If I Were You
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.
“Yes. Have you ever seen it?”
“I’ve never been out of the States, let alone a famous Paris museum. Actually, aside from my childhood home in Nevada, this is it for me.”
“That’s unacceptable. Life is too short and the world is too large and too full of the art you love, not to see everything you can.”
“Well, the nice thing about the art I love is its ability to allow the viewer to experience a piece of the world, or a story that can never be theirs, through someone else’s eyes. I’ve certainly seen Paris through yours.” I briefly think of the mural behind Mark’s desk, but shove aside the thought. I don’t want to change the tone of the light conversation.
“Sounds like you’re convincing yourself you don’t need to travel when you want to travel.”
Ouch. I almost flinch. Talk about hitting a nerve. First, about teaching instead of working in the art world, and now this. “Some of us are not rich and famous, and able to soar around the world at will.”
“Ouch,” he says, repeating the word I’d only dared in my mind. “That hurt.”
“Good, because pointing out that you can see the world and I cannot, was insensitive, Mr. Rich and Famous Artist.”
He wiggles a brow. “Who looks cool in leather.”
“And that helps your case right now, how?”
“I can offer to show you around Paris.”
I blink. Did he just suggest I go to Paris to see him? No. No. I’m reading too much into it. “Paris is a big order. I’ve decided to start my travel goals with New York City in the number one spot.”
“For any specific reason?”
“Opportunity. Mark seems to think I’m Riptide material. That’s why he’s forcing me to learn wine, opera, and classical music.”
His expression doesn’t change but the charge in the air does, snapping tight with tension. “Mark told you that he’s going to get you a job at Riptide?”
“Well, I guess he more alluded to it.”
“Alluded how?”
“The general gist was that he sees bigger things for me than a summer on the gallery floor, but to achieve those things I need to be ready to interact with the type of clientele Riptide events attract.” I frown to realize his finger is tapping on the table. “What? What is it?” My cell rings with horrible timing and without taking my eyes off of Chris, I dig it from my purse. I glance down and cringe at the sight of Mark’s number before I look at Chris again. “It’s…” My voice trails off. I don’t think Mark’s name will go over well right now. “I have to take it.” I punch the ‘answer’ button and immediately hear Mark’s voice.
“Have you quit your job without notice, Ms. McMillan?”
I cut my eyes to my plate, trying to hide my stress over the agitation crackling in my boss’s question from showing to Chris, and willing my heart to stop racing. “I’m grabbing a late lunch. It was after two and I hadn’t eaten all day.”
“It’s after three.”
I bite my lips. Crap. How did I let time get away from me? “I’m headed back now.”
“Now would be good, Ms. McMillan. Amanda needs to review details with you for Friday night’s event. Call me when you get to the gallery.”
“Yes. Of course, I-“ The line goes dead. I glance up at Chris.