He was right. He’s dangerous. Or maybe he didn’t say dangerous. I’m not sure why he’s warned me away so much, but I’ll say it for him. He’s dangerous and I’ve never wanted to live on the edge more in my life.
Chapter Twenty
A few minutes later, my toothbrush and toothpaste have been sent to us via a chute in the wall by the fridge that resembles the drive-thru bank machines. I rushed off to brush my teeth before eating, which Chris had found amusing, and returned.
I am now sitting with Chris at his kitchen table, each of us with coffee sweetened with hazelnut creamer, which is apparently not easy to find in Paris and is a favorite of his.
“I’ve never tried hazelnut,” I confess. “I’m kind of a straight vanilla girl.” The silly statement is out before I can pull it back.
Chris’s lips quirk. “Well then, I aspire to break your vanilla habit.” He lifts his chin to my cup. “Try it.”
Oh good grief, he had to go there, but then I invited it. I wonder what he defines as vanilla. Me against that window? Was that vanilla? Not to me, but I’ve been so very vanilla for so very long. And I’m finally allowing myself to crave more from life.
“Or you can tell me what you’re thinking instead,” Chris suggests.
“Oh.” I blink and realize I’m thinking a little too hard and obviously about the ‘vanilla’ comment. “No. I don’t think I’ll share those thoughts.”
He looks intrigued but I ignore him and sip the coffee and the warm, nutty beverage as my reply. “It’s good. Really good.”
Approval etches his face, and his tone is all suggestion and sex. “I knew there was more than vanilla in your future.”
My cheeks heat with the flirty remark.
“And she blushes like the good little school teacher,” he comments. “You are one big contradiction, aren’t you, Sara?”
He’s right, of course. I feel like I’m swimming between two shorelines - one the bland simple life, the other dark and erotic - and I can’t quite reach either. I shrug in reply. “I guess I am.”
“I guess you are.”
There is a sexy awareness between us as we dig into our food and I’m hungrier than I realized because the first bite awakens my stomach and taste buds. “I say you earn Top Chef markings. My omelet is terrific.”
“Omelets are pretty easy to make and hard to screw up.”
“You haven’t tried my omelets,” I assure him and when he laughs I sigh and stare out the window. The city is an early morning canvas painted with a brilliant, clear blue sky, water for miles, and the jagged edges of hills and buildings speckled here and there for a complete and perfect picture. “It’s like being on top of the world here, and untouchable.” I settle an elbow on the table and rest my chin on my hand, adding longingly, “Sure beats my apartment and the view of the parking lot.” I glance at Chris. “Does your studio have this kind of view?”
“Yes. I’ll show you later if you’d like.”
A thrill goes through me at the idea of seeing where he works. “I’d like that very much.”
“The studio view is why I bought the place. Plenty of inspiration for my work since I love this city. It’s home to me and always will be.”
“When did you move to Paris?”
“My father moved us when I was thirteen.”
My brow furrows as I try to recall anything I’ve read about his family outside of his father and remember nothing. “And your mother is-“
“Dead.”
“Oh.” I let my elbow drop and straighten. His one word reply has said far more to me than many entire stories have. “I’m sorry.”
“As I am about yours.” His voice has softened and taken on a somber quality.
I study him, trying to read his impassive expression, and I am so hungry to understand this man, I dare to go where I probably should not. “How old were you when she died?” I hold my breath; waiting on an answer I’m not sure he will give me. He has, after all, confessed an unwillingness to share personal details with the women he…dates? Fucks? I’m not sure. Actually, there is a whole heck of a lot I’m not sure about at this juncture of my life.
“Car accident when I was five.”
He spits out the information without hesitation, almost as if he’s reciting someone else’s story, but I see it for what it is - a coping mechanism. I know that mechanism all too well. You find a place to put things, to deal with them or you crash and burn.
“I was twenty-two when I lost my mother,” I say, offering him no words of sympathy. I’ve heard them myself. I know they don’t help. “She had a massive heart attack the day of my college graduation.”
He stares at me and we share a moment of understanding, of loss, of knowing there is nothing more to say. We both had something sucky happen to us. We both dread the rambling sympathetic purrs of those who discover our losses. We both get it and each other. We just…understand.
Seconds tick by and I think I’ve shared more in these moments with this man I’ve known only days than I have anyone except maybe my mother. We understand each other in a way few can.
It’s Chris who breaks the silence, reaching for his fork and motioning to my plate. “Eat before my masterpiece gets cold.”
I nod and in silent unison, we pick up our forks and begin to eat again in silence, both thoughtful. There are so many questions I could ask but I don’t. Personal questions about his family I know I can’t ask now, if ever. He’s already shared more with me than I expected, as I have with him. Still, with this new revelation about his mother, I want to know this man now more than ever.
“Why painting?” I ask. “Why not a sport or the piano, like your father?”
His jaw tenses, barely perceivable, but I notice, and I wonder why. What nerve have I hit?
“My father dated a rather famous artist who decided I needed an outlet outside the schoolyard brawls I was getting into for my anger.”
“Wait. You were fighting? You don’t seem like a fighter.” Then again, he’d all but flattened Mark, who had seemed untouchable, with nothing more than words.
“I was a teenager. I was in a new place and I didn’t speak the language, and I was an outsider to the other kids. It was fight or get beat up. I don’t like being beat up. The problem was that once I started fighting, I looked for reasons to keep doing it. I was pissed off about being in Paris and wanted to come back here. The result was I got kicked out of school.”
“Ouch. What did your father do?”
“He didn’t even know. The woman he was dating at the time — the artist I mentioned - stepped in and got me back into school. Then she sat me down and told me I had anger issues and had to find an outlet. She shoved a paintbrush in my hand and told me to create something worth looking at.”
“And what did you draw?”
He laughs. “Freddy Krueger from Nightmare On Elm Street. One of my best works to date, I might add. I was trying to be a smart ass.”
I laugh. “You? A smart ass? Never.”
“You think I’m a smart ass?”
“You ordered a beer at a wine tasting.”
“You have to admit Mark’s obvious discomfort was priceless.”
As much as I want to take this opening to talk about the prior night’s events, I’d rather him keep talking about himself. “I’m not feeding this battle between you and Mark. What happened when you revealed your Freddy drawing?”
“She said I still had anger issues but I was also talented as hell and if I didn’t put it to use she’d go Freddy Kruger on me.”
“And so it began,” I say softly. Warmth fills me with this story, and I wonder who the artist was who’d helped him, but I’ve already surmised Chris does everything with specific intent, including avoiding the use of her name.
“And so it began.”
He gives me a keen inspection and I can see his mind working, and my skin prickles in a prelude to whatever probing questions I’ve earned with all of mine.
“So, Sara,” he beings slowly. “Tell me. Just how rich is your father?”
I inhale and shove aside my plate. He’s told me more than I expected him to tell me, more than he claims he tells anyone. I can’t shut him down and I know he isn’t interested in the money, as much as me walking away from it.
I pull my feet to the chair and hug my knees, the big robe a cloak, a shelter of sorts. “He’s the CEO of Neptune Technologies.”
He arches a brow. “As in the cable network?”
“Yes.”
He leans back in his chair to study me. “And you live in a modest apartment on a teacher’s salary?”
“Yes.”
“You hate him that much.”
It’s not a question so I don’t answer. I get up and walk to the coffee pot and come back to the table. I hold the pot up to him. He offers me his cup and I fill it. He glances up at me, his eyes probing. “Thank you.”
I nod and fill my own cup before replacing the pot and sitting down. I pour creamer into my coffee and stir, avoiding Chris’s scrutiny.
“Do you talk to him?” he prods, apparently not worried about pushing me as I was him.
I sip my coffee, in no rush to deliver my reply but finally confess, “Never and I don’t talk about him, Chris.” I add his word choice for emphasis. “Ever.”
He ignores my obvious plea to change the subject. “When was the last time you actually saw or talked to him?”
“I said my goodbyes to them both at the funeral.” I sip my coffee and I wish it were liquid chocolate comfort, not ground brewed beans. Chris is still staring at me when I set it down.
He looks puzzled. “She died of a heart attack, right?”
I nod.
“So why do I get the feeling you blame your father for her death?”
My lips thin. ”I blame him for her miserable life.”
Understanding washes over him. “You didn’t take a dime. You just walked away.”
“Yes.” A lump forms in my throat. “Which brings me to last night. I don’t know what is up with you and Mark, but-”
“It’s not a cock-fight,” he teases and I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood.
I cringe at the memory I cannot escape. “I still can’t believe I said that.”
“We aren’t enemies,” he adds, answering what I have not asked but planned to. “I just know him and I know how he works. I wasn’t — I won’t - let him manipulate you.”
“I’m an employee trying to earn my way into a permanent job, and one that pays more than an intern on the floor.”
“And your desperateness to make that happen showed. He can’t manipulate you. If he thinks you have something to offer, he’ll give you the opportunity at Riptide, minus the head games he was working on you.”
“My father is the king of users and I handle him just fine. I can handle Mark, Chris.”
“You ended up with nothing from your father, Sara. You didn’t handle him just fine. Any father worth a grain of salt takes care of his f**king daughter, no matter how hard-headed she might be about letting him. You deserve to be taken care of.”
Anger surges in me and I stand up. “You have no right-”
He’s on his feet towering over me. “What if I want to have a right?”
“You aren’t a relationship kind of guy, Chris and that’s why I’m here. I’m not a relationship kind of girl. No white picket fences, remember? We both agreed on that. You all but insisted on it. Therefore, you get to f**k me but you don’t get to f**k with my life. This is my opportunity to prove I can have my dream just like you have yours. I appreciate the commission. I do. More than you know but it changes nothing. I still need more than money or I’d be my father’s whipping dog right now, lapping up his money.” My heart is about to explode from my chest. “I need to get dressed and go home.” I start to walk away.
“Already running away? Can I scare you that easily?”
I stop dead in my tracks and my chest burns. “I’m not running,” I hiss, facing off with him.
“You look like you’re running to me. The first time I push a button you don’t like you bolt.”
“A few orgasms does not give you control of my life.”
“You know, sweetheart, I know I’m f**ked up. But if you think the guy trying to protect you instead of walk all over you is the one trying to run your life, you’re just as f**ked up as I am. Walking away from your father is not managing him. It’s running.”
He’s hit every nerve I own like a lightning rod. “But you want me to walk away from the gallery and Mark and you don’t call that running?”
His expression clouds and he reaches for me, pulls me hard against his body, his hand snaking into my hair. “Because Mark wants to f**k you, Sara, and I don’t share. You’re with me or you’re not. Decide now.”
I can barely breathe. He’s jealous. Chris is jealous. It’s hardly conceivable and I want him all the more because of it, which probably means he’s right. I’m f**ked up. But then, I know that already. He’s wrong about me being a doormat, though. I’ve been there, done that, and I’m not going there again. “You want me, Chris, you accept my job and you support me.”
“What do you think I was trying to do by taking away Mark’s control over you last night? But damn it, Sara, say what I want to hear. Tell me you don’t want him.”