Read Online Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 1: The Seduction by Lisa Renee Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Renee Jones
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didn’t belong there. But then the old me, the one who used to fight for what she wanted, reappeared out of nowhere. After a quick smoothing of my ruffled feathers, I asked her a few pointed questions about a certain artist’s work to test her knowledge. She bristled and made an excuse to leave me alone. I’d almost forgotten I had this kind of cool composure inside me, and it felt amazing, rediscovering that part of myself.
I stayed for an hour, until they were about to close, and then I reluctantly headed to the front door. That was when he walked in, and I pretty much did the schoolgirl “weak in the knees” wilt I’d have sworn I was incapable of. But this man . . . this man was impossibly overwhelming, and not just because he was sinfully good-looking. His eyes met mine and I froze, spellbound by his stare. I was aware of him in every cell of my being, in a way that I’ve never been aware of another man in my life.
I’ve been thinking about why that is. He was devastatingly handsome, but I’ve met gorgeous men before. It was more than his looks. It was definitely the edge of power and confidence he owned. The way he wore his perfectly fitted suit, rather than it wearing him. I keep telling myself his power and confidence was because he was a man, not a boy, at least a good ten years older than me. Surely that accounts for it—yet I can’t imagine this man, even at twenty-two years old, not being what he is today.
Ultimately though, it wasn’t his looks, his power, or even his mesmerizing eyes, which I thought maybe, just maybe, held a hint of male interest. It was the question he asked me: one that had enough impact to punch me in the chest and darn near level me. Such a simple question, from a man who was so not simple at all.
Did you come to apply for the internship?
I could barely process what he’d just said. I had to repeat the question in my head several times, and force calm thinking. And truthfully, I could have been insulted that he assumed my youth or something else about me meant I wasn’t there to buy art. Instead, the elation of him considering me a prospect for a job at the gallery overrode any other reaction.
Then reality knocked out the ray of hope for my career. I know how an “internship” translates into dollars, because I’d done the math last year when my mother’s funeral expenses had been a small fortune. Did I want to compete with a long list of people who would beg to work for pennies? Was I willing to work two jobs to survive? And really, how long could I do that? What was the real chance of making a full-time living at any gallery?
So what did I do? I laughed this silly, nervous laugh, and told him that working there was a dream I just couldn’t afford. Then, before I did something even sillier, like change my mind, I stepped around him and left.
And now I eat my chocolate, sick to my stomach that I didn’t find a reason to change my mind. Maybe if I eat the whole thing, I’ll be too nauseated from sugar to feel sick about my decision. I can only hope.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
I went to bed thinking about the man from the gallery, and the way his silvery gray eyes had captured mine. About how I’d felt he would affect my life in some profound way when I’d met him. How would he do this if I never see him again? That was the last thing I remember thinking before I slipped into a dream.
No. A nightmare. In it, I’d been riding one of the trolleys, a cold San Francisco breeze whisking my long hair off my shoulders. Everything was vivid. The red car. The cold pole beneath my fingers. The shade of my light brown hair. The blue sky. The scent of the nearby ocean. Then suddenly my mother was there, riding with me, and she was smiling and happy in a way I haven’t been since she died. I don’t remember feeling happy in the dream, either. I remember feeling scared. And with good reason. A moment later, the trolley started to roll down a hill and it wouldn’t stop.
I stayed for an hour, until they were about to close, and then I reluctantly headed to the front door. That was when he walked in, and I pretty much did the schoolgirl “weak in the knees” wilt I’d have sworn I was incapable of. But this man . . . this man was impossibly overwhelming, and not just because he was sinfully good-looking. His eyes met mine and I froze, spellbound by his stare. I was aware of him in every cell of my being, in a way that I’ve never been aware of another man in my life.
I’ve been thinking about why that is. He was devastatingly handsome, but I’ve met gorgeous men before. It was more than his looks. It was definitely the edge of power and confidence he owned. The way he wore his perfectly fitted suit, rather than it wearing him. I keep telling myself his power and confidence was because he was a man, not a boy, at least a good ten years older than me. Surely that accounts for it—yet I can’t imagine this man, even at twenty-two years old, not being what he is today.
Ultimately though, it wasn’t his looks, his power, or even his mesmerizing eyes, which I thought maybe, just maybe, held a hint of male interest. It was the question he asked me: one that had enough impact to punch me in the chest and darn near level me. Such a simple question, from a man who was so not simple at all.
Did you come to apply for the internship?
I could barely process what he’d just said. I had to repeat the question in my head several times, and force calm thinking. And truthfully, I could have been insulted that he assumed my youth or something else about me meant I wasn’t there to buy art. Instead, the elation of him considering me a prospect for a job at the gallery overrode any other reaction.
Then reality knocked out the ray of hope for my career. I know how an “internship” translates into dollars, because I’d done the math last year when my mother’s funeral expenses had been a small fortune. Did I want to compete with a long list of people who would beg to work for pennies? Was I willing to work two jobs to survive? And really, how long could I do that? What was the real chance of making a full-time living at any gallery?
So what did I do? I laughed this silly, nervous laugh, and told him that working there was a dream I just couldn’t afford. Then, before I did something even sillier, like change my mind, I stepped around him and left.
And now I eat my chocolate, sick to my stomach that I didn’t find a reason to change my mind. Maybe if I eat the whole thing, I’ll be too nauseated from sugar to feel sick about my decision. I can only hope.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
I went to bed thinking about the man from the gallery, and the way his silvery gray eyes had captured mine. About how I’d felt he would affect my life in some profound way when I’d met him. How would he do this if I never see him again? That was the last thing I remember thinking before I slipped into a dream.
No. A nightmare. In it, I’d been riding one of the trolleys, a cold San Francisco breeze whisking my long hair off my shoulders. Everything was vivid. The red car. The cold pole beneath my fingers. The shade of my light brown hair. The blue sky. The scent of the nearby ocean. Then suddenly my mother was there, riding with me, and she was smiling and happy in a way I haven’t been since she died. I don’t remember feeling happy in the dream, either. I remember feeling scared. And with good reason. A moment later, the trolley started to roll down a hill and it wouldn’t stop.
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