‘I’m impressed that you know the terminology.’
She intended it as a compliment, or at least as grudging admiration, but her tone comes down harder on the grudge than the admiration.
‘I’m a professional,’ he says. ‘It’s my job to know these things.’
‘To know romance?’
‘To have an understanding of the book world as a whole.’
‘Okay, fair.’
‘So what’s it about?’
‘It’s about two rivals in the publishing industry who hate each other. Only it turns out that what they thought was hate is actually latent simmering sexual tension.’
‘Wow,’ Sam says, and it’s not as sarcastic as Lexi might have expected. ‘What made you want to read that?’
He’s timed his question just right, almost as if in retaliation. They’re at another crossing, the one right before they go their separate ways to their separate, warring bookshops.
Sam turns his face towards Lexi, and without thinking about it, she turns to face him too. Her face is burning up; she can feel it. It’s not the springtime warmth, and it’s not sunburn– thank you, sunscreen-laden moisturiser. It’s heat more powerful than either of those things.
‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ Lexi replies eventually, a hint of flirtation wrapped in self-protectiveness.
Sam chortles, through his nose. ‘I didn’t think so,’ he says. ‘This is where I leave you. Have a great day!’
And off he walks, apparently unfazed.
Lexi watches him, forgetting to turn left, forgetting to cross the road. Remembering vaguely that she’d once upon a time vowed to distract him while she remained unbothered. That seems unlikely now.
Chapter Twenty-One
After a couple of piano lessons, it has become clearer to Lexi that a recital is a little way off for her, let alone one where she will wow Sam enough for the plan she has in mind. So when Erin unexpectedly can’t use tickets she has to see Yo-Yo Ma at the Kennedy Center, she jumps at the chance to take them off her hands.
It doesn’t have to be Lexi doing the playing for the music to work its magic. Music itself is enough, and the grandeur of the Kennedy Center adds to the romance of any occasion, with its pristine red carpets, its high ceilings, its feeling of space, its crystal chandeliers hanging down like giants’ earrings.
She isn’t surprised when Sam replies the instant she texts him about the tickets. The concert has been sold out for months.
‘Really, thanks for this,’ he says as she gets off the red minivan shuttle from the metro. He, of course, is already waiting at the Hall of Flags entrance, wearing a navy-blue suit, smarter and tidier than she’s ever seen him. The Kennedy Center is the kind of place that makes you want to dress up. Lexi is wearing black sparkly shoes with a small heel and her trusty little black dress, V-necked with just a hint of decolletage. ‘It’s the hottest ticket in town.’
‘Hotter than the White House Correspondents’ Dinner?’ It’s just a couple of weeks till the great, the good, and the not-so-good of the news media and selected Hollywood stars descend on the capital to hear the president and a professional comedian make jokes at their own and opponents’ expense.
‘Hotter tome,’ Sam clarifies.
As am I,Lexi wants to joke, but she isn’t sure they’re there yet.
As they watch, Lexi almost forgets who’s sitting next to her. She’s mesmerised by Yo-Yo Ma and his piano accompanist, the soaring melodies, the subtlety of their playing, the movement of their fingers. She onlyalmostforgets, though, because there’s a force field of warmth between her and Sam. She’d love to watch him watching, to see the reactions in his green eyes, to see what he’s like when he’s fully, completely focused. She’d love to take his hand, to lean her head on his shoulder. But she doesn’t want to interrupt his moment, and anyway, it’s too soon for that, and she hopes thealmost touchingof it will be as sexy and attractive to him as it is to her.
His eyes are shining when he turns to her at intermission, and with a hand on the small of her back, he leads Lexi to pick up their bubbly rosé and stand on the terrace. This is one of her favourite places in DC, walking among the fountains, below quotes by JFK on the importance of the arts.
‘He’s quite something, isn’t he?’ she says.
‘Yes.’ Sam raises his glass, and Lexi clinks it with hers. ‘To many more evenings like this,’ he says.
Lexi isn’t sure if it’s that or the wine that makes her cheeks feel pink.
Standing in the warm April air, drinking their drinks, they chat easily about nothing of great consequence. DC, music, books.
‘Fifteen minutes is never long enough for a drink at intermission,’ Lexi says. ‘I have to down it so quickly and I get tipsy.’
