Page 10 of Choosing Samantha

“That’s how most art works.”

“And people?”

“People are more likely to cut you more deeply than glass.” He laughs quietly and honestly, the sound more priceless to me than any artwork at the Gala.

five

Arch

Iwaited two days after the gala before requesting Samantha again—forty-eight hours longer than I wanted, and about forty-seven hours my body craved her.

It takes me that long to find a suitable event and write the request—it takes me four tries to get it right. The first is too eager, the second is so impersonal that even Miles jokes I sound like I’m hiring someone to check our security, not inviting a woman out. By the fourth draft, I realize the words don’t matter. Samantha will see my name and decide whether she wants to spend another evening with me.

Sure, I can buy her time, but I can’t guarantee she’ll accept the request. That scares me enough that I keep checking the portal, restless, like a guilty man awaiting a verdict.

The assignment is a dinner at the Whitmore Library, where BlackBox is sponsoring a literacy fundraiser. I could attend alone, or I could take Miles, who knows the nonprofit’s board members, since he usually accompanies me to these events. Instead, I spend the morning refreshing the agency portal until Samantha finally accepts, letting me breathe a sigh of relief.

She arrives in a wine-colored dress and stops beneath the carved stone archway. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders, glossy in the library’s golden light. Possessiveness I’d never felt before creeps up my spine—before I can stop it, I picture every man in the room noticing her, wanting to be near her. It’s a primal sense of ownership, but she isn’t mine, and she’s never said she wants to be. Still, some part of me already thinks of her as mine. I forget every sensible reason I made up for bringing her and rush to her side.

“You’re staring again.” Her genuine smile is something I’ve missed for the past forty-eight hours, twenty-seven minutes, and fifteen seconds, but who’s counting?

“I’m improving. Last time, I forgot how to speak.”

“And this time?”

“I remembered one sentence.”

Her smile widens. “I’m proud of you.”

I offer her my arm, returning her smile. She takes it with the ease of someone who has done so forever.

The reception occupies the library’s grand reading room—long oak tables have been cleared for dinner, yet shelves still rise three stories around us. Brass lamps cast pools of light over leather chairs, and a quartet plays near the marble fireplace, lending the room a romantic glow and making me wish we were the only two here.

Samantha turns in a slow circle. “This place is beautiful.”

“You said you like old bookstores.” I keep my voice even, not wanting to give away that I remember everything she has ever said to me.

Her gaze snaps to mine as if she can read my thoughts. “You remembered.”

I remember everything she told me. The olives she hated. The charcoal pencils she preferred. The way she takes her coffee with too much cream. Remembering is easy—the hard part is how often those details come to mind when she isn’t around. I’ll be reading security reports and wonder whether she’s had dinner. I’ll walk past a shop window and imagine her stopping to look at something she likes but can’t afford, then stop myself from charging into the store and buying everything I think she’ll like.

“I listen,” I say, unable to keep the desire from my voice.

A pink flush stains her cheeks as she gazes at me. Her face is like an open book, not closed off and polished like most of the women I’m used to.

I loop her arm through mine and lead her past the items in the silent auction, noticing how she pauses by a first edition of a children’s book, then quickly moves on when she sees the opening bid.

“You wanted that,” I whisper, pulling her closer.

“I only wanted to look at it.” She raises her chin stubbornly.

“Those are different things?” I call her bluff.

She points a warning finger at me. “Do not buy it.”

“I didn’t say I would.”

“You didn’t, but your face did.” Damn, she already knows me so well.