If I Were You(34)

I nod eagerly. “Si, dame el fuego.” Or ‘Yes, give me fire.’

They both laugh.

“You speak Spanish, señora?” Maria asks hopefully.

“Badly,” I assure her and she grins.

“Come in often and we will change that.”

“I’d like that,” I say, and I mean it. I really do like this woman and I know it’s because she’s everyone’s mother, just the way my mother had been.

“Corona for me, Maria” Chris orders and glances at me. “You want one?”

“Oh no,” I say quickly. “I’m a lightweight. I have to work.” I glance at Maria. “Tea. No. Wait. I’m on a caffeine high I need to come down from. Make it water.”

“The Corona will bring you right down,” Chris suggests.

“From spilling things to falling over,” I say. “You really don’t know what a lightweight I am. I better not go there.”

Maria rushes off to fill our order and another man sets chips and salsa in front of us before filling our water glasses.

I’m eager to learn more about Chris, both as a man and an artist, the instant we are alone I take advantage of the opportunity. “So you’re trilingual? I assume you must speak French to live part of the year in Paris.”

“Je parle espagnol, français, italien, et j'aimerait beaucoup dessinez-vous à nouveau. Modele pour moi, Sara.”

The French rolls off his tongue with such sexiness my throat goes dry and I feel tingly all over. “I have no idea what you just said.”

“I said that I speak Spanish, French, and Italian.” He leans closer, and his eyes find mine. “And then I said that I would very much like to paint you. Pose for me, Sara.”





Chapter Eleven





Chris wants to sketch me again? No. Not sketch. He wants to paint me, and I think he means in his studio. I am stunned speechless. My throat is dry and my mouth will not form words. This silent reaction to stress I’m developing is new to me, but then, I’m always an extremist. Mute silence or ramblings at the speed of lightning, there really seems to be no in-between. Still without words, I blink at Chris who is watching me intently, and I cannot read anything but expectation in his expression. He is waiting for a reply. Say something, I silently order myself. Say anything. No. Not anything. Something witty and charming.

Thankfully, I am saved from my mental scramble for the perfect reply when Chris’s beer appears in front of him. A soft flow of air escapes my lips, as Chris launches into a conversation in Spanish with the man who now stands by our table. I grapple for what to say when we return to our topic of Chris painting me, but I am pulled into the conversation before I resolve my thoughts.

“Sara, meet Diego,” Chris says, “the other half of ‘Diego Maria’.”

I try to focus on the conversation with Diego, who is about Chris’s age, and has a sleek goatee and warm brown eyes but I am ultra-aware of Chris’s long fingers as he squeezes his lime into the beer. It’s crazy to be so drawn to someone’s hands, but of course, I remind myself, his hands are gifted in ways most could never be. I’m light-headed with his impact on me, not to mention a very real need to eat, so as the two men talk, I am content to mostly listen while I nibble on several yummy, warm salted chips with some salsa. Diego, it seems, is planning a trip to Paris, and is seeking advice about where to stay and what to do that Chris is graciously offering. I am taken aback by the way Chris, a famous, millionaire artist, acts as if he isn’t those things at all.

Our waiter, the real one, not Diego, appears with our food, and Diego excuses himself to allow us to be served. “Sorry about that,” Chris says. “He’s been off every time I’ve been by since I got back from Paris three weeks ago.” He motions to my plate. “How’s it look?”

I inhale the spicy aroma and my stomach cheers with joy. “It looks and smells absolutely divine.”

He picks up his lime and motions to one on the side of my plate. “They aren’t the same if you don’t use this.” He squeezes the juice onto his food.

“I’ve never put lime on my tacos, but I’m game to try.” I quickly follow his example, relieved we’ve turned our attention to food, not me posing for him.

“Before you dig in, I should warn you that hot means hot. Really hot. So if you aren’t sure you can take it, then-“

I’m too hungry for caution. I pick up my taco and open my mouth, with my stomach cheering me on and welcoming substance.

“Wait-” he says, but it’s too late for me to stop, even if I consider it an option, which I don’t.