If I Were You (17 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Shutting myself inside the bathroom, I lean against the door
and let out a breath, replaying Chris’s whispered warning.
It’s never a good
idea to keep a starving man waiting, Sara.
Another one of his warnings
lurks in the depths of the sensual promise of some kind of erotic punishment if
I don’t hurry up and…well, I don’t know what, but I’m pretty sure I want to
keep him waiting and find out. My lips tilt up. He really is doing a poor job
of scaring me away.
Mark’s big on punishment.
Unbidden, and with a sharp
twist in my gut, Amanda’s words come to my mind. For the first time since the
wine had fed my boldness with my new boss, a cold blast of proverbial ice water
douses the sizzling heat Chris has coursing through my veins. While Mark had
agreed money was king and I was secure, I’m worried. Will I be
punished?
Have I ruined my chance at Riptide? My chance at a future when this fling with
Chris ends?

Confusion twists inside me. Chris has ensured I have a nest
egg I can use to create a future in the field I love, but he’s also potentially
jeopardized the opportunity already before me. How do I thank him — and I need
to - while I also ensure he doesn’t cross the same line again? I’m clueless,
truly clueless, and it seems an impossible balancing act, while I’m in Chris’s
apartment, in his robe, and wishing we were both naked again. I have only one
real option. Enjoy having breakfast cooked for me by this sexy brilliant
painter, and look for the right opportunity to bring this all up. I have to
find one because I have to thank him for the commission he’s ensured I will
receive.

I inhale and let it out, facing the truth deep inside me
that I suppress all too frequently. While I’ve accepted life with limited
resources, the chance to have some money, to chase my dream, is exciting. I’m
almost afraid to believe it’s true until I have the money. And Chris…Chris did
this for me. I owe him more than a verbal thank you, and I can think of all
kinds of ways I’d like to say thank you. If he’ll let me. For someone who comes
off so friendly and warm, the true Chris is cautious and guarded.

Suddenly, I am eager to find my way back to my complicated
artist - well, mine if only for a while — and I shove off of the door and look
at myself in the mirror. Oh good gosh, I look like a creature from ‘Fright
Night’. My hair is a wild mess, and my makeup is non-existent except for
mascara smudged under my eyes. Great. I’m with the hottest man I’ve ever known
and raccoons have crawled through my hair and settled under my eyes. And I’ve
spent so much time thinking, Chris is going to come looking for me.

Digging through my purse, I search for my brush, and freeze
at the sight of one of Rebecca’s journals. I swallow hard as I remember the
exact entry inside that I’d awakened dreaming about this morning. No. More like
reliving. I swallow hard at how vividly I’d conjured another woman’s words into
fantasy while Chris stood nearby, perhaps overhearing my sighs, moans, and who
knew what else.

With a deep breath, I snatch the journal and set it on the
counter, staring at it, barely containing the urge to read the entry in
question. Every time I re-read a page, the content becomes more meaningful, and
pieces of the Rebecca puzzle fall into place. I ignore the idea, snatching my
brush.

Quickly, I run it through my hair, and consider applying
makeup before settling for rinsing my face and applying some moisturizer. Make
up would look like I’m trying too hard. I think of the kiss I’d craved from
Chris and been denied and the urge to brush my teeth is intense. Out of
desperation, I decide to use my finger and water on my teeth. Surprise,
surprise. It’s a wasted effort. I have no toothpaste. I grab some tissue and
scrub my teeth before rinsing again. 

Without much more ado, I give up, and exit the bathroom.
Stopping by the coffee table, I drop my purse and grab the plates and the drink
cups we’d left there. Loaded up, I head toward the kitchen that thus far is
producing no promising scent of cooking food.

I pass the archway between the living room and the kitchen
and don’t see Chris, but there is a massive rectangular island counter of grey
and black marble with gorgeous grey wooden shelves above and below it. I follow
the sound of movement toward a corner to the right, which appears to be a part
of an ‘L’ shaped room, but not without being distracted by the hollowed oval
eating nook surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and more of the breathtaking
view of the city. I love this kitchen. I love this entire apartment so far. 

I turn into the bottom of the “L” and find a rectangular
room with a counter and a stainless-steel sink on one side. Opposite is another
counter with a stove, fridge, and the sexy owner of the apartment, who is busy
gathering salt, pepper, plates, and various other items he needs, depositing
them in a corner by the stove.

“This kitchen is a chef’s dream,” I declare, disposing of
the dishes in the sink opposite him.

“It comes with the apartment so don’t start thinking I’m a
master chef.” He opens the fancy fridge with double doors and sets eggs and
cheese on the counter. “There’s a reason why I know all of the local restaurant
crowd.”

I move to the side of the counter on the opposite side of
the stove from where he is working to watch him crack several eggs into a bowl.
My gaze is drawn to his hands, and I cannot help but think of how expertly he’d
touched my body, how expertly he handles a paint brush. How expertly he’d known
how to keep me on the edge and then take me over.

He glances at me, and I feel as if he’s reading my thoughts.
Part of me burns to boldly embrace what he’s making me feel, but the old me —
the real me? - rushes to cover up what I am thinking for no apparent reason. “I
know how to shop in the frozen food section of my grocery store and that’s
about it. My mom was…we…didn’t cook.”

He whisks eggs in a bowl and adds milk, salt, and pepper.
“Was your mom too busy to cook or she didn’t like to cook?”

How did I let this conversation start? “My father didn’t
like her cooking so she didn’t cook.” 

He rests a hand on the counter. “He cooked?”

“Ah no. My father doesn’t do domestic tasks.”

He fires up the burner and pours a little oil in the pan.
“So who cooked? You or a sibling?”

“I’m an only child and I don’t cook.” He glances at me, a
curious expression on his face, and I know why. I’m making a simple question
complicated because I always make things regarding my father complicated. “We
had a private chef.” The surprised look on his face makes me regret I’ve gone
there and I motion to the coffee pot sitting in front of me. “I’m falling down
on my job.”

He hesitates a moment, and I think he wants to push me for
more information, but thankfully he seems to change his mind. He dumps the
toppings on the eggs into the pan and agrees, “That was the deal. I cook. You
brew.”

“Aye, Captain,” I say with a mock salute, and I reach for
the canister, noting the glowing green time at the base of the fancy silver and
black pot. It reads the early hour of seven-thirty. Much too early for the
knots in my stomach the family drama confessions I don’t intend to make to
form.

I set the lid aside and draw in the scent of the coffee and
think of Ava for a moment. She’d smelled like coffee when I’d hugged her at the
gallery. Or, I was drunk and my nose was in overload like my big mouth that
blurted out ‘cock-fight’. “It smells like…Cup O’ Cafe.”

“Not even close,” Chris says, joining me, his shoulder
brushing mine, and I am blown away by the blast of awareness it creates, and
thankful for how quickly it untwines the knot in my stomach. Our skin isn’t
touching, and still he does this to me.

He inhales the beans and then holds the canister to my nose
for me to do the same. “That’s the scent of a French blend by Malongo in Paris.
I bring it with me when I come to the States. I love the stuff.”

“I can’t wait to try it,” I say and mean it. He loves the
coffee, the pizza, and Tom Hanks.
I
love that he is passionate about so
many things. About me? At least for now? I’ll take it, I decide. His passion is
contagious.

“Four scoops for a pot,” he informs me. 

I nod and get to work, two frying pans sizzling beside me.
I’m pouring the water into the pot when I am struck by how utterly unexpected
and comfortable this domestic experience with Chris is. His earlier confessions
about never bringing a woman home lends to an assumption, he too, is on
unfamiliar territory.
He never brings a woman home?
Surely he means
rarely. Doesn’t he?

I glance at the perfectly formed omelets not yet filled and
folded. “Looking pretty darn master chef to me.”

He glances at me; his eyes alight with good humor. “Now
you’re giving me performance pressure.”

I snort. “You and performance pressure don’t compute.”

His lips quirk but there’s no denial to follow. He’s
confident. Whatever is beneath his skin, whatever the damage, it’s not made him
insecure. 

He holds up some veggies before dumping them into the
omelet. “Onions and peppers?”

“Why not? I’m already without a toothbrush. I’m lethal.”

He laughs, a deep rumble of manly hotness that does funny
things to my chest. I am hungry for him, not the omelet. “Call the front desk
if you want,” he suggests. “They pretty much operate like a hotel. You want it.
They get it.”

“Oh.” I am surprised but pleased. “How do I call them?”

He motions to his left. . “The phone on the wall behind the
fridge goes direct to the front desk.”

Elated with idea of a toothbrush, I move to the phone and
lean on another small counter, intending to pick up the receiver, but I
hesitate. “Who should I tell them I am?”

Abandoning the food, Chris steps in front of me and his big,
wonderful body is framing mine, his hips intimately pressed to my hips. I am
instantly aroused but then I’m fairly certain I’ll stay that way with this man.

“Who do you want to tell them you are?” There is no mistaken
the challenge beneath his words. 

Oh hell, he’s having another mood swing, and we’re walking
on the dark side again. I’m going to get whiplash at this rate. 

My fingers curl on the hard, warm wall of his chest. He’s
testing me and I’m not playing his game. One thing I’ve learned since leaving
behind my father, and yes — Michael – is that I am me. I can be no one else,
nor do I plan to try for Chris, no matter how hot the man is. 

“I don’t want to tell them anything,” I say. “It’s none of
their business.”

He studies me, his expression unreadable, but I have a sense
of being in the eye of a hurricane. My read on his reaction to my reply is a
big zero.

“When I said I don’t bring women here, Sara, I meant ever.
As in no one.”

This is another out-of-the-blue remark; I assume it relates
to the call downstairs in some random way yet to be explained. These are some
choppy waters I’m wading in and I’m wondering if I need to swim to shore, as in
the one called ‘my own apartment’.

“Yes,” I reply. “You’ve said that and if you keep telling me
that I’m going to decide it’s your way of telling me to leave.”

“I’m telling you because I want you to understand how much I
want you here.”

“Oh.” He wants me here. On some level I know this, but
having him say it surprises me and pleases me far too much for my own good. 

“I want you to want to be here,” he adds.

Surprised yet again, I sense rather than hear a hint of
vulnerability in his voice. I tilt my head and study him. Yes. He’s uncertain
and I get the idea that isn’t something he’s used to feeling.

“I do,” I whisper. “I want to be here.”

“Good.” He strokes two fingers down my cheek, and slides my
hair behind my ear, sending chills down my neck and spine. I am overwhelmed and
my body quakes. I have never in my life responded like this to a man and I’m
trying to understand what it is about him that speaks so deeply to me. I’ve
known good-looking men. I’ve known talented, gifted, and powerful men. But none
like this one. None so complicated, none so compelling beyond reason.

“You aren’t going to like all that I am, Sara,” he murmurs
darkly.

“Another warning?” I admonish him. “You’re above quota, at
which point warnings become ineffective.”

“Not a warning. I’m done warning you or you wouldn’t be
here.”

“You’ve issued any number of warnings since we arrived last
night.”

“Yes,” he concedes. “I suppose I have. So I might as well
give you one more.”

“The last one?”

“Not likely.”

“The last one today?”

He ignores my hopeful question. “Nothing has changed, Sara.
I’m still not the guy who’ll give you a white picket fence.”

“Thank goodness.”

“I’m as far from white picket fences as you can get. Sooner
more likely than later, you aren’t going to like everything you find out about
me.”