Page 9 of Choosing Samantha

His mouth curves. “You’re beautiful, Samantha.” This time, his words don’t sound polite—they sound hungry.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

He opens the door for me. As I pass him, his hand settles on the bare curve of my waist. The heat of his touch brands me. The touch lasts only a moment, but I feel it all the way to my toes.

***

The gala spans three floors of the Harrington Museum. Champagne flows beneath crystal chandeliers, and musicians play from a balcony above the marble atrium—the scene is almost like something out of a movie.

Arch is recognized everywhere we turn. Executives stop him to discuss cybersecurity contracts. Wealthy donors shake his hand, pledging donations to his personal-run charities. Beautiful women smile at him with fake smiles that barely conceal their desire for him, making me want to rip their eyes out—can’t they see he has a date? Shameless vultures, I think to myself until I remember this is all a lie—Arch is paying me to be his date. I’m no competition for these beautiful, wealthy debutantes.

To my surprise, he acknowledges them politely and keeps me close, his hand resting on my back as we move through the crowd. Sometimes I feel the light trace of his thumb along the small of my back, as if it’s the most natural thing for him to do. Each touch makes it harder to remember that I’m working.

In the contemporary wing, an installation of handblown glass hangs from the ceiling. Hundreds of translucent shapes cascade above us in amber, rose, and midnight blue.

I forget the crowd or that Arch is paying me to be here. “Oh,” I whisper to the masterpiece above me.

Arch watches me, not the sculpture. “What do you see?” he asks.

“Motion.”

“It isn’t moving.”

“It doesn’t have to.” I step under the installation. “Look at the curves. The artist captured movement in each piece. It feels like a wave breaking, yet it stays frozen at that perfect moment forever.”

He moves beside me. “All I would have seen was colored glass.”

“You still can, but the movement is the true showstopper.” I sigh, taking in every detail. “Just look.” I point to the piece.

“I’d rather see it through your eyes.”

I turn toward him, his words making me forget the glass artwork hanging above us. We stand close enough that the sleeve of his tuxedo brushes my arm. “Why did you ask for me tonight?”

“Because I wanted you here.” His honesty takes my breath away.

“You could have brought a real date.” I look into his eyes, searching for an answer.

His jaw tightens. “You are real.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.” He glances at the crowd. “A real date would expect things from me.”

“And I don’t?” Of course I don’t—I’m the hired help.

“Our expectations are written in a contract.” That reminder hurts more than it should. I step away, needing space between us. But he catches my hand, not letting me pull away. “Samantha.”

“I understand.” I lift my gaze to his and paste on a fake smile, like the rest of the women here.

“No, you don’t.” His fingers tighten gently around mine. “A contract gives me rules I understand. It doesn’t mean I consider you any less real.”

“What are you afraid a woman might expect of you?”

“More than I know how to give.” His honesty cuts through my defenses.

I thread my fingers through his. “Maybe you don’t need to know everything before you begin.”

His eyes search mine. “Is that how glass works?”