If I Were You (9 page)

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.

“No,” I assure him. “I love this view. I’m-“ A gust of hard
wind overtakes me and there is simply no escaping the impact, or the chattering
of my teeth. “Okay.” I hold my hands up in surrender. ”I’m cold.”

Surprising me, his hand gently wraps around one of my wrists
and he pulls me to my feet. We are close, toe to toe, and I cannot seem to
breathe. In defiance of the chill of my skin, heat forms beneath his touch, and
begins to climb a path up my arm and over my chest. He stares down at me, and
though his expression is impassable, I can feel the tension curling between us.

Hair blows into my eyes, and he releases my arm, and
tenderly brushes the hair from my eyes, his fingers lingering on my cheek.
“Let’s go in where it’s warm.” His voice is as gentle as his fingers sliding
from my face.

He opens the door for me and I enter, nervously avoiding eye
contact, trying to will my heart to stop beating at an impossible pace. Soft
Mexican music touches my ears and I see no more than ten tables, only one of
which is occupied.

He lifts his chin at the small, two-seater table inside a
bay window. It is both out of the reach of the wind, and by my standards,
intimate. “Looks like the best seat in the house to me. How about to you?”

I nod my approval. “As long as it comes with a few hot
peppers to warm me up, I think it’s perfect.”

“A daring eater, are you?” he asks, as we head to our seat.

“Eating is the one thing I can say with certainty I do
without a single inhibition.”

He pulls out my chair for me and his eyes twinkle with
evident mischief. “Eating is one of
many
things I do without
inhibition.”

My eyes go wide before I can stop them and he laughs before
adding, “Don’t worry. I won’t share the other things unless you ask nicely.”

I sit before I dare to ask what things he’s talking about,
surprised by how close I am to taking the bait. “Sounds like a question to ask
over tequila, which would never work anyway. I’d be too tipsy to remember your
answers.”

He settles my briefcase on the back of the chair and his
fingers brush my arm, the silk is no barrier to the sweet friction of this
man’s touch. I suck in a breath at the impact, and my gaze is captured by his
for several intense seconds.

“No tequila allowed then,” he comments softly, before he
moves to his seat and grabs a plastic menu from beside the napkin holder and
hands it to me.

I eagerly accept it, looking over my options, my head
spinning with this man’s wild ride.

“If you’re as daring an eater as you claim to be,” he
comments, “I highly recommended the chicken fajita tacos with fire sauce.”

“I’ll take that dare,” I agree readily.

A fifty-something robust Hispanic waitress rushes to our
table and greets Chris in Spanish, and even if I didn’t have a basic handle on
the language—-as in barely
even
basic--the way her face lights up as she
speaks to him tells me she is quite fond of Chris. It’s also clear that Chris
is not only equally as fond of her as she is him, but his Spanish reaches well
beyond entry level.

The two of them chat a moment, and Chris shrugs out of his
jacket. My gaze goes to his tattoo and I cannot make it out completely because
of his sleeve. I’m intrigued by the design, and the rich colors. Is it…could it
be…? Yes. I think it’s a dragon.

“Sara,” Chris says, switching back to English, and pulling
my attention from the intricate design, as he adds, “this is Maria of the ‘Diego
Maria’ Restaurant name. Her son is Diego, the main chef.”

Maria laughs and it’s a friendly, infectious laugh. I like
her and I like this place. “Chef?” she demands. “Ha. He’s the cook. We don’t
need him getting fancy ideas. He’ll let them go to his head and have us
expanding across the country when I like it right here at home.” She gives me a
half bow. “And it’s very nice to meet you, Sara.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Maria.”

Chris holds up the menu that matches the one I haven’t
looked at. “You in for the taco recommendation?”

I nod eagerly. “Si, dame el fuego.” Or ‘Yes, give me fire.’

They both laugh.

“You speak Spanish, señora?” Maria asks hopefully.

“Badly,” I assure her and she grins.

“Come in often and we will change that.”

“I’d like that,” I say, and I mean it. I really do like this
woman and I know it’s because she’s everyone’s mother, just the way my mother
had been.

“Corona for me, Maria” Chris orders and glances at me. “You
want one?”

“Oh no,” I say quickly. “I’m a lightweight. I have to work.”
I glance at Maria. “Tea. No. Wait. I’m on a caffeine high I need to come down
from. Make it water.”

“The Corona will bring you right down,” Chris suggests.

“From spilling things to falling over,” I say. “You really
don’t know what a lightweight I am. I better not go there.”

Maria rushes off to fill our order and another man sets
chips and salsa in front of us before filling our water glasses.

I’m eager to learn more about Chris, both as a man and an
artist, the instant we are alone I take advantage of the opportunity. “So
you’re trilingual? I assume you must speak French to live part of the year in
Paris.”

“
Je parle espagnol, français, italien, et j'aimerait
beaucoup dessinez-vous à nouveau. Modele pour moi, Sara.
”

The French rolls off his tongue with such sexiness my throat
goes dry and I feel tingly all over. “I have no idea what you just said.” 

“I said that I speak Spanish, French, and Italian.” He leans
closer, and his eyes find mine. “And then I said that I would very much like to
paint you. Pose for me, Sara.”

Chapter Eleven

Chris wants to sketch me again? No. Not sketch. He wants to
paint
me, and I think he means in his studio. I am stunned speechless. My throat is
dry and my mouth will not form words. This silent reaction to stress I’m
developing is new to me, but then, I’m always an extremist. Mute silence or
ramblings at the speed of lightning, there really seems to be no in-between.
Still without words, I blink at Chris who is watching me intently, and I cannot
read anything but expectation in his expression. He is waiting for a reply.
Say
something,
I silently order myself. Say anything. No. Not anything.
Something witty and charming.

Thankfully, I am saved from my mental scramble for the
perfect reply when Chris’s beer appears in front of him. A soft flow of air
escapes my lips, as Chris launches into a conversation in Spanish with the man
who now stands by our table. I grapple for what to say when we return to our
topic of Chris painting me, but I am pulled into the conversation before I
resolve my thoughts.

“Sara, meet Diego,” Chris says, “the other half of ‘Diego
Maria’.”

I try to focus on the conversation with Diego, who is about
Chris’s age, and has a sleek goatee and warm brown eyes but I am ultra-aware of
Chris’s long fingers as he squeezes his lime into the beer. It’s crazy to be so
drawn to someone’s hands, but of course, I remind myself, his hands are gifted
in ways most could never be. I’m light-headed with his impact on me, not to
mention a very real need to eat, so as the two men talk, I am content to mostly
listen while I nibble on several yummy, warm salted chips with some salsa.
Diego, it seems, is planning a trip to Paris, and is seeking advice about where
to stay and what to do that Chris is graciously offering.  I am taken aback by
the way Chris, a famous, millionaire artist, acts as if he isn’t those things
at all.

Our waiter, the real one, not Diego, appears with our food,
and Diego excuses himself to allow us to be served. “Sorry about that,” Chris
says. “He’s been off every time I’ve been by since I got back from Paris three
weeks ago.” He motions to my plate. “How’s it look?”

I inhale the spicy aroma and my stomach cheers with joy. “It
looks and smells absolutely divine.”

He picks up his lime and motions to one on the side of my
plate. “They aren’t the same if you don’t use this.” He squeezes the juice onto
his food.

“I’ve never put lime on my tacos, but I’m game to try.” I
quickly follow his example, relieved we’ve turned our attention to food, not me
posing for him.

“Before you dig in, I should warn you that hot means hot.
Really hot. So if you aren’t sure you can take it, then-“

I’m too hungry for caution. I pick up my taco and open my
mouth, with my stomach cheering me on and welcoming substance. 

“Wait-” he says, but it’s too late for me to stop, even if I
consider it an option, which I don’t.

Fire shoots through my mouth, and bites a path down my
throat. I gasp and almost choke. Oh my god, I said bring the fire, but I didn’t
mean literally. I drop the taco and curl the fingers of one hand around the
cloth napkin in my lap while my other hand goes to my throat.

Chris shoves his beer at me, and I don’t even hesitate. I
grab it and gulp several, long, cold swallows and still I can barely breathe.
When the heat finally eases, I am breathing hard. “I should never have said
bring the fire.” I take another drink of his beer, the bitterness of the liquid
somehow easing the burn. Sanity returns and I stare at the half empty bottle
and then at Chris. I drank his beer, right after I made a fool of myself, and
all but choked. I shove the beer toward him. “Sorry. I forgot myself.” Why do I
keep embarrassing myself with this man?

He grins and slugs back a drink of the beer. My lips part
and my fingers curl on both sides of the table as I watch the muscles of his
throat bob. I am acutely aware of the intimacy of sharing his drink, of my
mouth having been where his is now. He sets the nearly empty bottle down, his
eyes locking with mine, the steam in his stare telling me I’m not alone in my
thoughts.

“You really do have quite the knack for witnessing me
embarrass myself,” I manage in a voice raspy from the heat of the food, or
maybe, simply because this man exists on planet earth.

“I told you, I’d prefer it to be called a knack for rescuing
you.”

Rescuing me.
Though this is the second time he’s said
those words, they radiate through my body, deep into my soul, and something
long suppressed within me stirs, then raises its ugly head. I don’t need to be
rescued.
Do I?
In that deep down spot the words have touched, an old
part of myself screams
yes, yes, yes
.
You need to be rescued. You
want to be rescued. You want to be taken care of.
I straighten and twist my
fingers together in my lap. Silently, I battle my inner self.
No. No. No.
I
do not want to be rescued. I do not need to be rescued. Not anymore. Not for a
long time now. Not ever again.

Chris lifts a hand towards the kitchen. “Diego,” he calls
out. “Can we get Sara an order minus the fire sauce?” They exchange comments in
Spanish before Chris refocuses his attention on me. He studies me intently, and
I can tell he’s trying to read whatever emotion is stamped on my face. Good
luck, I think, because I can’t even read what I’m feeling myself.

“How’s your mouth feeling?”

I wet my burning lips and his gaze follows, his expression
darkening, and every nerve ending I own tingles in reply. “Fine,” I comment,
“but no thanks to you. You should have warned me how hot it was.”

“I distinctly remember warning you.”

“You should have tried harder. You knew I was starving.”

“You say that past tense. Are you saying you’re not
anymore?”

“My tongue is raw and may never be the same, but actually,
yes, I’m still starving.”

“Me too,” he says softly. “Ravenous, in fact.”

My throat goes dry. Really dry. More dry than the other ten
or so times he’s caused such a reaction in me. There is a charge in the air,
crackling all around us, to the point I almost think sparks must be evident. I
can feel this man in every part of my body and he has not even touched me. I
don’t remember ever feeling this aware of a man in my life. I don’t want this
to be my imagination but I’m not sure I am confident enough in myself to be
with this man. I thought I was past all my self-doubt, but I’m not sure I am. 

Desperate for a reprieve from whatever this thing between us
is that threatens to consume me, I reach for a distraction. “You should eat
before your food gets cold.” 

“Señora.” Diego appears by my side and takes my plate. “Are
you okay? Our fire is real fire.” He casts Chris a disapproving look. “I
thought Señor would have warned you.”

Chris holds up his hands. “Hey, hey. I did warn her.”

“After I took a bite,” I counter, enjoying my opportunity to
join in with Diego and give him a hard time. In some small way, it takes just a
bit of the edge from my embarrassment. 

“Before you took the bite,” he corrects. 

Diego says something in Spanish that sounds like frustration
directed at Chris, and then looks at me. “He should have told you before you
took a bite. I am sorry, Señora.”

“Don’t worry about me or keep apologizing,” I plead.
“Really. I’m more than fine, or I will be, when you two men stop watching me
like I’m about to go up in flames.”

A waiter appears and sets a new plate in front of me before
taking my old plate from Diego and disappearing with it.

“I had them include two sauces on the side for you to try,”
Diego explains. “The green is mild. The red is medium. Neither will burn your
mouth.”

I give him an appreciative nod. “Gracias, Diego. I should
have tested the sauce before I took a big bite but the food just looked and
smelled so good I couldn’t resist digging in.”

His face colors with the compliment, but it doesn’t stop him
from mercilessly worrying over me a full extra minute before he rushes off. I
am now left under the amused scrutiny of this brilliant, too sexy, artist who
hasn’t eaten a bite because of me.

“Please eat,” I urge him softly. “Your food is even colder
now than before.”

“Try your food first and make sure it’s okay.”

“Oh no,” I scoff. “I’m not going to try it while you watch
me do something else ridiculously clumsy.”

Mischief dances across his features. “I like watching you.
You spark my creative side.”

My stomach flip flops at the reference to the sketch. “You
can’t watch me and eat.”

“I could argue that, but in the interest of getting you to
eat, let’s dig in
together
.” The final word rasps with an underlying
meaning, or maybe, I simply want it to.

“Fine,” I agree. “Together.”

His lips quirk and so do mine. Without breaking eye contact,
we both reach for a taco, and only look away when we each take a bite. This
time spicy, delicious flavors explode in my mouth, and I moan with pleasure.
Either this is great food or I am too hungry to know better.

Chris swallows his mouthful of fire without so much as a
blink and stares at me with a look that I can only call ‘hungry’. “I take it
that’s a sound of satisfaction?”

I find my own fire again but this time it’s in the form of
blood flooding various inappropriate parts of my body considering our public
location. “What can I say?” I manage. “The end of starvation is quite
delicious.” I use the spoon by my plate to taste the green sauce. “And so is
that. I like it.”

He holds out his beer to offer me another swallow, and I am
all but certain he is purposely reminding me of our intimate act of sharing. I
stare at the beer, remembering his mouth, where my mouth had been, before I
force my gaze to his. “No. Thank you.”

He considers me a moment, his expression unreadable, and
then slowly lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a deep swallow. Again, I
watch the powerful muscles in his throat bob, feeling
my muscles,
the
ones
low in my belly, tighten.
What
is this man doing to me?

He lowers the beer and I quickly, guiltily, reach for my
taco and dig in. Chris does the same and I begin thinking about all the
questions I yearn to ask him. When does he paint? Where does he paint? What’s
his inspiration? His favorite brush? Questions I know he has heard a million
times and probably doesn’t want to answer so I hold back.

“This is the perfect corner for watching people,” he
comments.

I follow his lead, searching beyond the glass to the
activity on the street, thinking about how black and white I’ve let life
become, when I want to live it in color. We fall into a surprisingly
comfortable silence, both of us watching the people scurry by on the street. A
man and woman arm and arm. A woman struggling to get a little boy to put his
coat on. Another woman who pulls her coat close to her and seems to be crying.

Chris turns a thoughtful inspection on me. “Everyone has a
story. What’s yours, Sara McMillan?”

The question takes me off guard, and I fight the answer that
comes insistently to my mind.
I have no story, not one I wish to claim.
“I’m just a simple girl living out a summer dream of being around the art that
I love.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know about you.”

“I have not one single artistic bone in my body, so I have
to live vicariously through you.”

“Let me paint you and you can.”

I scrape my teeth fretfully over my bottom lip. “I don’t
know.”

“What’s not to know?”

“It’s intimidating to be painted by someone like you, Chris.
Surely, you have to know that.”

“I’m just a man with a paintbrush, Sara. Nothing more.”

“You are not just a man with a paintbrush.” And my gaze
lowers, caressing a three-inch scar along his jawline I haven’t noticed until
now, and I wonder how it came to be. I wonder who the man beneath the art
really is. My eyes find his, search the green depths of the stare that has
already seduced me ten times over. “What’s
your
story, Chris?”

“My story is on the canvas, where I’d like you to be.”

Why is he so insistent? “Can I…think about it?”

“As long as I can continue to try and talk you into it while
you do.”

I take the opportunity to ask a question I’ve been burning
to know the answer to. “How long are you in town?”

“Until it doesn’t feel right anymore.”

“So you don’t have set times of the year you’re here and set
times you’re in Paris?”

“I go wherever I feel right at the time with one exception.
Every October I’m in Paris to participate in the annual celebrity charity event
at the Louvre Museum.”

“Where the Mona Lisa is on display.” There is a wistful
quality to my voice I don’t even try to hide. I would die to see the Mona Lisa.