gone so long that I assumed she’d found a new job.”

“Mark says she’s on a leave of absence. From my understanding, some rich guy whisked her away to travel the world.”

“And you have no idea how long until she returns?”

“You summed up the general gist of the situation. I’m here until she’s here.” Or until I prove I’m worthy of staying around when she returns, I remind myself.

“Hmmm,” he murmurs. “That open-ended vacation is rather...odd.”

“She must be an exceptional employee.”

“Right. Must be.”

I don’t miss the hint of sardonicism tingeing his tone, and I am quite certain he doesn’t like Mark any more than Mark seems to like him.

“Wine?” he asks, indicating the book on the table with a lift of his chin.

“Apparently, it’s not enough to know art to sell art. I must acquire a knack for talking about fine wine, opera, and classical music, about all of which I am clueless. I’m being tested and since I do like a glass of wine, here or there, it seems the least intimidating.”

His lips thin with disapproval. “You don’t need to know anything but art to sell art.”

“As much as I agree, I’m a slave to Mark’s demands.” Rebecca’s writing plays in my head, catching me off guard. You know I have to punish you. I am immediately uncomfortable, and my nervous rambling tendency proves it is alive and well. “My knowledge of opera, or classical music, amounts to absolutely nothing, and frankly I don’t enjoy either.” My misspeak washes over me immediately, and I can feel blood drain from my cheeks. His father had been a famous classical pianist. “Oh God. I’m sorry. Your father- ”

“Was brilliant,” he says and his expression is unreadable, his tone even, “but as with all things, music can be an acquired taste. How ‘clueless’ are you about wines?”

I blink at the abrupt change of subject, and I’m so off kilter, I don’t seem to possess the ability to filter my comments. “I know how to point to the name on the menu and the waiter brings it.”

Amusement dances in Chris’s pale green eyes and his mood is instantly transformed from intense to relaxed. “And you pick the wine you point to how?”

“It’s a highly complex method,” I explain. “First, there is my mood. Do I want red or white? Once that choice is made, I move to the choice of chilled or not chilled. Finally, step three, comes down to--what is the cheapest glass of wine that meets my decided upon criteria.” He is smiling, but not laughing at me, and I am both charmed and pleased.