I glance over at the beat-up couch in the corner and my heart speeds up. “But what about me? I mean, will you tell them I’m here too? My dad would freak the hell out if he knew we were locked in here together alone all night.”
?e tension falls out of Porter’s face, and the corners of his mouth slowly curl upward.
Oh, boy.
“Well, well, well,” he says, leaning back in his chair in front of a bank of security monitors. He temples his ngers together over his chest. “?is is an interesting situation, isn’t it? Here we were, ready to run off to some crowded theater, but now we have the entire museum to ourselves. For the whole night. A boy prays and prays and prays, and is on his very best behavior, but he never dreams that something like this will just fall into his lap— so to speak.”
“So to speak,” I say weakly.
“Lots of room to spread out in this big place.” ?e side of his knee bumps mine. A question.
All my earlier boldness has ed the building along with my courage. Now I just feel trapped. I withdraw both my legs and hide them under the desk. “What about all the cameras? I mean, won’t this show up on the video footage? If someone reviews it later, or whatever?”
He chuckles. “You think the Cave pays for data storage? ?ink again. If we want to record something, we have to do it manually. Nothing is automatically recorded.”
I glance up at the monitors and search for the Hotbox. ?ere it is. It’s empty now, of course, and dark, so I can’t see much, but it’s surreal to imagine Porter watching me from here. I make a mental note not to wear gaping tops to work, because that is a primo cleavage camera angle.
“However,” Porter says, “if you’re still worried, I know all the spots that the cameras miss. You know, if that would make you more comfortable.”
I give him a dirty look. “Who says I want to get comfortable? We went on one date.”
“Whoa.” He holds up both hands in surrender. “Now you’re making me feel like some sort of criminal sex pervert. Jesus, Bailey. An hour ago, you were talking about putting your hands on me in the back of a theater. I was just teasing you.”
I blow out a hard breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous and weirded out. I’ve just …”
“Just what?”
“I’ve just never … spent the night in a museum with anyone before.”
Porter’s brows lift. “Oh?”
I grimace. “Can you turn around or something? I can’t look at you and talk about this.”
“What?”
I make twisting movements with my hand. “Face the wall.”
He looks at me like I’m nuts, and then gives in and slowly swivels around in his chair, keeping his head facing me, squinting, until the last possible moment. When he’s facing the wall, I sigh and start talking to his back.
“Like I said before, we just went on one date.” I’m a coward, yes, but having this conversation is so much easier when I don’t have to look in his eyes. “And it was a great date. I mean, wow. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I think it had to be up there in the history books. And even though you gave me those hickeys and ruined my favorite skirt, I would do it all over again.”
“I’m still sorry about the hickeys, but for the record, I got grass stains on my clothes too. And every time I leave the house now, my mom teases me about going out for a roll in the hay and Pops has started calling me Grasshopper.”
“Oh, God,” I whisper.
“Totally worth it,” he says. “But please continue.”
“Anyway,” I say, trying to gather my thoughts. “We went from enemies to a rst date to now having the possibility of spending the night together in a museum, and not that I haven’t thought about spending the night in a museum with you, because believe me, I’ve thought about that a lot.”
His head turns sideways, but he still doesn’t look at me. “A lot?”
“You have no idea.”
“O-oh, that’s where you’re very wrong, my friend.” His knee starts bouncing a nervous rhythm.
I smile to myself as a little thrill zips through me. “Well, what I’m saying is that I’m not opposed to such a thing. But I’m guessing you’ve spent many a night in many a museum, and you know, whatever. Good for you. But that intimidates me. And when it comes to this, I need you to let me give the green signal.”
“First,” he says, holding up a nger over his shoulder, “I want to say that I’m insulted that you’d think that I wouldn’t. So thanks for making me feel like a sex criminal, again.”
