Since he was forced to take the week off, he might as well take advantage of it.

Chapter 8

On Tuesday morning, Miranda waited by Luke Archer’s private elevator, listening for the hum that would signal its descent. She tapped her toe against the granite floor and mentally reviewed their itinerary one more time, debating whether she should swap out the Frick for the Museum of Natural History. But he’d said he wanted culture, so she was going to give him culture. If he got bored, she could adjust.

She’d changed her outfit three times before she’d decided on a peach silk top that hugged her hips, slim-legged taupe trousers, and taupe leather wedges that were comfortable for walking. Over it, she had added a cashmere tweed blazer in soft beiges and grays, one of those splurge purchases she’d never regretted. She had tried to strike a balance between her professional service persona, which required blending into the background, and her desire to look pretty while spending the day with a gorgeous man. After all, she was only human.

The elevator kicked into action, and nervousness tightened her throat. What would Luke expect of her? Did he want information or conversation? Would he like the restaurants she’d chosen? The biggest question of all: Would he think she’d lost her mind when he heard what she’d booked as the conclusion to his day of high culture?

When the elevator doors opened, she had to swallow her gasp. The waves of his hair caught the lighting of the elevator in a way that made them glow gold. Dressed in worn jeans, a maroon T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, he looked more like a model than a football player. His cool blue eyes warmed slightly when he caught sight of her, and that slow smile brought out his single dimple.

Speech deserted Miranda as every nerve ending in her body yearned for the man in front of her.

“Mornin’,” he said, pulling a Yankees baseball cap out of his pocket and fitting it over the gleaming hair.

“Is that—” Her voice was a croak, so she stopped to clear her throat. “Is that your disguise?”

His dimple deepened. “I have Ray-Bans, too.”

She let her gaze roam over the height and breadth of him. “It’s going to take a lot more than sunglasses to make you incognito.”

He grunted. “I gave up on anonymity a long time ago.”

She understood. That’s why he lived at an exclusive place like the Pinnacle, used a helicopter or limo to travel around the city, and had a full-time assistant. It was impossible for him to lead a normal life here, so he used his money to buy some privacy.

“Well, people won’t expect to see you at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, so maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

His smile disappeared, and she saw a muscle tighten in his jaw. What was it about her innocuous comment that bothered him?

He put on his sunglasses, making his expression even harder to interpret. “So that’s our first stop?”

She started toward the door. “Yes, we’re doing a whirlwind tour that includes Van Gogh, Degas, Henry the Eighth’s armor, the Temple of Dendur, the Chinese Garden Court, Tiffany windows, and the Frank Lloyd Wright living room.” As he held the door, she smiled up at him, hoping to coax his dimple back. “Because those are my favorite things at the museum.” And she thought he would like the variety.

The corners of his lips turned up slightly, but all she could really see was her reflection in the lenses of his dark glasses. “Is that going to take an hour or all day?” he asked.

“However long you want it to,” she said, nodding to the limo’s chauffeur, who had opened the car door for her. She’d already given the driver their itinerary. She started to slide across the backseat, then swiveled to sit on the seat facing the rear of the limo. It seemed more conversational and businesslike that way.

Until Luke bent to enter the limo, his shoulders filling the doorway and blocking out the autumn sunlight. He slid onto the seat carefully, reminding her that he was injured. Settling with a creak of leather against leather, he stretched out his legs so they slanted diagonally across the space between her seat and his. It was the only way he could fit comfortably, but it emphasized the physical presence of the man. The interior of the limo suddenly felt very intimate.

He removed his sunglasses and baseball cap and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“Would you rather postpone the tour?” Miranda asked, noticing circles under his eyes.

“No.” His reply was sharp. He gave her an apologetic look. “Trevor and I knocked off a bottle of tequila last night.”

She debated whether to bring up the public speculation about the possibility that a secret injury was keeping him out of the next game.

He stared out the window and answered her question for her. “Being benched doesn’t sit well with me, so I decided to deal with it the wrong way.”

She’d wondered how Luke felt about not playing. “I hope Dr. Cavill didn’t do anything he shouldn’t have.”

He turned back to her with a rueful grimace. “No, I brought it on myself.” He shrugged and winced. “My backup needs some seasoning, and this is a good time to give it to him.”

Miranda was relieved that she hadn’t contributed to Luke’s unhappiness. “Does it hurt a lot?”

“No, it’s just—” He stopped and shook his head. “Yeah, even though it’s just bruised, it hurts like a gore from a steer’s horn when I move in certain ways. I couldn’t give my best when I feel like this, so the coach isn’t wrong.” He looked her in the eye. “This is all just between you and me.”