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God, why does he say things like that?

I smiled, trying to play it cool. “You’re very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making ordinary stuff feel a lot more interesting. And making me forget how to breathe normally.”

His low chuckle sent a pleasant shiver through me. “Good. I like you. And I like that I can make you a little flustered. It’s cute on you.”

Get it together, Samantha. Don’t come across like some desperate girl. Definitely not like a desperate virgin.

I knew a man like Richard probably had women throwing themselves at him all the time. I refused to be one of them. I’d been to plenty of art galleries over the years, but experiencing one like this with him felt completely different.

The way he actually knew his stuff, pointing out little details without sounding like he was lecturing, and how he kept asking real questions about me instead of dominating the conversation with stories about himself like most guys did.

It was… refreshing.

And the fact that his eyes stayed on my face instead of drifting down to my chest made the whole thing even more disarming.

We continued through the rooms, the conversation flowing easily. Later at dinner, the candlelight danced between us as I took another bite of the perfectly seared salmon.

“This food is incredible,” I said, genuinely impressed. “I don’t think I’ve had anything this good in months. You really know how to pick a place.”

Richard’s eyes stayed on me more than his plate, a small smile playing at his lips. “I’m glad you like it. Watching you enjoy it is better than the meal itself.”

Our knees brushed under the table and stayed there. He asked more about my day-to-day, listening closely, while I found myself leaning in, drawn to the way he looked at me like I was the only thing worth paying attention to.

After dessert, we lingered a little longer, finishing the last of the chocolate torte and strawberries while drifting past a couple more pieces. Richard pointed out subtle brushwork on one landscape that I hadn’t noticed, and I shared how the soft colors made me feel unexpectedly calm. The pull between us never faded, that quiet tension building just beneath every word and glance.

Richard led me to a smaller back room. Only one spotlight illuminated the space.

A small canvas in a simple black frame hung on the wall: After the Fire.

I stopped dead. “Richard… that’s After the Fire.”

He stepped closer behind me. “You kept coming back to it. I noticed. Figured it meant something to you, so I wanted you to have it.”

My heart hammered. He bought this? For me? The thought made my stomach twist with equal parts thrill and doubt.

How many other women has he done this for? Am I special, or just the flavor of the month?

I turned to face him. “You can’t just buy me something like this and expect me not to feel… something. It’s too much. You don’t need to do this.”

“I’m hoping you feel something,” he said, his gaze softening as it dropped briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes. “But the painting is yours regardless. Take it because you want it, Samantha. Not because you think you owe me anything.”

The tension bloomed between us. I wanted him to close the distance. He didn’t. That quiet restraint was more disarming than anything else.

“I’ll take it,” I whispered. “Thank you… Really.”

His eyes warmed with quiet satisfaction. “Good. I’ll have it delivered to your condo tomorrow morning.”

“That’s… incredibly kind. You didn’t have to do any of this, Richard.”

“I know,” he said with that subtle smile. “But I wanted to. Seeing your face when you look at something you love? Worth every bit of it.”

We left the gallery shortly after. Richard held the door open for me as we stepped out into the cool night air near the water. The streets were quiet, lights reflecting off the damp pavement. He offered his arm, and I took it, the contact sending a small spark through me.

“Tell me something,” he said as we walked slowly along the waterfront. “How did you fall in love with art? Was it always there?”