5. Arch
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.
“What would you do with it?” I say, hoping to distract her from my thoughts about buying it for her.
Her expression softens. “My mom read that story to me when I was little. Our copy fell apart, so she taped the pages into a three-ring binder. I thought it was the most valuable book in the world.” The look in her eyes is almost my undoing as I fight the urge to buy her the first edition.
Money is the language I know best. It solves problems quickly and spares me from asking what someone wants. But Samantha has already shown me that giving without asking can feel like control. If I bought the book after she told me not to, it would be about my need to give, not her wish to receive.
I hate the lesson, but I know I need it anyway. “Perhaps it was.”
She studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing. “You surprise me sometimes.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I haven’t decided.” She taps her index finger against her chin.
At dinner, Samantha sits beside the director of a neighborhood arts program.
Within minutes, they’re discussing free weekend classes for children whose schools have cut arts funding.
“Someday I want a studio with two furnaces,” Samantha says.
“One for paid classes and the other reserved for community programs. The paid side would keep the other open.”
“You’ve planned this out,” I say, genuinely interested in her idea.
She hesitates for a heartbeat. “Dreaming it is one thing—planning it takes money.”
“Planning requires numbers. Money comes later.”
“That sounds like something a billionaire would say.” She rolls her eyes.
“It sounds like something a man who started his company with a single borrowed server would say.”
Her eyes widen. “You borrowed your first server?”
“From my university—without permission,” I add, giving my story a bad-boy edge.
“Archibald Jamison the Third stole a computer?”
“Borrowed.” I smile, loving how she uses my full name when she scolds me.
“Did you return it?”
“Eventually.”
She laughs, and several people glance over, but I don’t care—I would confess to worse crimes to keep that sound in the room.
After dinner, the quartet shifts into a waltz. “Dance with me.” I hold out my hand, not giving her a chance to refuse.
Samantha glances down at the floor. “Is dancing part of the assignment?”
“Only if you want it to be.” I tip her chin up so her eyes meet mine.
Her answer comes in the form of placing her hand in mine. I pull her into my arms, one of her hands resting on my shoulder, the other enclosed in mine—the barest space between our bodies. “You know how to dance?” She blinks at me in surprise.
“My mother believed that ballroom lessons built character.”
“Did they?”
“No. They built resentment.”
She smiles. “You don’t look resentful now.”
I'm definitely not resentful—without those lessons, I wouldn’t feel her warmth against me, her scent so close it fills my nostrils, or the gentle trust in the way she let me lead.
“What did you dream about before BlackBox?” She leans her head trustfully against my shoulder.
My steps falter—no one has asked me that in years. For a moment, I consider giving her a polished answer about innovation or independence—those responses have worked for journalists and investors. But Samantha would hear how hollow they sound—saying anything less than the truth feels like a lie.
“Safety,” I finally say. “A home no one could take away—enough control so nothing unexpected could hurt the people I loved.”
She tips her head up, her gaze locked on mine. “Did you get it?”
“I got the illusion of it.” Telling the truth normally makes me feel exposed, but with Samantha, I want to tell her everything, no matter how raw it is.
Samantha’s fingers tighten against my shoulder. “Maybe safety isn’t never getting hurt—maybe it’s knowing someone will stay when you are.”
I look down at her tempting mouth—one kiss, that’s all. She notices, her breath catching, but she doesn’t move away. I start to lower my head until the contract between us pops into my mind. And how I deceived her by reserving her for the next three months, so no one else could buy her time.
I can almost hear Miles telling me to tell her the truth—that I want her, not just for another event.
But it isn’t that simple—I’m thirteen years older, rich enough to change her life without even realizing it, and I’m the reason her schedule keeps bringing her back to me.
Every gentle look from her reminds me of everything she doesn’t know.
I stop dancing and pull back before I do something we’ll both regret, or, more specifically, she’ll regret when she finds out I’ve been lying to her.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers.
“Nothing,” I say out loud, then add to myself, “everything.” I want to kiss her. I want it so badly that it frightens me. Instead, I lift her hand and press my lips to her wrist, at her pulse.
Her eyes darken, but she doesn’t say anything.
For the rest of the night, I can still feel her pulse against my mouth, beating erratically, just like my heart.