If I Were You by Lisa Renée Jones Read Free Book Online

you
tell me who you are?” I blurt, not liking the idea of being a joke. 
    His lips quirk. “Because then you would have told me you
loved my work even if you hated it.”
    My brows dip. I’m not sure how I feel about that. “That’s
sneaky.”
    “It spared you the awkwardness of pretending to like my
work.”
    “There wouldn’t have been any awkwardness. I like your
work.”
    “And I like that you like my work,” he approves, a warm glow
in his eyes. “So...shall I walk you to your car?”
    My escape has been further waylaid, but I’m not sure that is
a bad thing anymore. “Okay,” I squeak, appalled at my lack of voice. There is a
reason I don’t date much. I’m horrible at it. I get shy and I pick the wrong
men, who use both of those very things against me. Dominant, controlling men,
who seem to turn me on in the bedroom, and off in real life. It’s genetic. I’m
quite certain that had I a sister, she would have been just as foolish about
men as myself and as my mother had been. And while Chris, at first impression,
doesn’t strike me as arrogant or controlling, his failure to tell me who he was
earlier in the evening was in fact a way of controlling my reaction. Not that I
think he is interested in me. I’m over-analyzing and I know it. Chris Merit
could have his choice of women, and in fact, probably has. He doesn’t need to
add little ol’ me to the list.
    “You know my name,” he says, pulling me from my reverie. “It’s
only fair I know yours.”
    “Sara. Sara McMillan.”
    “Nice to meet you, Sara.”
    “I should be the one saying that to you,” I say. ”I wasn’t
joking when I said I love your art. I studied your work in college.
    “Now you’re making me feel old.”
    “Hardly,” I say. “You started painting when you were a
teen.”
    He cast me a sideways look. “You weren’t joking when you
said you studied my work.”
    “Art major.”
    “And what do you do now?”
    I feel a little punch to my gut. “School teacher.”
    “Art?”
    “No,” I say. “High school English.”
    “So why study art?”
    “Because I love art.”
    “Yet you’re an English teacher?”
    “What’s wrong with being an English teacher?” I ask, unable
to curb the defensiveness in my tone.
    He stops walking and turns to me. “Nothing is wrong with it
at all, except that I don’t think that’s what you want to do.”
    “You don’t know me enough to say that. You don’t know me at
all.”
    “I know the excitement I saw in your eyes when you were in
the gallery.”
    “I don’t deny that.” A gust of wind rushes over us and
goosebumps lift on my skin, I don’t want to be scrutinized. This man sees too
much. “We should walk.”
    He shrugs out of his jacket and before I know what’s
happening, it’s wrapped around my shoulders and that earthy raw scent of his is
surrounding me. I’m wearing Chris Merit’s coat and I am dumbstruck all over
again. His hands are on the lapels and he is staring down at me. My gaze
catches on the brilliant colorful tattoo that covers every inch of his right
arm. I’ve never been with a man with tattoos, and never thought I liked them,
but I find myself wondering where else he might have them.
    “I saw you talking to Mark,” he says. “Did you buy something
tonight?”
    “I wish,” I say with a snort, and my embarrassment at the
unladylike sound that comes too naturally only drives home reality to me. We
are from two different worlds, this man and I. His is one of dreams fulfilled
and mine is one of impossible dreams. “I doubt I could afford one of your
brushes, let alone a completed piece.”
    His eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t walk away from something
that intrigues you.” His voice is a soft rasp of sandpaper that still manages
to be velvet on my nerve endings.
    Suddenly, I’m not sure we are talking about art and my
throat is dry. I swallow hard and though I hadn’t decided I was really going
through with it, I blurt, “I’m taking a