16. Emma #2
“I thought you were done with those,” he teases, offering me his arm.
“It’s safer,” I reply, taking it. “You know that. You’re the brains behind the whole operation.”
“I’m starting to think safe doesn’t do us any good.”
We arrive at the Brooklyn Museum fashionably late, or how Matt explained it, right on time for the cameras to catch us getting out of the car together. I thought it would be overwhelming, but he holds me close like I belong next to him. It doesn’t take me long to start believing it.
There are some other actors I recognize, all New York-based, as well as some influential people I’ve personally never heard of before. Matt makes sure to give me a rundown before introducing me, so I don’t nod at the wrong billionaire like we’re old pals.
Soft piano music plays over the speakers, composed by a couple of kids from a school in New Jersey.
The space, usually occupied with modern pieces, now holds paintings by young scholars.
They are insanely good. I wouldn’t have known they weren’t professionals if that wasn’t the entire point of tonight.
It smells like polished wood floors and fresh paint, almost as if the art had just been created. The chandeliers that hang from the high ceiling shed a soft golden light over everything, making the ambience warmer than what I’m used to a museum being like.
We take our time, looking at each one—unique in style and craft. Almost in sync, we come to a stop in front of a larger canvas.
It resembles New York’s skyline, deep blue and violet strokes. A sunset in the background that feels like it’s burning between the buildings. Close your eyes and you’re right there, stuck in traffic.
“Fifteen,” Matt says quietly.
I turn to him and realize he’s been reading the plaque next to it.
“What?”
“The kid who painted this. He’s fifteen.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
My head inches closer to the writing. Grant R, 15. Linden High.
“Hey! Isn’t that where you went to school?”
“It is,” he says. There’s something new in his voice. Personal. Maybe a little raw.
“Is that why you contribute to this specific organization? To better your roots?”
“Mostly.” He shrugs, but I can tell there’s more behind his words. A week ago, I would’ve pushed, but we’re not the same anymore.
“Sounds to me like yes dressed up as a deflection.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Have you ever been to a museum before? We’re supposed to be observing.”
“Occupational hazard,” I mutter, deciding to give him some leeway. “What happens to the paintings after this?”
“They go up for auction tonight. Profit made gets put into a college trust fund for the artist.”
“That can be… life-changing,” I whisper, beginning to understand why we’re here.
His eyes flick to mine, and for a second the noise around us fades into something distant. Something shifts. Again. We’re too aware of each other.
True to his word, he’s the first to look away.
“Come on,” he gestures toward the doors to the main hall. “Dinner will be served shortly.”
I’m following him around certain that I look like a lost puppy. It’s easy to pretend when it’s only him but sitting at a table full of strangers gives me the jitters.
Matt leans in slightly, coming to a pause at the threshold.
“Rule number one,” he murmurs near my ear. “Never look overwhelmed. Even if you are. Fake it ‘till you make it.”
“I’m not overwhelmed,” I whisper back, clearly lying.
“You’re blinking so much your eyelids are going to give out. It’s your tell.”
“How do you even know that?”
“We’ve played poker before.”
I huff. “Like one time. Thank you for letting me know never to play with you again.”
“Damn. I threw my deck of cards into my backpack in case strip poker came up.”
“You wish, Matthew.”
“You know I do.”
He moves us further inside, swallowed by clusters of people trying to find their assigned seats. There must be at least two hundred guests, yet everything is hushed. Laughter rises in soft bursts, polite and practiced. They’d be horrified if they heard me when I come across a funny video at home.
A waiter glides past us with a tray of champagne flutes, and Matt takes one, handing it to me before grabbing his own.
“Drink.”
“Is that another rule?”
“It’s survival if you want to make it through dinner.”
Matt makes it sound worse than it is. Our table is filled with four other couples. Three of them older, two in finance, the other pair run a real estate company. We make some small talk, mostly them asking me about my very mundane job. You know, the wonders of having a boss I have to answer to.
Halfway through the main dish I hit it off with Camila, a Puerto Rican native who moved to New York during her teenage years. She met Alonso—a telenovela star—during a conference and they’ve never looked back.
Time flies after that. We exchange numbers in case she’s ever over on the West Coast, and before we know it, the auctioneer is taking the stage, getting the bidding set up.
Paddles are handed out, including to me, even though I’m pretty sure whatever it is they’re auctioning costs more than my rent for a year. We turn our chairs to face the stage, where there’s a homemade film being played onto the backdrop.
Matt’s arm never leaves the back of my chair.
I shouldn’t notice it. But I do.
A blonde woman in her fifties spots us from afar and calls out his name. He stands up immediately, his posture straightening as he closes the button on his jacket. I turn my attention back to the screen when his hand wraps around my arm and gives me a gentle pull up.
“Matt!” she says, enveloping him in a tight squeeze. “I didn’t know if you were going to make it with the storm and all.”
“What storm?” he asks, frowning. I do the same.
“They’ve been talking about it for days. It was supposed to veer south, but it ended up coming straight for the city.”
That doesn’t sound promising.
“Explains the turbulence on our way in.” He laughs. “Kathy, this is Emma Miller. She’s one of the best editors in L.A. Works for Golden Magazine. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Kathy’s on the fundraiser committee.”
A pang of guilt lands sharp in my stomach and I have to force myself to stay composed. Here’s Matt, introducing me like I belong here. And he doesn’t even know what he said is not true. I need this article to work. I can’t keep being a secret myself for much longer.
“I have! That’s impressive.” Kathy grins. “Nice to meet you, Emma. I hope you’re enjoying the evening.”
She pulls me into another hug.
“Did you get my check?” Matt says, voice lower, almost a whisper.
Kathy nods.
“Anonymous, like you wish.”
“Great. The art is next level this year,” he comments.
“Let me know if there’s any that caught your eye,” she adds with a wink. Matt laughs. It sounds like a brush-off, but I catch it: he’s actually considering it.
“Is my house in Aspen not enough?” he jokes.
“Will be for whoever gets to stay in it!”
With that and a couple of pats on his shoulder, she moves on to the next table.
“Your house in Aspen?” I repeat when he sits back down.
“For a week stay. Super cozy, perfect to ski in the winter.” He’s nonchalant, like it’s no big deal. I guess not for someone like him. “I’ll take you.”
I’m a surf girlie at heart, but fresh powder is hard to say no to. And even with that little voice in the back of my head reminding me I can’t fully trust him yet, Matt’s not that bad of an adventure buddy after all.
“I’ll be waiting,” I say. He scoots his chair closer to mine, draping his arm over it again. From the corner of my eyes, I notice a cheeky smile pull at his mouth, satisfied.
The numbers thrown out for every item are even higher than I expected. We’re already in six-figure territory for some pieces.
We’ve only made our way down the list when Matt gets a call. He picks up, keeping his voice low, but not low enough I can’t hear him. I watch his expression shift as he listens. Confusion at first, then mild annoyance.
“No worries. Morning works.”
“Everything okay?”
Matt glances toward the tall windows at the end of the hall. The glass rattles faintly, followed by a low roll of thunder and lightning. When did it start raining like it’s the end of the world?
“Flights are grounded. We’re not leaving until tomorrow.”
“It’s not ideal, but I don’t really mind working from the Ritz a little longer,” I say, swallowing my stress, and imagining those Egyptian bedsheets. He stands, grabs my hand, and pull us out of the side door.
“Jennifer’s calling to see if we can stay in the same rooms.”
As if on cue, his phone buzzes. He reads the message, cursing under his breath.
“Fully booked. Everyone’s looking for an overnight stay.”
My eyes widen. “Um. I can start calling other hotels, see if I can find something.”
I can pinpoint the moment his eyes light up with an unspoken idea.
“No need. I know exactly where we can stay tonight.”