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

you do about me, it wasn't an uneducated decision. That
puts the ball back in your court, Mr. Compton. Why hire me without an
interview?"
    He does not appear amused by my counter. In fact, I'm not
sure he isn't a bit irritated. He studies me for an eternal moment, those
silvery eyes so intense they are like ice that turns me to ice and fire at the
same time. He is unnerving. I do not want this man to have the ability to
rattle me.
    "You want to know why I hired you?"
    "It wasn't what I expected."
    "Why offer your services if you don't expect them to be
accepted?"
    "A moment of passion," I admit. "And a summer
of freedom."
    He gives me a tiny incline of his chin, as if accepting of
that answer. “I could feel your passion. It spoke to me."
    My throat goes instantly dry as the words drop between us,
heavy with implication, the air thick with a rich, creamy awareness that I tell
myself I am imagining, that I reject. He is not for me. This place is not even
for me. It's Rebecca's.    
    “You impressed me, Ms. Macmillan," he adds softly,
"and that doesn’t happen easily.”
    My breath nearly hitches at his words and I am shocked to
realize, despite my thoughts moments before, just how much I want this man's
approval, how much I need confirmation it's real. I don't want to want it. I
don't want to need it. Yet…I do. I wait three beats to calm my racing heart and
then ask what I must know. "How exactly did I do that in such a short
time?" My voice is not as steady as it was before and he must notice. He
is too keen not to.
    “As I'm sure you know, there are cameras in most galleries,
including this one. I was watching when you bewitched the couple that was
shopping the Merit display with an absolute passion for art. If not for your
guidance, they may have gone home to think about the purchase.”
    Even the idea of him watching me on camera, as disconcerting
as it is, doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads through me at his compliment. He
is everything Amanda said he was but he is even more. He is successful and he
belongs in a world I have only borrowed, but long to own. Oh yes. I so want his
approval and I hate myself for needing it. Hate . It's a strong word, but
I have a history that makes it so damn right for this occasion.
    “Knowledge and competence are far easier to find than true
passion," he adds, each word drawing me further into his spell. "I
believe you have it, which is why I can't quite figure you out."
    “Figure me out?” I ask, straightening a bit, uneasy that
this might be headed toward my claim of knowing Rebecca. Towards the sister I
don't have and haven't thought of a way around. 
    He sinks back into his chair, studying me intently, his
elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Why is someone so
clearly enthralled with this world teaching school?”
    “What’s wrong with teaching school?” I ask, just as I had
when Chris Merit had thrown the same ball at me.
    “Absolutely nothing."
    I wait for him to continue and he doesn’t. He just stares at
me with keen observation that makes me want to shift in my chair. 
    “I love teaching," I state.
    He arches a skeptical brow at me in reply.
    “I do,” I insist, but quickly, reluctantly add, “But no,
it’s not my true passion.”
    His reply isn't instant. He lets me squirm a bit under his
scrutiny. “So I ask you again,” he finally repeats. “Why are you teaching
school?”
    For a moment, I consider some fluffy answer designed for
avoidance and decide he won't let that slide. My chest tightens as I admit
something that I keep bottled up where I don't have to deal with it. Something
I have told no one but I am telling him. Maybe it's liberating. Maybe I need to
say it out loud once and for all. I feel so damn guilty that teaching isn't
fulfilling. It should be fulfilling. “Because," I say in a voice that to
my dismay cracks slightly, "a love of art doesn’t pay the bills.”
    If he notices my discomfort, he doesn't show it.