Page 49 of Hustle

Definitely free.

But when he hesitates, I turn back and look at him again. There’s that slightly worried expression before it drops behind the polished mask.

“Not that,” he says and that quickly amends, “Well, yes. But actually, I was hoping to take you out tonight.”

I look down at my loungewear and start to question him, but I stop myself.

Seamus being spontaneous? Yeah, I’m not crushing that.

With a quick kiss to his lips, I say, “Give me ten.”

I’m not exactly the wash and wear type, but I pull it together and then Seamus leads the way downstairs to his SUV which has been idling with the doorman. It’s a short drive in silence that has me nervous.

Things have been going well. I mean, we have our moments – it’s still Seamus and me after all – but on the whole, we’re both happy. More than happy. Better than I dared to hope. But the way that he’s acting tonight, I get that familiar creeping sensation.

Doubt.

Worry.

Fear.

Maybe it’s not going as well as I think. I shift in my seat to look at Seamus and he’s staring straight ahead, looking resolute. He seems to sense my discomfort and reaches out for my hand reflexively, though.

In a few minutes, we reach our destination. Boston’s contemporary art museum. But they’re closed this late? My mind races to see if I’ve forgotten some gala, some event.

They happen occasionally, but I don’t think I’d forget one here.

The setting would take the edge off having to mingle with Seamus’ business associates. I still get a odd glances even after the last few years of being on his arm.

People are always surprised I’m his type.

But one appreciating glance from him and it’s obvious: I’m exactly his type.

Seamus comes around and opens my door.

“Have I told you that you look gorgeous tonight?”

I reward him with a kiss, that’s interrupted by a very well-dressed valet. “Good evening, Mr. Doyle. Ms. McCallum.”

Up the stairs and we’re inside the museum. And I just freeze.

The atrium is a work of art, with colorful hangings making a stunning visual display. It’s called “Love Infinitum” if I remember correctly. Another exhibit circles the walls at eye level.

But I’m not registering what’s there.

I’m looking at a single table with a candle in the middle of the room, and the small orchestra that’s standing patiently to one side.

Seriously, there are like eight musicians.Is that a French horn?

“I came here, you know,” Seamus says softly from behind me. “Back when your art first went on display as part of that exhibit. Back when we were dealing with the Stacy family about your shop. Just came here and stared at it for hours, trying to see if it would help me understand you better.”

I spin around, my brain still struggling to catch up with what’s happening.

“You’re so talented. Everything you do, making the world a more beautiful and amazing place.”

Somewhere, out of sight, the tiny orchestra begins to play.

Seamus isn’t where I expect him to be standing. He’s down on one knee, looking up at me with hopeful eyes. They’re so blue. And his hair is doing that thing that it does when it gets too long and flops down over his forehead.

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