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He straightens slightly in his seat, like I’ve just given him a boost of energy by agreeing to keep the outfits that he picked out.
Like he’s just as pleased that I’ve accepted them, as I am that he’s spent his precious time and energy on…me.
I don’t feel controlled or like he wants to dress me up like a doll. I feel cared for. Thought about. Cherished. I’m not sure any man has ever made me feel like that.
“Here we are,” he says.
I glance out of the window, and my gaze trails up to the Metropolitan Museum. “The Met?”
He pulls another Saks bag from the front passenger seat. “Yes, the Met, and we’re going to need this.” When we get to the top of the steps, there’s a short, brown-haired woman waiting for us.
“Mr. East,” she says. “How lovely to have you with us this evening.”
Ben shakes her hand. “Good to see you again, Mei. This is Avril Huntington.”
I shake Mei’s hand, returning her smile.
“Dinner is at eight thirty, as you requested,” Mei says. “And we have two curators who are ready to tell you more about any area of the museum you want to visit.”
Ben lifts up the Saks bag. “We’re going to need more comfortable footwear.”
I peer inside the bag to see Nike boxes. “You brought sneakers?”
“I figured you wouldn’t be able to walk much in whichever shoes you were wearing.”
I narrow my eyes at the man in front of me. Is it possible that he’s as perfect as he seems?
“What?” he says. “Are you offended?”
“Whatever the opposite of offended is. That’s me.”
He grins and pushes his hand through his hair, like he’s relieved. He looks ten years younger, but still hot as all holy fuck.
Of course, Ben has remembered socks, and once we’ve changed, we take a look at the museum map.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Is there anyone else here tonight?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “We have the place to ourselves. Apart from the staff, of course.”
Excitement ripples through me. I love the Met, it’s a New York institution, and the idea that I would be able to explore without the usual crowds feels…special.
“This is really nice,” I say, as I grab his hand, without thinking.
He doesn’t flinch. He just squeezes my hand in his.
There’s no doubt that this feels like a real date. Ben feels like my man. I know this might be all part of his routine to prove to me that we can’t be friends, but right at this moment, I can push Boston to the side and imagine that Ben and I are real.
NINETEEN
Ben
As we enter the Damascus Room, Avril lets go of my hand and turns three hundred and sixty degrees, while she gazes at the walls and ceiling. It’s made up of two rooms—a small seating area and room they refer to as an antechamber, which is lined with dark brown and red wood, decorated with gold leaf. It’s grand and cozy at the same time.
“This is beautiful. I can imagine living here,” she says, then she laughs. “I have ideas way above my station.”
I can’t help but smile. She’s bright and full of imagination and curiosity. But she’s so completely down to earth. She’s like no other woman I’ve ever met.
