Misadventures with the Boss (Misadventures #12)(29)

I wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe that he’d whisk me away to some underground jazz club or to his favorite tailored suit shop. Maybe just to some hole-in-the-wall burger joint that nobody had ever heard of. With a guy like Jackson, I could never be sure.

But, as we sailed down the avenue, I had a few guesses.

“The M&M store in Times Square?” I asked, grinning at him.

“Nope,” he said, squeezing my hand.

“What about, um, the Ferris wheel in the Toys ‘R’ Us?”

“Not there either,” he said.

“I’m running out of guesses,” I complained.

“Good news for me.”

“Hey!” I popped him lightly on the shoulder, but he pressed on, turning the corner and trying to hide his ever-widening grin.

“So no place touristy?” I asked.

“I didn’t say that either.”

“You haven’t said much of anything. At all.”

It was true—from the moment we’d left my apartment, he’d barely uttered more than a few words, though most had been in answer to my never-ending questions about where exactly he was taking me. But as much as I was peppering him with constant questions, I was walking on air.

He’d come to my apartment building, and not only was he concerned for my safety, he’d whisked me off on a date.

A real, relationship-style date, complete with the breakfast of champions and handholding. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I hadn’t had this kind of male attention in a long while, and while screaming orgasms were nice, I had missed this casual comradery more than I had been aware.

“I want it to be a surprise.”

We turned a corner and walked past booths of street vendors selling pottery and scarves. Jackson barely looked at them, but I paused, my eyes wide, and inspected the cute creations.

“Come on,” he said.

“Fine, fine, I’m coming.”

In front of us stretched the vast, wide steps of the Museum of Modern Art, though the street in front of it was flanked by vendors and lines of tourists.

“We’re here.”

“What do you mean?” I looked around. “The food trucks? We’re going to wait in this line for an hour.” The food did smell delicious, but I’d just scarfed down a plate-sized Danish and was hardly ready for lunch yet.

He shook his head and then gestured to the huge, pillared museum. “You told me to take you to my favorite place in the city. Here it is.”

“The Art Museum?” I blinked at the building and the flood of families coming and going through the wide-open doors. Of all the places I’d expected him to choose, this wasn’t even on the list.

Keeping me on my toes, aren’t you, Jackson?

He considered me for a minute and then said, “Let’s go inside.”

Placing his hand on the small of my back, he led me up the wide marble steps until we reached the atrium. On a sunny Saturday like this, it felt like almost every person in the city was trying to get inside the place, and we waited as the queue in front of us thinned and people took up their walking-tour headphones and joined still more groups. To the side, a bunch of kids were assembling for what looked like a church field trip, and I grinned as one of the little boys lightly pulled a girl’s pigtails.

I almost pointed them out to Jackson, but then his hand found mine and he was giving me a small blue button to pin to my shirt.

“Thanks,” I murmured and affixed the little circle to my clothes before stepping into the first room.

I had to admit, it was a good showing from Jackson. For the next ten minutes, I strolled around the room in awe, marveling at the paintings and sculptures.

“So this is your favorite place in the city,” I said again, and Jackson gave me a solemn nod.

“What’s your favorite part?”

“There are so many.” He shrugged. “The exhibits change all the time, and then there’s the exhibit with the old sixties and seventies furniture that looks impossible as a functional piece in someone’s house. There was an Andy Warhol exhibit I liked here once.”

“Andy Warhol? Really?” I raised my eyebrows.

He nodded.

“Affinity for Campbell’s soup?”

“Just the tomato,” he shot back.

Taking my hand again, he led me toward the newer exhibits, expertly weaving through each of the rooms like he really had been here many, many times before. He knew the place by heart.

Finally, we reached a room filled with huge canvases with swathes of colors. Some faded from one color to another while others were blocks of colors that seemed to exist independent of the rest of the canvas. They were so simple, but the simplicity in and of itself was oddly intriguing, and I found myself moving a little closer, taking in the brushstrokes and the sheer craftsmanship.

“A favorite of yours?” I asked.

“Rothko. He’s a classic.”

I nodded. “I can see why. His stuff is…”

“Incredible,” he filled in, and no part of me wanted to argue. “You like art,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I do. It was my major in college.”

“College wasn’t on your résumé,” he said, his head cocked in my direction.