If I Were You-nook

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I like that,” I say, smiling even bigger now. “I think you should be in sales. You could make that work for you.”

  He snorts. “And deal with all the arrogant rich people that come in this place? No thanks.” He softens his voice. “Mark is all I can handle.”

  Laughter bubbles from my lips. “You’ll have to share your secrets to that little trick.”

  “I’ll buy you coffee sometime soon and tell you all his secrets.”

  “I’ll take you up on that.”

  He waves and departs, pulling the door shut behind him, and I return to my testing. An hour later, the material has turned daunting and my mood has shifted from energized to frazzled. I can see why I might be tested on random collectible items, if I am to work with Riptide, but wine, opera, and classical music? I know absolutely nothing about these non-art subjects and I decide now might be a good time to find out how lunch works around this place.

  I head to the lobby and find Amanda behind her desk with a tall, pretty young African American girl about her age standing with her. “Hello Sara,” this newcomer greets. “I’m Lynn, and I’m interning here this summer.”

  Lynn is dressed in a cream colored suit, and her hair and makeup is impeccable, but her personality is casual and warm. I chat with her, and Tesse, also an intern, and girl who been at the hostess stand the night of the gallery event I’d attended, joins us. I’m pleased that I like everyone I’ve met. I feel good with these people. Unfortunately, Mary, a pretty, and rather robust blonde salesperson closer to my age, is so busy she can only wave and give me a quick greeting.

  “So, Amanda,” I say when I am finally alone with her again. “Is it common to be given testing on wines and music to work here?”

  She nods. “We have so many events that Mark uses the testing to determine where we can best service the clientele. In fact, we have a wine testing Wednesday night.”

  My stomach knots. Could wine really be my undoing?

  “Excuse me,” a woman in dark-rimmed glasses says, appearing at the desk. “Can someone help me with a Chris Merit piece, please?”

  An image of Chris standing in front of me, holding his jacket around me, makes my belly do a flutter. “I would be happy to help you,” I offer, suddenly very eager to visit his display again.

  Amanda looks shocked, and I assume that means I’m not allowed to be on the floor yet. I pretend not to notice and head to the sales floor.

  An hour later, the woman has left with a six-figure purchase that has me glowing with excitement, and I am glowing with the rush of having made a sale.

  Ralph winks at me as I pass his office, which I’ve now discovered is next to mine, ah, Rebecca’s. My stomach growls and I realize I haven’t eaten anything and a glance at the ridiculously expensive, absolutely fabulous antique clock in the hallway says it’s two o’clock. Jeez, how did that happen?

  I turn back to the reception area to ask Amanda if I can run out, and find myself toe-to-toe with Mark. He is taller than I remembered and I crane my neck to meet his stare. “Ms. McMillan,” he says tightly, and I am immediately aware of his displeasure. Why is he displeased? I just brought in six figures to the gallery.

  “Mr. Compton,” I say.

  “Why have you not completed your testing?”

  “I was, ah, helping customers.”

  “Did I tell you to help customers?”

  I wet my lips nervously, and his gaze flicks over my mouth. It’s unnerving. He’s unnerving me again. “I just thought-”

  “Don’t think, Ms. McMillan,” he says tightly. “Do as I say.”

  Old, familiar feelings spiral down my spine, feelings of inadequacy, of needing to please—a moth to flame that is sure to burn me alive—surface. I reject them and straighten. “I took every test I’m capable of taking. I don’t know wine or opera or classical music. I’m sure you’ll find the job-related ones to be exemplary.”

  “All the test are job related,” he corrects, “if you wish to operate at a higher level, which I understood you to say, you did. Did I get that wrong, Ms. McMillan?”

  There is a crispness to my name that was not there before, and I am remotely aware that I am in front of an open office that is Ralph’s, that he can hear and see everything.

  “No,” I reply softly, firmly. “You are not wrong, Mr. Compton,” and I am shocked to realize I have emphasized his name as he did mine. There is a rebel inside me that refuses to sink into my old habits, and I am suddenly proud of myself. “But I cannot test on what I do not know.”

  “Testing allows me to decide where to start teaching you,” he says in rebuttal.

  “At the beginning,” I reply. “Since the only thing I know about wine, for instance, is what color it is when it’s in my glass.”

  He arches a light blond brow. “Really? That much?”

  “That much,” I confirm.

  He considers me a moment. He’s good at doing that, considering me, putting me on edge, no doubt on purpose. “Do you have a laptop?” he asks finally.

  I frown, not sure where this is going. “Yes.”

  “Do you have it with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know how to use it?”

  I am so not pleased with the snarky question. I lower my voice, unable to stop my reply. “That’s a little like asking a rich, arrogant, gallery owner, if he knows he’s a rich, arrogant, gallery owner.”

  His eyes light up with amusement. “I am rich and arrogant, Ms. McMillan. I like being rich and arrogant. I thought you too, wanted to be rich yourself. Or was I mistaken?”

  My throat goes dry. Rich? Is he joking? “I don’t recall any such opportunity.”

  “And you won’t until you learn what I need you to learn. Since I can’t trust you to stay off the floor, take your laptop to the coffee shop next door. Amanda will give you a study manual so you can remedy your…deficiencies.”

  I narrow my gaze at him, aware he is trying to bait me. I’m not going to bite. I give a nod. “Of course, Mr. Compton. I’ll get right on that.”

  His lips twitch. “Check in before you leave for the night. I’ll want to quiz you.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later I walk into Cup’ A Cafe next door to the gallery, and the rich scent of brewing coffee, and something distinctly chocolate, touches my nostrils. If the coffee tastes as good as this place smells, I am going to love it here. Not to mention the decor, all warm browns and leather, with a hardwood floor, is soothing in a way that contrasts the caffeinated high people come here for. I can use soothing right now.

  I gaze around me and see any number of cute round wooden tables available, and I can tell the seating wraps around to the other side of the encased pastry display. I like to watch people so I choose a seat in the middle of the cafe so I can see what’s going on around me. Not that I should be watching people. It seems I have studying to do. How very ironic for the school teacher, I think with a tiny snort, that has me reprimanding myself for poor manners I can no longer afford.

  It’s not long before the college age boy behind the counter rings up my White Chocolate Mocha, and since it’s two o’clock and I haven’t eaten, I justify a chocolate muffin the size of Texas, and lamely promise to eat low fat popcorn —my ‘go to’ diet solution—for dinner. Finally, I’m sitting at my table, waiting for my coffee to be made and nibbling on my chocolate delight. Regretfully, I break out my netbook, wishing it was the other, not to be named, brand computer, but feeling hopeful I can afford one soon.

  Once I’ve powered up I set a wine taster’s guidebook on my table. Flipping through the book, I find it is written with an assumption I know something about wine. I find Amazon on my search bar and type in ‘Wine for Dummies’ and get several choices. By the time I’ve picked one and I’m ready to read, my coffee has arrived and I sip the piping hot sweet concoction. It’s heavenly and I mentally roll back my sleeves and start reading.

  I have no idea how long I have been reading, but I’m halfway throug
h the ‘dummies’ book, I still feel like a dummy, when I hear, “You must be Sara.”

  I look up to find a beautiful Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties with big striking brown eyes. She is wearing an apron, so I assume, she works here.

  “Yes,” I respond. “I’m Sara.”

  “I’m Ava, the owner here.” She sets a cup in front of me. “White Mocha. My guy Corey at the register told me what you ordered. Mark called over here and said to get you whatever you’ve been having on the house as a reward for perfect scores.” She laughs and rolls her tongue making a sexy sound. “Sounds sexy.”

  I roll my eyes rather than my tongue. “If being tested on everything from art to opera is sexy, please shoot me now.”

  She laughs. “I should have guessed. I know the crew next door well enough to know he’s put them all through the wringer.”

  “How long have you known them?” I ask, thinking of Rebecca.

  “I’ve been open five years and I’ve known Mark that entire time.” She wiggles a brow. “Why? You want gossip?”

  I perk up at that. “You have gossip?”

  “Honey, I always have gossip.” The phone rings and she glances over her shoulder. “Corey’s on break. I’ll be back.”

  She rushes away and a sudden tingling sensation dances along my neckline and draws my attention to the edge of the pastry bar to my left. My lips part in surprise at the incredibly sexy man sitting a few feet away, and not just any incredibly sexy man, but the same man whose been haunting my thoughts almost as much as Rebecca these past twenty-four hours. Chris Merit is here. I can’t believe it. My stomach does a crazy butterfly flutter as my eyes meet his, and I see amusement in his expression. Not only is he here, I know he’s been watching me, and I have no idea how long he’s been here.

  Why didn’t he come over? Why isn’t he coming over now? Should I go to him?

  “I’m back,” Ava declares before I can decide what to do next, but I can barely pull my eyes from Chris. When I finally do, he’s still watching me. I can feel it in every inch of my body. I am so hyper-sensitive to this man I cannot focus on what Ava is saying. There is only Chris.

  Chapter Nine

  The bells on the coffee shop door chime but I barely hear them. I’m still looking at Chris and he’s still looking at me. His eyes are warm and I am warmer. I’ve known plenty of good looking men, but this one affects me beyond good looks, he sets every nerve I own to tingling.

  “He comes here almost every day,” Ava whispers, and my gaze jerks to hers. I glance beyond her and see her employee has returned.

  “You mean Chris Merit?” I ask, hungry for what insights into the artist she might share with me.

  She nods. “There’s something about him, aye?”

  “Aye,” I agree wholeheartedly.

  “It’s the mystery I think. No matter how I try, I can’t draw him into a conversation of any substance. Well, that, and let’s just face it, the man makes denim and leather look as edible as chocolate.”

  The bells ding again and a group enters the building. Ava sighs. “Regretfully I must attend the counter. We’ll have to chat later.”

  I muster a smile, still feeling Chris’s stare, still tingling all over. “I suppose that steals my excuse to put off my homework.”

  “Homework,” she repeats and rolls her eyes. “Mark really is the proverbial principal with a ruler in his hand. I feel sorry for his employees. How about lunch one day this week? We can set it up before you leave.”

  “Yes, great,” I agree without hesitation. Ava seems quite nice and surely she knew Rebecca. Knows, I correct silently. There is no past tense. Rebecca is fine. “I’d like that.”

  My cell phone rings and Ava scurries off to help her customer who has now morphed into several more. I dig my phone from my purse and forget everything but the call when I see Ella’s number. ”Ella?” I answer excitedly.

  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 uncomf
ortable, 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.

  “You do know you live in wine country, right?” he teases. There is a sultry flirtation to his voice that I hope I am not imagining.

  “Neither my apartment, nor the school where I teach sport vineyards in the backyards. I suppose I’m highly uncultured.”

  His mood turns somber. “You’re not uncultured, far from it, but I assume you feeling that way is the whole idea in all of this. Mark looks for a weakness and uses it to disarm people. Not that a lack of knowledge in those areas is a weakness. Not unless you allow it to be.”

  I tilt my head, studying him. “You don’t like Mark, do you?”

  “Liking him is irrelevant. He gets the job done.”

  In other words, he doesn’t like Mark. “Has he tried to find your weakness?”