Page 11 of Choosing Samantha

“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.