“Hey,” a deep voice murmurs behind me. An arm encircles my waist. “Wanna get out of here?”

I glance around and see Archer grinning down at me; so close I can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. He’s looking at me like I’m the only girl in the world.

Of course he is, you’re at an event.

“Are we allowed to leave?” I ask, sneaking a look around the crowded room. We’re at the sixth campaign event this month—this one is back at the Strattons’ residence. I thought I’d be champing at the bit to get at these prospects to pitch GAC, but at the rate Archer and I were flitting around town, I was going to burn out before raising a dime.

“I don’t see why not,” Archer answers, dipping his head toward my ear. His scruffy chin grazes my neck, sending a thrill of excitement through me.

“What about your dad?” I say, a tad breathy.

“We’ve shown up, smiled for the cameras, cuddled…” He glides his fingertips up my neck and leans in to peck me on the cheek. I have to stop myself from moaning.

Archer and I have been ramping up the physical touching lately. After all, we’ve “officially” been dating for a month and a half. It hasn’t been easy—you try faking a relationship that’s based entirely around public events. We have eyes on us everywhere, we are never alone, and we’re expected to show up and smile even when both of us have had an exhausting day and just want to go home.

At least pretending to be Archer’s girlfriend has gotten much easier. He’s been…different—nicer—since volunteering with me last month. Sure, he still drives me nuts, but we don’t constantly bicker anymore.

Sometimes it comes so naturally that I forget we’re pretending; I forget that Archer’s loving looks and honeyed words are carefully crafted to manipulate the media. I’ve done a good job myself. New York City thinks we’re head over heels in love, that we’d do anything for each other, but I know he’s not in this to please me. He’s in it to win votes.

But that’s hard to remember when his touch sets me on fire. When his cobalt-blue eyes strip me bare. When his presence behind me right now is heating up all the places I’m telling to cool down—

On second thought, maybe I should get out of here.

“Let’s do it,” I answer, my pulse quickening.

Archer grabs my hand. “If anyone asks, we’re stepping out for some air,” he whispers into my ear.

I nod, and we start weaving through the crowd. We make it to the foyer before things go south.

Archer is reaching for the door handle when the door swings open. A beautiful dark-haired vixen stands on the threshold.

“Archie?” the woman says.

“Tessa,” Archer says, reeling back. “What are you doing here?”

I’ve been around Archer enough to pick up on the subtleties of his moods. His tight mouth and stiff shoulders tell me he’s shocked—and nervous.

“Your parents invited my family,” Tessa says, pouting. “You don’t have to look so grief-stricken. I’m sure we can be civil to each other for a few hours, Archie.”

Archie?

“Quinn and I are on our way out, actually,” Archer says, grabbing my hand. He holds it tighter than usual.

“Quinn?” Tessa repeats. Her gaze lands on me, and I feel myself being judged. Hardcore judged.

Tessa turns back to Archer and purses her lips. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“No,” Archer replies, tugging on my hand.

Instinctively, I wrap my arms around him, bringing him close. I can feel his heart pounding as I press myself against his chest. I bring my lips up to his ear. “Wanna get out of here?” I whisper, using his words from before.

He gives a imperceptible nod. “Goodbye, Tessa.”

Archer pulls me past her and we spill out onto the front steps. The moment the door shuts behind us, Archer drops my hand, takes a deep breath, and rubs his eyes. I have no idea what happened back there, but I can tell Archer doesn’t want to talk about it.

I pump my fist in the air. “We’re free!”

Archer cocks an eyebrow. “First jailbreak, East?”

“Is it obvious?”

“Not at all,” he says dryly. “Where to?”

“Food. I’m starving.” I glance around the empty block of row home after row home. “I’m feeling like Middle Eastern.”

“I can get us in at Ilili,” Archer offers, reaching for his phone.

“No. Let’s go to Taboon.”

Archer snaps his head up. “In Hell’s Kitchen?”

“One and the same. I used to go there all the time in college.”

“Okay…” He runs a hand over his hair. “Let me call Tom—”

“Nope, we’re taking the subway.”

He laughs and gestures at his dark navy suit. “I’m in Saint Laurent.”

“And I’m in Valentino.” I plant my hands on my hips. “Are you chickening out on me, Stratton?” I’d come to call him by his surname over the past few weeks since he insisted on calling me “East.”

Archer scowls at me. “Lead the way.”

Fifteen minutes later, after a hilarious train ride involving a tense and awkward Archer, we’re squeezed into a table at Taboon. After another five minutes of debating whether we should get the hummus or baba ghanoush for an appetizer, I take over and order the sampler.

“There,” I say, sitting back with a sigh, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I’m never taking the subway again,” Archer vows.

“Sure you are. If we’re going to have to do six events in one month again, then we’ll be frequenting Hell’s Kitchen a lot.”

“You know, if you like Middle Eastern, you should join me at Sam’s Falafel Stand sometime for lunch.”

“Where’s that?”

“Financial District.”

“Can’t even leave your office for lunch?” I shake my head. “Live a little, Stratton.”

Archer shrugs. “It’s not like I can get over to Middle Eastern Halal.”

“Wait, you eat in Harlem? No way.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He takes a sip of water. “And for your information, I enjoyed myself in grad school—if you know what I mean…”

Normally, a comment like this would rile me up. But this time, I saw my opening.

“Speaking of living it up…” I fiddle with my napkin. “I noticed some tension between you and that woman we ran into back there.”

Archer’s finger tense around his glass. “You mean Tessa Clifton?”

I nod.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, returning his glass to the table with a thud. He stops and lets out a tired sigh. “I’m sorry. You deserve to know anyway, as my ‘girlfriend’,” he says, punching out some air quotes.

I try not to let that hurt.

“That’s the woman my father and mother wanted me to date,” he explains. “Not date, exactly. More like get back together with.”

“But you don’t date.”

“We did,” Archer snaps. “We were engaged.”

I sit back, reeling. “What happened?”

“I ended things when I found her fucking a classmate of mine in our bed. She thought I was at class.”

I’m not fooled by his cool tone. I see his jaw working as he grinds his teeth. “Archer…”

He shrugs off my pity. “I’m fine. I haven’t thought about her in years until I ran into her at that Met dinner. When you found me staring at the Manet, I was trying to get my head straightened out.”

Our sampler arrives, and Archer goes quiet. As we stuff our faces, I sneak a glance or two at him. For the first time, I see that night at The Met through his eyes. I guess we both got off on the wrong foot.

Archer catches my roaming eye. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…” he says, putting his pita down. “That night at the arts center, you mentioned you went to NYU for art. What did you study?”

“Painting,” I say, lighting up at the memory. “Watercolors, mainly. But give me a blank canvas, and I’ll find something to paint with.”

“But you work in development.”

“So?”

“Your eyes light up when you talk about art, and you were pretty happy helping those kids at GAC. Why give up that passion to work at The Met?”

“The Met’s not some no-name art gallery,” I say, bristling.

Archer points a finger at me. “Didn’t answer the question.”

I lean back. “Art doesn’t pay the bills. But I love working at The Met. I love supporting their programming and the collection. I help schoolchildren by raising money that sends them on field trips or to our summer camps.”

“Spoken like a true development officer,” he smirks.

I sigh. “If you’re going to be like that…”

“No, I’m sorry,” he says, growing serious. “I can see the same passion for art when you talk about your job. But…”

“What?”

Archer rests his hand over mine, and I manage not to flinch. “Art was your first passion. Don’t toss it aside for your work.” He pulls away and my hand feels bare and alone.

“I’ll think about it.” What I don’t say is that Archer voiced my deepest, darkest desire; something that I try not to think about because it’s too painful. I’d turned my back on art for money and a steady job. If I wanted to go super-psychoanalytical on myself, I know it’s because I wanted the stability after my rocky childhood.

But Archer is right—I love art. And every day I don’t pick up my brush and I ignore the blank canvas sitting in my living room, that passion dies a little more.

I look up at Archer as he digs into the hummus. Somehow this man pierces through my armor. Somehow he wiggles his way into my head and pries open locked doors, throwing back shutters that closed off my deepest desires. What happened to the egoistical jackass that was leading me to a swift and untimely death?

Archer’s phone goes off. He puts his pita down, swipes the screen, and curses.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s Tessa.”

I drop a scoop of tabbouleh on the table. “Hold up. Do you two text?”

He shakes his head, still staring at his phone. “No way. This is the first text I’ve had from her in five years.”

“What does it say?”

Archer taps the screen. “She wants to meet up with me after…”

“What?”

“After we—” he motions between us “—say good night.”

My mouth drops open. What a bitch.

“Don’t worry, East,” Archer says, giving me that old smirk, “I’m not tempted. Once a woman cheats, we’re through. I’ll text her back—”

I lunge for his phone. “No way! This is my turf.”

“What are you doing?” Archer asks as I hold it out of his reach. “Come on, Quinn, give me my phone back.” I can tell he’s irritated because he’s using my first name.

“Not happening.” I send off a reply, and hand it back to him. “There. She won’t be writing you back anytime soon.”

“Christ. I don’t even want to know—”

“I told her to step the hell off,” I say over him. “You’re my man, Stratton.”

The strangest look comes over Archer’s face.

“Are you mad?”

“No,” he breathes. “Definitely not mad.”

Archer meets my eyes, and I catch my breath. His eyes are smoldering, but not with anger. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was…desire.

“Good,” I say, ducking my head and looking away, “because I kinda also stuck out my tongue at her on our way out.”

“You’re kidding.”

“She was asking for it! She was giving me a death stare.” I shrug. “I had to stake out my territory.”

Archer tilts his head back and laughs. “You’re acting like an honest-to-God girlfriend, East.”

I squeeze his hand playfully. “I thought that’s why you kept me around.”

“Yeah…” Archer says, putting me under that spotlight again with those eyes. “That…and a few other things.”

Okaaay, I’m going to pretend he didn’t just say that. And that I don’t notice the look he’s giving me; the look that says he wants to lunge across the table and jump me.

I scoop up a healthy serving of hummus and shove it into my mouth. Holy cow, I’ve gotta keep on my toes around this one.