The familiar voice tingles along my nerve endings and blood rushes to my cheeks. No. Please. Do not let this be happening. He squats in front of me, and my gaze locks on his powerful thighs where his hands rest. Strong, artistic hands that are holding napkins for my spill. Slowly, my gaze lifts to find a set of alluringly green eyes belonging to Chris Merit staring into mine. Once again, this famous, gorgeous man is squatting on the ground in an effort to help me recover from a mishap.
“You have the most amazing knack for showing up to witness my acts of clumsiness,” I accuse.
His lips curve and his green eyes twinkle with specks of yellow. No. More like light flecks of gold shimmer. “I prefer to think of it as a knack for coming to your rescue,” he declares huskily and winks, before he proceeds to wipe up my mess. Oh good God. I’ve made Chris Merit my janitor. And, he winked at me. I can barely breathe.
He stands up and heads to the trash, moving with a confident male grace that is momentarily spellbinding. I’m frozen in place. I can only stare at him in wonder. Which, I realize, snapping to my senses, is not a good thing when I am in a skirt and squatting on the ground.
I pop to my feet and then have to lift my foot and swipe a remaining wet spot off my shoe. I’ve just dropped the used napkins inside the empty cup when he returns and stands by my table. Close to me. Really close. A spicy, wonderful scent teases my nostrils, and stirs longing inside me. I love how this man smells and I have a new found liking for faded jeans and biker boots I doubt I will ever lose. And try as I might, I cannot help but remember him holding the leather jacket he’s wearing today around me the other night.
“Ah, thanks,” I manage to say, sounding as frazzled as I feel. “I’m embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” His eyes are warm, and remind me of summer green grass, his voice rich with sincerity. “I think you’re adorable.”
“Adorable,” I repeat, my tone deadpan. “Not what a girl wants to be.” It’s what a man calls a kid sister, or the girl he doesn’t want to date. Not that I thought he wanted to date me. I don’t know what I thought, what I think now.
“Then what does a girl want to be?” There is a teasing tone to his words that matches his expression.
Beautiful. Sexy. I want to be either or both to this man, but I wouldn’t dare to say such things so I settle on, “Not clumsy.”
“You’re interesting.”
“Interesting?” I query. What is it with him and Mr. Compton and the whole interesting thing? It has to be an artsy thing I’m out of touch with. “I…well. I guess that’s better than clumsy.” I’m not sure it’s better than adorable. I just don’t know.
“You still don’t like that choice of word.”
“It’s…fine.”
“You inspired me to draw you.”
“The adorably interesting and clumsy inspiration,” I say, feeling self-conscious, but then quickly feel bad about the remark. I soften my voice and add, “But thank you. I’m flattered you drew me and I was absolutely breathless when I opened the envelope.” I can’t contain my silly smile. “Now I own a Chris Merit original.” My brows dip. “Unless you want it back?”
He laughs. “Of course, I don’t want it back.” He hesitates. “You like it?”
Is there a hint of uncertainty in his voice, deep in those gorgeous eyes? Surely not. He’s made millions off of his work. He can’t have an uncertain bone in his spectacular body.
I press my hand to my racing heart and pat it. “I love it.” Unfortunately, my heart isn’t the only thing in high gear. My stomach growls and not softly. In fact, it’s loud. Very loud. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel my cheeks, once again, flush red.
A soft, sexy laugh slides from his lips. “Hungry?”
I dare to look at him and feign ignorance. “What gives you that idea?”
“Just a guess,” he teases. “But since I’m starving, I was hoping you might be, too.”
He gives me a hopeful smile that I feel clear to my toes. He’s smiling at me, but not laughing at me. I like this about him, the way he makes me ultra-aware of him, but somehow comfortable, too.
My stomach growls again and I laugh. “Oh my gosh, I do believe I am hungry.” I shake my head. “You have a way of finding all my weaknesses.”
“If food’s a weakness then I have it, too. Do you like Mexican? Diego Maria’s is a few blocks down the road. It’s a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place but it’s good eating. I hang out on their patio and sketch some afternoons.”
“Do they serve wine?” I ask.
“They’re more of a beer and tequila kind of joint.”
“Good, because I don’t even want to see wine on a menu for the next hour.”
“I take it Mark is still trying to force the wine thing down your throat?”
“If you mean, Mr. Compton, then yes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Mr. Compton, my ass.” He lifts his chin at me. “You in for Diego Maria’s?”
I nod and smile and he looks pleased, even relieved? No. That’s silly. I shake off the ridiculous notion and try not to grin like a school girl. I’m going to lunch with Chris Merit and I’ll have the chance to talk to him about his work. He heads to the table he’d been sitting at yesterday and hikes a backpack he’s yet to unpack to his shoulder. Relief washes over me. I did not want to find out he’d been watching me again and I hadn’t been self-aware enough to know.
I quickly pack my red leather bag and am about to slide it to my shoulder when he reaches for it. “I’ll carry it for you.”
My lips twitch. “I really think you should let me carry it. I fear the cute girly bag will blow your cool artist in leather image. Besides, it’s light. I’m good, but thank you.”
With obvious reluctance he drops his hand. “If you change your mind, I’ll happily risk my cool artist in leather image that I didn’t know I had.”
A smile slides easily to my lips. “And I’ll have my phone camera ready if I do.”
He chuckles and the sound of that rough, masculine laughter does funny things to my chest, and well, pretty much my entire body.
We step outside and the cool wind off the ocean screams a welcome and has me grateful my blouse is long-sleeved. I suppress a shiver for fear Chris will offer me his coat again, though the idea isn’t an unpleasant one. I simply don’t understand the dynamic between us and I’m not sure I can be clear-headed with anything that has been on this man’s body touching mine.
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.
<
br /> “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 y
ou 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.
If I Were You-nook Page 9