Page 13 of Choosing Samantha

“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.