Chapter 3
THE FIRST TIME
EMMA
The phone buzzes against my thigh. Zoe should already be here, or at least close, and the fact that she’s texting instead of waving at me from across the street is a reminder that my Silverpoint social circle currently begins and ends with a single name.
Zoe: Em, I’m SO sorry, but this audit just blew up, and it’s due tomorrow. I literally cannot leave. Rain check? I’ll make it up to you, I SWEAR!
I stare at the text while standing on the corner of Fifth and Harbor, the wind cutting through my jacket like it has a personal grudge.
The museum tickets are in my bag. Zoe bought them weeks ago, insisting we needed a culture night to celebrate my escape from Ashford.
She’d been so excited about some painting that supposedly had life-changing energy, and letting the tickets go to waste feels like a betrayal of the effort she’s put into keeping me afloat since I moved here.
Me: It’s okay. Go save the world one PowerPoint at a time.
Zoe: You’re an angel. GO ANYWAY. Seriously. You need this. Take your sketchbook. Fall in love with the blue painting for both of us.
I could go home, curl up with a bowl of noodles and a book. There's another option, the one that makes my stomach do a nervous flip. I could walk into the museum and pretend I’m comfortable being alone.
The city has already started its evening transformation.
Suits bleed out of glass towers into parking garages and happy hours.
I’ve been in Silverpoint for three weeks, long enough to learn the bus routes and the coffee shops that won’t judge you for nursing a single cup for two hours, but not long enough to feel like I have any right to be here.
The Museum of Modern Art announces itself from two blocks away, all glass and sharp angles that catch the last of the evening light.
There is already a queue of thirty people waiting behind a velvet rope.
I join the back of the line and fish the tickets from my bag, feeling the weight of the second one.
I notice a man in a sharp navy suit standing at the edge of the queue.
He isn't in line, but he isn't quite out of it either.
He looks out of place. His shoulders are broad, and the suit fits him with a precision that suggests it was sculpted for his body.
The white of his shirt is a stark, crisp line against his tanned throat.
The evening light catches his hair, black with an almost violet sheen.
He steps toward the ticket booth, stops, turns back. He runs his hand through his hair before walking toward the booth like he’s made a difficult decision.
I’m staring, and I can’t seem to stop. My marketing brain is already categorizing him as a premium brand, something expensive and out of reach.
The clerk at the booth shakes his head before the man even finishes asking. I can’t hear the exchange, but the body language is clear. The stranger’s shoulders drop slightly, and he nods once. It’s a tight, controlled movement.
He turns, and his eyes find mine.
They are blue. A startlingly deep indigo.
He frowns, and I feel caught doing something wrong.
Wow, okay. I was definitely staring too hard.
I turn toward the entrance with my cheeks burning. Damn, the line is moving at a snail’s pace, no place to hide. My heart is doing something stupid in my chest, and I take a breath to steady myself. He’s just a man. A ridiculously attractive man in a tailored suit, but still, just a man.
I glance back. He’s still looking at me. He isn't checking his phone or leaving. He’s watching me with an unreadable expression, as if I’m a problem he’s trying to solve. Finally, he starts walking, and I realize he has to cross the queue to leave. He has to pass me.
I should look away. I should dig through my bag or pretend to check my phone, but I stand there like a statue as he approaches.
As he gets closer, I catch his scent. It is clean and woodsy, something like sandalwood and aftershave. He passes so close I could reach out and touch his sleeve. My fingers twitch at my side.
“Hey.”
The word is out before I’ve decided to say it. Those intense eyes land on me again. Up close, his features are almost severe in their perfection. The kind of face that belongs on a coin or a cautionary tale.
“Hi?” he says. It sounds like a question.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “But did the booth just turn you away? Is it sold out?”
The tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. “Yes.”
“Okay, well.” I hold up the extra ticket and feel my cheeks flush. “I have a spare ticket if you want it. My friend bailed.”
He blinks slowly.
“Why?”
The word isn't rude, but his gaze drops to the ticket, then back to my face, like he's waiting for the price tag.
“Because it’s paid for and I’d rather not waste it.” It comes out like a question. My voice is pitching up at the end, betraying my nerves. “I mean, you wanted to get in, and I have an extra, so...”
I trail off. His expression hasn't shifted. I might as well have offered him a ticking package.
“You don’t know me,” he says.
“I don’t know anyone in this city.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to take them back. “Look, do you want the ticket or not? I’m trying to do something nice here, and you’re making it weird.”
His eyebrows shoot up. For a second, nothing. Then the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I’m making it weird,” he repeats.
“Yes. You are.”
“In that case, I apologize.” His voice drops half a register, warmer than before. “Thank you. For the ticket.”
He takes it from my hand. Where his fingers brush mine, my skin prickles with heat. I pull back too fast.
I shuffle to the side to make space for him. The woman behind me shoots us a look, but she stays silent. He steps in beside me. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulder, and suddenly the queue feels a lot smaller.
I stare straight ahead and clutch my bag strap. I am hyper-conscious of the warmth radiating from him. I should say something, anything, but my brain has gone completely blank.
“I’m Kai, by the way.”
I glance up. He has turned to face me properly, one hand extended, as if we’re meeting at a business function.
His grip is firm and warm, but his palm is rougher than I expected.
“Emma.”
“Nice to meet you, Emma.”
The way he lowers his voice when he says my name makes my stomach flip. I slip my hand out of his and turn back toward the entrance.
The line moves forward, and we advance with it. More silence follows.
“So,” I say, at the same moment he asks, “Is this—”
We both stop.
“Sorry, go ahead,” I say.
“No, please. You.”
“I insist.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I was going to ask if this is your first time here.”
“At this museum? Yes.” I tilt my head. “What about you? First time?”
“First museum,” he says. “Ever.”
I check his face for the punchline. Nothing.
“Ever? In your whole life?”
“In my whole life.”
“Wow.” Now I’m curious. “Not even with a school trip?”
His gaze goes distant, like he's looking at something I can't see. “I missed that.”
The way he says it closes a door. I leave it shut.
“Well, you picked an interesting one to start with.” I gesture at the glass and steel towering above us. “Contemporary art is an acquired taste.”
“Is that a warning?”
“More like managing expectations.” I smile. “If you hate everything, don’t blame me. I just gave you the ticket.”
He tips his head in my direction. “I won’t hold you liable for any art-induced distress.”
I blink. Did he just joke?
He clears his throat and looks away, as if he’s surprised himself.
“Right,” I say, biting back a grin. “Good. That’s... good.”
The ticket scanner waves us forward. My ticket, then his, and then we are through the doors into the lobby.
I turn to Kai. I don't want him to feel obligated to stick with me.
“Well. Enjoy your first exhibit.” I smile, perhaps too brightly. “You’re lucky. There’s nothing like experiencing something for the first time.”
I don’t wait for him to offer a polite excuse to leave. I give a little wave and hurry toward the west wing. My heart is hammering for no good reason.
God, was that wave cringey? It felt cringey.
I keep walking, trying to lose myself in the colorful halls of the museum, even as the scent of sandalwood seems to linger in the air behind me.