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Outside, his black car gleamed at the curb. He opened the door for me, his hand light at my lower back, polite but enough to make me aware of every point of contact.

When he settled behind the wheel, he glanced over. “You’re nervous.”

“A little. You’re… a lot.”

Smart. Wealthy. The kind of man who probably has a rotation of women waiting for his call.

Please don’t let me be just another one.

He started the car, that half-smile returning. “I’ve had more practice pretending I’m not. Truth is, I’ve been looking forward to this more than I probably should admit.”

I laughed softly, buckling my seatbelt. “Yeah? That’s different. In a good way.”

Richard glanced over as he pulled out onto the street. “Different how?”

“I don’t know. Thoughtful? Like you actually listened when I talk about art.” I shifted in my seat, watching the city lights slide by. “I’ve always wanted to do something like this, the quiet gallery thing, no crowds, just time to actually look at stuff. But no one’s ever taken me.”

He chuckled. “Their loss. I figured if we’re doing this, we might as well do it right. Plus, I like seeing what catches someone’s eye. It tells you a lot about them.” After a beat he asked, “So how long have you been single, anyway?”

“A little over a year,” I said. “I went on a date a couple weeks ago, but it wasn’t great. Nothing worth repeating.”

Richard nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “Fair enough. Sometimes it takes a while to find the right fit.”

We kept talking the whole drive, easy stuff, nothing heavy. Internally, though, my mind drifted back to my ex for a second. Sylvester. Three months of dating, and the second he figured out I wasn’t rushing into bed with him, he’d cheated and tried to make it sound like it was my fault. I pushed the thought away fast. Richard didn’t need to hear any of that.

By the time we pulled up, my cheeks were already warm from smiling so much.

The gallery sat inside an older brick building near the water, ivy curling up one side. Tall windows glowed softly. Inside, the space felt intimate and elegant: white walls, dark wood floors, pieces given plenty of breathing room. Warm lighting cast gentle shadows, making everything feel curated just for us.

A man in a dark suit met us. “Mr. Kincaid, Miss Whitmore, everything is ready.”

My heart did a little flip as we stepped further in.

A private showing.

I had daydreamed about this exact kind of night for years. Wandering a gallery with someone who actually understood the art felt like a fantasy that had never come true before. No guy had ever put in the effort like this one. I glanced at Richard and watched how he moved through the space. A rush of excitement mixed with admiration washed over me.

Richard led me through the first rooms. He let me wander at my own pace. I moved slowly and took everything in. He stayed close without hovering. He pointed out little details now and then in a way that felt genuine rather than showy.

I stopped in front of a large oil painting of a stormy sea at twilight. The waves churned with raw power while a single figure stood on the distant shore.

“This one pulls me in,” I said quietly. “It’s so turbulent yet beautiful. You can almost feel the pull between surrender and resistance. Like the quiet tension right before everything changes.”

Richard stepped up beside me. His shoulder brushed mine as he studied the canvas for a long moment. “Yeah. It carries that kind of lonely weight to it. But it doesn’t feel hopeless. More like it’s waiting for someone to step into the chaos and find their way through.” He glanced at me. “It makes me wonder what kind of story you’d see playing out here.”

I felt a small smile tug at my lips. The way he said it sounded thoughtful. It seemed as if he was actually turning the idea over in his head. That felt good.

“Something quiet but intense,” I replied. “Someone standing at the shoreline and deciding whether to move forward or walk away forever.”

I felt my face heat as I looked at him. God, he was attractive. His eyes focused on each piece as though he genuinely saw it instead of pretending for my sake. Plenty of good-looking guys had hit on me before, but none of them had been this intelligent, quick-witted, or considerate. He genuinely wanted to know what I thought instead of filling the silence.

I looked away for a second and pretended to study the painting more closely. My pulse did that stupid flutter thing again.

“Careful, Richard,” I muttered, half teasing. “Keep talking like this and I might fall head over heels.”

He smiled again. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

Heat pooled in my chest.