Page 12 of Choosing Samantha

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.

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.