Page 70 of Second Quarter Comeback
“And you’re adorable,” I reply without missing a beat.
Her steps falter just slightly, a hint of color rising to her cheeks. But she recovers quickly, taking another sip of her coffee like my words didn’t just completely derail her thoughts.
The banter flows as easily as the sunlight streaming through the trees, and as we weave through the park, I can’t help but feel like I’ve already won today. She’s here—laughing, her guard down just enough to let me in.
And yeah, this day? Pretty perfect.
Camille rolls her eyes at something I’ve said, but the laugh that escapes her is genuine. Her face softens in a way that makes me wish I could freeze this moment forever.
We wander through the park, letting the energy of the city buzz around us. At Bethesda Terrace, a crowd has gathered to watch street dancers. One of them leaps into the air, flipping clean over his partner in a move so smooth it earns gasps and cheers. Camille claps along with the crowd, her excitement contagious.
She sneaks a glance at me out of the corner of her eye, her lips twitching with a smile she’s trying to hide. I lean in and steal a quick peck, grinning when her cheeks turn pink.
“Let’s go to our next stop,” I say, taking her hand.
“What’s the next stop?”
“You’ll see.” I wink at her.
She narrows her eyes. “That’s suspicious.”
“It’s not. It’s thoughtful,” I counter.
She sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll play along. For now.”
We make our way back to the entrance, where my black SUV is waiting. Ted greets us with a polite nod as I open the door for Camille.
“You love art,” I say simply as she slides in.
“You remember?” she asks, looking at me with a mix of surprise and something softer.
“Of course I remember,” I reply, my voice low. “You lit up talking about that art class you took in college—against your parents’ wishes. It had nothing to do with biochemistry. Doing something different made you happy.”
She doesn’t respond, but the slight smile on her lips says enough.
The ride is quick, the familiar rhythm of the city blurring past the windows. When we pull up in front of the Whitney Museum of American Art, her eyes widen.
“The Whitney,” she says, turning to me with a grin. “I’ve never been here. Good choice.”
We spend the next hour wandering through the galleries, her hand in mine. Camille moves with a quiet curiosity, stopping to study each piece like she’s unraveling a story hidden in the brushstrokes or the shape of the sculptures.
I observe her more than the art, captivated by the way her brow furrows slightly when she’s reading aplaque or how her head tilts just enough when something catches her eye. She has this unfiltered enthusiasm for art, and it’s impossible not to be drawn in.
When she catches me staring, she pauses mid-step. “What?”
“You’re better than anything in here,” I say without hesitation.
She shakes her head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” I say, kissing the tip of her nose. “But I’m also right.”
Her cheeks flush, and she pretends to ignore me as she tugs me toward the next gallery.
From the Whitney, we head to our next stop, a cozy bistro tucked into a quiet side street. Lunch is simple but perfect—paninis with gooey cheese, fresh salads, and a bottle of wine we share between bites. She tries to swipe one of my fries, but I catch her hand mid-reach, grinning.
“You could’ve just asked,” I say.
“I prefer sharing,” she replies, popping the fry into her mouth triumphantly.
