3. Arch
three
Arch
Isee Samantha before she sees me. She gets out of the car and stops under Provisions' white awning, holding the strap of her small purse. Her flowered dress shifts around her knees in the early-autumn breeze.
Sure, Miles sent me her profile, but it hadn't prepared me for the real thing. Her photo showed a beautiful young woman with brown eyes and long chestnut hair. But the woman walking toward the restaurant is even more striking. She seems warm and real in a way that pictures seldom capture.
A few strands of hair slip from her braid. I watch in fascination as she tucks them behind her ear and glances around, revealing a small silver hoop and a light blush on her cheeks.
All my protective instincts kick in at once. That should alarm me—instead, I cross the sidewalk toward her. “Samantha?”
Her gaze meets mine. She stops breathing—or perhaps I do. Up close, I notice gold flecks in her eyes. She looks at me with open nerves and curiosity, not the careful distance I’d expected from a hired date.
“Mr. Jamison?” Her soft voice fills the air between us, and I feel the urge to hear her say my first name.
“Arch.”
Her lips curve. “Samantha.”
“I know.” Her smile widens at my reply. I want to see her smile at me again. “You look lovely.”
She lowers her head for a moment before meeting my gaze as her fingers brush the skirt of her dress. “I may have misunderstood the dress code.”
“You didn’t.” If anyone says otherwise, I’ll rip their tongue out.
“I saw a woman go inside wearing shoes that probably cost more than my tuition.” Her playful tone surprises me. I had expected a professional escort to be cool and aloof—but my Samantha is like a breath of fresh air.
“She’s overdressed,” I shrug, taking a step closer to Samantha.
“She was wearing diamonds.” She raises an eyebrow, as if daring me to argue with her.
“Still overdressed.”
Samantha laughs, and the tension I’d carried in my shoulders all week melts.
I offer her my arm, and she pauses for a moment before resting her hand on it. The contact is innocent, but my reaction is not. I feel warmth through my suit, pooling in my groin. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anyone the way I want her—the feeling surprises me.
I remind myself that she is only here because she is being paid. That fact alone should set a clear boundary. Instead, it makes me wonder why she needs the money.
At the entrance, she opens her purse to silence her phone. When she lifts it, sunlight catches the cracked screen. Cracks spread from one corner to the other. Clear tape covers the worst section.
“You need a new phone.” How that abomination still works is beyond me. What if she’s alone somewhere and her broken phone dies? The thought shouldn’t affect me as much as it does—this is only one brunch—I’m not her real boyfriend.
Her cheeks flush a soft shade of pink. “It still works.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
“Are you always this direct?” She lifts her gaze to mine, defiance shining back at me.
“Yes.”
“That must save time.”
“It does.”
She slips the phone back into her purse. “I can’t afford to replace it yet.”
Her answer is simple, but I pick up on everything she leaves unsaid. Before we reach the table, I’ve already decided she will have a new phone by the end of the day.
I tell myself it’s a safety concern. A damaged phone could fail in an emergency. I'm lying to myself—I want to give her something. The urge is new to me and feels almost too good.
Our table overlooks the river. When we arrive, Daniel and his wife, Elise, are already seated with the other couples.
Three women in muted designer dresses turn toward Samantha.
For a moment, I feel her grip my arm a little tighter.
I slide my arm behind her back, wanting to protect her if any of them say anything to hurt her feelings.
Then she surprises me by raising her chin, silently daring them to comment on her clothing.
A warm rush of pride fills me at her show of bravery. “Everyone,” I say, bringing her hand to my lips and kissing it, “this is Samantha Ellis.”
Samantha’s eyes snap to mine, surprise and lust lurking in her brown eyes.
Daniel stands to greet her. “We’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, which means Arch has been keeping secrets.”
Samantha glances between Daniel and me. “We’re very mysterious.”
Elise smiles. “How did you two meet?”
We already have a story ready. The agency suggested we say we met at a gallery opening. Before I could use it, Samantha says, “A mutual friend decided Arch needed help looking sociable.”
Daniel laughs so hard that he has to set down his coffee. “Oh, I like her.”
I glance at Samantha, only to be met with an innocent smile. I hold out the chair for her, wondering what other surprises she has in store.
In less than twenty minutes, Samantha won over everyone at the table. It isn’t because she acts sophisticated or pretends to know the French dishes or the artists Elise is discussing. She listens, asks thoughtful questions, and admits when she doesn’t know something without embarrassment.
She orders blueberry pancakes after every other woman has selected salads—that alone almost makes me fall for her.
“What are you studying?” Elise asks.
“Art education,” Samantha says. “My focus is sculpture, but I’m completely obsessed with glass.”
“Glass?”
“Glassblowing. I teach beginner classes on Saturdays at a small studio near campus.” Samantha’s face lights up when she talks about it.
She tells us how molten glass flows like honey, how color shifts beneath the furnace’s heat, and how a person must guide it without trying to dominate it.
“You can’t force glass,” she says. “You have to work with what it wants to become.”
The talk around us fades as I watch her hands move while she speaks—sunlight shining off her braid, bringing out copper highlights in her brown hair.
“What does it want to become?” I lean forward, completely entranced by her words.
Her gaze meets mine. “That depends on who holds it.”
There is a moment between us. I know she feels it too by the way her cheeks flush and she looks down at her plate. Under the table, the side of her sandal brushes my shoe—neither of us moves away.
***
By the end of brunch, I know Samantha hates olives, loves old bookstores, and secretly draws strangers on the train. I also realize I’m in trouble. I hired her for two hours—now I want to spend the rest of the day with her.
When everyone starts saying goodbye, I catch myself making up reasons to keep us from leaving. “Did you enjoy yourself?” I ask once we are alone near the entrance. I don’t realize until it’s too late—I’m paying her to be herself—that it really doesn’t matter if she enjoyed herself.
“I did.” Her smile softens as if she realizes my distress. “Your friends are nice.”
“They liked you.” I reach out to tuck the strand of hair that has escaped from behind her ear, then pull my hand back.
“I’m relieved. I thought Elise was going to ask which designer made my dress.”
“What would you have said?” I stuff my hands into my pants pockets to keep from touching her.
“Goodwill.”
I laugh out loud, making her eyes widen. “What?”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh.”
“I laugh.” Maybe not as much as I should, but I still do.
“Not often, apparently.”
“No.” My admission sours my mood.
“I like it.” Those four words shouldn’t hit me so hard. How long has it been since anyone truly cared whether I laughed?
Outside, my driver waits by the car. Samantha reaches for the rear door, but I stop her. “One moment.”
Miles emerges from the restaurant, carrying a small white shopping bag. Samantha looks between us. I take the bag and hold it out to her.
“What’s this?” she raises an eyebrow.
“A phone.”
Her expression shifts instantly. “Arch.”
“Your screen is unsafe.”
“My screen is cracked.”
“The cracks could cut your fingers.”
“I’ve used tape.”
“A highly sophisticated repair.”
She almost smiles but doesn’t take the bag. “I can’t take that.”
“You can.”
“That phone costs more than my laptop.”
“Then try not to drop it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You don’t get told no very often, do you?”
“Not when I’m right.”
“Being able to afford something doesn’t give you the right to decide whether another person needs it.” Her words catch me off guard. She isn’t exactly angry—she seems cautious. Almost as if she accepts the phone, I expect something in return.
I lower the bag. “You’re right. I should have asked,” I continue. “May I give it to you?”
“Why?”
Because the thought of her struggling bothers me. Because I want her to have a reason to think of me after today. Because I spent two hours sitting beside her and already dread watching her go.
“The agency’s safety application runs more reliably on current devices,” I say instead. “Consider it equipment required for future assignments.” Saying those words leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I don’t want her to go on future assignments. I don’t want another man waiting outside a restaurant, watching her arrive in that flowered dress. I don’t want him to hear her laugh or see her eyes brighten when she talks about art.
Possessiveness is irrational. She doesn’t belong to me. Reminding myself doesn’t help.
She studies my face. “Equipment?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Not a tip?”
“No.” Apparently, that is the right answer, as she reaches for the bag.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her fingers brush mine. That same spark passes between us, stronger this time. Samantha slowly pulls her hand away, leaving me feeling empty.
In the car, she opens the box as if it were a special gift. I help her transfer her contacts while the driver takes us to her apartment.
The Elite Connections application appears on the new screen. A notification flashes.
THREE NEW ASSIGNMENT OPPORTUNITIES.
A sharp wave of jealousy makes me grip my phone tighter. Samantha doesn’t notice as she opens her text messages.
I open my secure administrative portal, provided by Elite Connections to preferred clients, which includes a privacy dashboard and scheduling permissions. One setting catches my attention.
EXCLUSIVE BOOKING REQUEST
I quickly read that clients can reserve a companion’s availability for an ongoing series of events. The agency will block conflicting requests and charge the client a substantial exclusivity fee.
Without a second thought, I select Samantha’s profile. The system requests dates—I choose the next three months.
A warning appears.
COMPANION CONSENT REQUIRED UNLESS FULL RETAINER IS PAID IN ADVANCE.
Beneath it was the retainer amount. I approved the payment without batting an eye—having Samantha all to myself is worth far more than the retainer.
She frowns, and I’m sure that I’ve been caught. “That’s strange.” Thankfully, she’s looking at her new phone, not at me.
“What is it?” I try to sound casual.
“I had three requests, but now they’re gone.”
“Perhaps someone else accepted them.”
“Maybe.”
Guilt presses in my chest. I should have told her. I should have asked. Instead, I watch the city go by through the tinted windows and let myself believe I’m protecting her.
It’s the first lie I tell Samantha—little did I know it would be the worst one.