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

summer job at the gallery.”
    His light blond brow arches. “Are you now?”
    “Yes.” I know it is the truth as I say the word. I know I’ve
already decided I am going to take the job. “I’m filling in for Rebecca until
her return.” I search his face for a reaction, but I see none. He is
unreadable--or am I just too affected by his nearness to see one?
    His hands are still on the lapels and he doesn’t move for a
long moment. I don’t want him to move. I want him to...I don’t know...but then
again, yes I do. I want him to kiss me. It’s a silly, fantastical moment, no
doubt brought on by the journals, that has me blushing. I cut my gaze, feeling
as if the heat in his will scorch me inside out. I motion to my car, shocked to
realize it’s only one parking meter down. “That’s me.”
    Slowly, his hands loosen on my--or rather his--jacket. I
immediately walk to my car, willing myself not to dump my purse again. I click
the locks open and I stop by the curb before opening my door. I turn to find
him close, so very wonderfully close. And that scent of his is driving me wild,
pooling heat low in my belly.
    “Thanks for the walk and the jacket.” I shrug out of it.
    He reaches for the jacket and takes it, and I hope he will
touch me, and fear that he will, at the same moment. I am so out of control and
confused.
    His eyes burn hot like green fire before he softly says,
“It’s been my pleasure... Sara .” And then he just turns and starts
walking, without another word.
     
    ***
     
    Hours later, I sit on my bed in a pair of boxers and a tank,
legs crossed, with that box and a screwdriver in front of me. I have no idea
why the idea of taking the job at the gallery makes opening it seem imperative,
but it does, and it is. Rubies trim the lid and an etched, abstract design is
in the center. The latch holding it closed looks old and easy to break, and
just as beautifully designed as the rest of the box.
    “How very artsy,” I murmur, tracing the design with my
fingers. The idea of destroying the box doesn’t sit well with me, nor does
invading Rebecca’s privacy. So why, why, why do I know I am going to
open this box? Why do I have to know what is inside? “Curiosity killed the cat,
Sara.”
    It doesn’t seem to matter. Of their own will, my hands go to
work. I slide the flat end of the screwdriver between the lips of the lid and
base and apply pressure. The latch pops easily.
    My adrenaline surges and my heart thunders in my chest. I
have no idea why I am hanging on a thread, why I feel like this box is so
important, why I feel any of this is important. Slowly, I lift the lid, and
luxurious red velvet is the first thing I see. I suck in a breath at what is
cradled by that velvet and my heart thunders all over again.
     
     

 

    Chapter Five
     

     
    I blink at the unexpected contents of the box. A paintbrush
and a picture that has been torn into two pieces, so that only a woman is left.
This is Rebecca . I don’t know why it didn’t seem odd to me that I hadn’t
seen any pictures of her in the many personal effects I studied in the storage
unit. There hadn’t been a picture of her on the gallery website either. Perhaps
I didn’t notice these things before now because I didn’t want to know what she
looked like.
    Reaching for the photo, I hold it between my fingers and
study it, study her . She is beautiful and petite with long, sandy brown
hair, and a brilliant smile that tells me that at the moment this picture was
taken, she was immensely happy. Her image mesmerizes me and I wonder why she
tore the picture. I wonder who was in it with her and who took the photo. Even
more so, I wonder why she kept the picture after she tore it up.
    My brow furrows as my attention shifts to the paint brush.
It’s such an odd thing to save, but then, so is half of a picture. I pick up
the brush and run my fingers over the bristles that have a hint of a yellow
paint at the tips. The wood bears no marks or logo.