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She didn’t look up; she kept writing. But a smile touched the corner of her mouth. Of course it did—she’d just won a victory. I hadn’t meant to cave in and ask her, but the words had just come out. Damn her.
She took her time answering, finishing her note first before looking up. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I haven’t decided.”
I met her gaze. “So, a quiet weekend at home, then.”
She shrugged, as if I hadn’t given her a ticket to SoHo’s most exclusive art show. “Possibly,” she said with believable casualness. “Possibly not.”
I nodded. “I hear there are some very good shows on Netflix right now. You know, if you’re spending the weekend alone on th
e couch.”
A muscle in her cheek twitched in annoyance. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Maybe you should join a meetup group. Try to make friends if you’re lonely.”
“You’re full of advice today.” She put her pen down. “It’s very generous of you.”
My pulse started to beat a little bit faster. “I’m just trying to be helpful. You live in New York, you know. If you want to find something to do on the weekend, there’s plenty happening.”
“I see.” Was that a flush on her cheeks? “And what exactly are your exciting plans?”
I shrugged. “You know my schedule is empty. I always find something to do. There’s an art exhibit in SoHo I’ll probably attend.”
“Because you’re an art fan,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Sometimes, yes. I find looking at art a pleasant way to spend a Saturday night.”
“And you plan to attend by yourself.”
“If you believe the tabloids, yes.”
Samantha narrowed her eyes, and I fought off a smile. Fuck, this was fun. “Well,” she said finally, “I hope that you have a nice time, whatever you decide.” She stood and picked up her notebook.
“You, too,” I said. “Goodbye, Samantha. See you Monday.”
“Hm,” she said noncommittally, walking out of the office and closing the door behind her.
This was definitely going to be good.
We were going to play the game again.
Twenty-Four
Samantha
* * *
The air on Saturday night was warm and thick, slathered like honey. I stood in front of my mirrored closet and looked myself over, assessing the effect.
A button-front shirtdress from Target, navy blue with small white flowers. Bare legs, white flat sandals. Very little makeup, my hair tied in a ponytail at the back of my neck. A gray cardigan over my shoulders. Once again, I looked nothing like my usual self. Tonight I was an art student who had scored a ticket to an edgy art show from her roommate, who had come down with the flu.
In real life, I had gone to college for exactly one year, taking business courses before Emma hired me straight into Executive Ranks to be an executive assistant. I hadn’t made lifelong college friends, and I’d only had one year of partying and dating college guys. I certainly had never been an art student, spending her time studying something that was pretty much proven never to make money. I had never been a girl to follow my passion no matter what the cost.
So tonight, I would be that girl.
And tonight, that girl would meet a man.
I wondered who he would be tonight. Would he be an art dealer again? It made sense, yet I didn’t think Aidan would use the same identity again. That wasn’t how the game worked. If he was John the art dealer, then he wasn’t a stranger.
