6. Samantha
six
Samantha
Assignment number four arrives three days later.
I like to think I waited a respectable ten minutes before accepting—when in reality, I spent nine just staring at Arch’s name, my heart racing despite my better judgment.
But I need to remember he is paying for my company—when the truth is, I want to see him so much that I almost hate having the contract as an excuse.
The assignment is a private architectural river cruise for a visiting tech group. It calls for cocktails, city views, and two hours of professional talk—I can do that. But it leaves out the part about late September in Chicago, when a riverboat deck can feel like the Arctic.
It also doesn’t mention how nervous I am after almost kissing Arch at the library. I’ve replayed that moment so many times that I can remember exactly how his hand felt on my back. Part of me is glad he stopped. But a bigger, braver part keeps wondering what it would have been like if he hadn’t.
“You’re cold,” Arch says, leaning against the boat's railing, his large body blocking most of the wind.
“I’m fine.”
“Your teeth are chattering.” He takes off his overcoat and drapes it over my shoulders before I can say anything. It swallows me from neck to ankles and smells of clean cedar, a scent I was beginning to associate with him.
“Now you’re cold.” I reach to slip off his coat, but he stops me.
“I’m wearing a suit.”
“A suit isn’t thermal underwear.”
“I’m relieved you noticed the distinction.” My heart almost stops at the flirtatious tone in his voice. I try not to smile as I slide my arms into sleeves that are far too long for me.
The boat slips under the first bridge. Buildings line the river, their windows catching the last copper light of sunset. An architecture guide discusses steel frames and setbacks as Arch’s guests listen politely. Arch, on the other hand, has his eyes on me.
“You’re supposed to be networking,” I murmur, burrowing deeper into his coat.
“I own the company—they’ll find me.” He wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his body.
“That sounds arrogant.” I rest my head against his chest.
“It’s efficient.”
Before I can respond, a German executive approaches and asks what role I hold at BlackBox. The answer I’d rehearsed gets stuck in my throat.
“Samantha is an artist,” Arch says smoothly. “She teaches glassblowing and is developing a plan for a community studio.”
Developing a plan—not merely dreaming about one. That difference warms me more than his coat ever could.
Arch believes in my future more than I ever have.
Maybe it shouldn’t mean so much. Maybe I’m reading too much into it—rich guys probably make impossible dreams sound possible all the time.
But he’d listened closely enough to know the studio wasn’t just a dream—it was the life I want.
Hearing him talk about it as if it were real makes me want to borrow some of his confidence and makes me hope, maybe too much, that he sees me as part of his real life, too.
Arch gives me an opening, and I start talking about glass. Soon I'm describing furnaces, color rods, and the first crooked cup I ever made. Arch stays beside me, adding small details from the gala conversation that prove he listened.
When the couple moves away, I touch his sleeve. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making what I want sound possible.”
“It is possible.”
“You say things as if the world has to obey you.”
“It frequently does.”
I roll my eyes, but before I can lower my hand, he catches it, and our fingers link.
My mind comes up with every reason to let go—the agency has rules, I need the money, he controls the assignment, the car, and more wealth than I can even imagine.
But his hand is warm, his grip gentle, and he holds mine like I’m something precious, not something he paid to borrow for two hours.
We stay like that as the boat drifts beneath bridges glowing with evening light. Every so often, his thumb brushes mine. It’s such a small touch, yet it feels more intimate than a kiss.
After the reception, they serve dinner indoors. My place card is next to Arch’s at the head table. Across from us, a venture capitalist named Vanessa spends most of the first course staring at Arch as if he were the last dessert on the menu.
“You must get lonely,” she tells him, completely ignoring me. “All that success, yet no one waiting at home.”
Arch’s expression turns unreadable. “I value privacy.”
“Privacy can be overrated.” Her gaze slides toward me. “Especially when companionship is so easy to arrange.”
Shameful heat burns my face, even though she is spot on about our relationship.
“Samantha is my guest.” Arch sets his wine glass down, pinning Vanessa with a glare that would scare even the toughest guy.
“Of course. I only meant—” She places her hand to her chest in mock sincerity, her black nail polish as dark as her soul.
“I know what you meant.” His voice remains quiet, somehow making it sharper. “You will speak to her with the same respect you show me.”
Vanessa looks away.
I feel a guilty spark of satisfaction. I don’t want to be jealous of someone who fits so easily into Arch’s world, but Vanessa’s interest twists something inside me—she can be with him without a contract.
She can flirt without worrying about time limits.
That thought alone makes me feel small, but his defense makes me feel chosen—neither feeling feels safe.
Under the table, I touch Arch’s knee—his muscles go rigid under my palm. “I can defend myself,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“Then why did you do that?”
He looks at me. “Because you shouldn’t have to do everything alone.”
My hand stays where it is—his resting on it. Things just got more complicated.
On the ride home, the city slides by in a blur. I’m still wearing his coat, reluctant to give it back, though I know I have to.
“You can keep it until we reach your building,” he says as I start to remove it.
“Are you afraid I’ll steal it?” I tease.
“I know where you live.”
“Terrifying.”
He smiles, but his expression turns serious. “Did tonight make you uncomfortable?”
“Vanessa did.”
“I meant being introduced as an artist instead of…”
“An escort?” I finish his sentence. “That is work I’m doing,” I say. “It isn’t all I am.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” I ask honestly.
He turns toward me. “You’re an artist. A teacher.
A daughter who worries about her mother and sends money home even when she can’t afford groceries herself.
You sketch strangers on trains and pretend not to cry over children’s books.
You’re brave when frightened and stubborn when someone tries to help without asking. ” My chest tightens at his words.
He’s noticed the parts of me most people overlook. Worse, he’s put them together into someone I almost believe is worth wanting. I want to ask what I mean to him and want the truth. But fear keeps the question stuck in my throat.
“You make me sound complicated,” I say instead.
“You are.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“It’s fascination.” He lifts his hand and tucks a stray lock of hair back behind my ear.
The car pulls up outside my apartment, and for a moment neither of us moves. I want him to kiss me. I’m almost positive he will. Instead, he lowers his hand.
“Good night, Samantha.”
I feel both disappointed and relieved—part of me wanted to know what his lips would feel like against mine. But the other part would always wonder whether Vanessa was right—companionship is so easy to arrange.
“Good night, Arch.” I climb out of the car, clutching his coat around me, unsure whether it’s the late-September wind or the chill of knowing I’m only an assignment to him that has me feeling so cold.