4. Samantha
four
Samantha
For the next six days, I check my Elite Connections account so often it borders on obsession. When no assignments appear in my inbox, I’m half relieved, half disappointed.
According to Kendra’s cousin, new companions usually receive several requests after a good first appointment—my brunch rating was perfect, and the agency coordinator even messaged me to praise me. Still, my calendar remains empty.
I tell myself I’m disappointed because I need the money—not because I’ve secretly hoped Arch would request me again. Every time my new phone chimes, I hope Arch’s name appears on the screen.
He didn’t ask for my private number or contact me through the agency. After handing me a phone that cost more than everything in my closet, he walked me to my apartment building, thanked me for my time, and left. I’d spent the week wondering whether I’d imagined the attraction between us.
Until Friday afternoon, when an assignment request arrived.
CLIENT: ARCH JAMISON
EVENT: Harrington Museum Autumn Art Gala
ATTIRE: Formal
SATURDAY, 7:00 P.M.
My heart gives a ridiculous little leap. The thought of seeing Arch again makes me smile.
Kendra leans over my shoulder. “Oh, he wants you again.”
“It’s a business event.” I set my phone face down on the table. For some reason, I don’t want Kendra to read the assignment details.
“He could have hired anyone.” Her smug tone doesn’t go unnoticed.
I try not to smile. “Apparently, I’m good at pretending he’s sociable.” I can’t help but remember our easy banter and how comfortable I feel around him.
“He bought you a phone.” Kendra’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“For safety,” I say, more to remind myself not to read too much into his gift than to argue with Kendra.
“Sure.” The way she drags out the word makes me realize I’m fooling no one.
The request includes a formalwear allowance large enough for a designer gown.
Instead, I decide to rent a dark green dress that fits my curves and leaves my back bare.
There’s no point in spending that much on a gown I’ll probably wear only once.
Besides, I love how I look in this dress.
When Arch arrives Saturday evening, I know I chose correctly.
He stands by the town car in a black tuxedo, one hand in his pocket, his eyes drifting from my heels to my loosely pinned hair. For several seconds, he says nothing, and I start to second-guess my decision to rent a dress instead of buying one.
“Is something wrong?” I nervously run my hands along the sides of the dress.
“No.” His gaze intensifies, leaving me breathless.
“You look upset.”
“I’m trying to remember how to speak.”
Warmth spreads from my chest to my cheeks. “That was almost charming.”
“Almost?” He quirks an eyebrow, giving him an almost rakish look—I definitely need to stop watching Bridgerton.
“You still look like you want to interrogate someone.”
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?”
“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.