“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Miranda said, basking in his happiness. “I may go blind from the reflection on your teeth.”

He leaned back in his chair, making it creak alarmingly. “The next time you visit the Morgan Library, you might see my first contract displayed right beside Mozart’s symphony.”

She understood now. He’d been validated in a place he didn’t expect to be. “Is that what you’re going to give them? Your first contract?”

“Maybe. Or I have a letter from Joe Namath, congratulating me on signing with the Empire, which would be a double score for the Morgan. However, I need to hold on to that a little longer. It’s a good luck charm.” She noticed his Texas twang was muted now that he was talking to her about business. “I’ll definitely send along an autographed jersey for Justine.”

“Another autograph for another adoring fan.” Miranda looked up from the menu with a teasing smile.

“Well, here’s the thing. As part of my contract, I have to sit in a hotel room and autograph jerseys, photos, posters, footballs, and other crap that the NFL then sells at jacked-up prices. It’s boring as hell and gives me writer’s cramp. Which is why I only do it in the off-season. Don’t want to damage the valuable tool.” He held up his right hand, fingers splayed.

Miranda could see the power in that big square palm and those long fingers. She remembered the heat and strength of them and felt an exquisite shiver run across her skin.

He dropped his hand. “They glue on a sticker that says whatever I signed is authentic. My opinion is that it’s more authentic to sign things for people I actually meet.”

A waiter bustled up and took their orders. Miranda had felt safe bringing Luke here, where the clientele was almost entirely ladies of a certain age wearing expensive designer suits and even more expensive jewelry. However, she saw the waiter walk up to one of his colleagues and say something as he cut his eyes over toward their table. She sighed inwardly. To the young man’s credit, he did not say a word until the very end of the meal, when he simply expressed his admiration for Luke’s play. Of course, Luke signed the check for him.

“It’s no wonder your hand stays so strong,” Miranda said. “You’re always using it to autograph things.”

He just laughed and draped his arm over her shoulder as they walked out to the waiting limo. It was a moment of easy camaraderie that she hadn’t expected from this intense man. She felt good about giving him time off from being Luke Archer, celebrity quarterback.

After touring the Frick and the Guggenheim, they had dinner at a quiet restaurant near Lincoln Center, discussing the art and artifacts they’d seen. Miranda had spent most of the meal mesmerized by the way the candle flame gilded the slash of Luke’s cheekbones and cast a profound shadow in his dimple as it came and went.

When they headed toward the theater, she began to have second thoughts about their destination and came to a stop on the sidewalk. Moving in front of him, she watched his expression as she said, “Tell me the truth. Do you want to go to the ballet?”

He flicked her cheek with his finger. “Sure do. Who knows? They might invite me up onstage to do a pirouette.”

“Do you know how to do a pirouette?”

She watched in amazement as he dropped her hand, braced himself a moment with his arms held out at shoulder height, and then spun into a turn on the ball of one foot. She caught only a hint of a wince as he landed. It wasn’t exactly a pirouette, but it was both athletic and graceful.

A little glow of wonder spun in her chest. “You truly can do anything.”

He gave her a roguish look. “You have no idea, sugar.”

She laughed because she’d decided to just go with the flirting. It wasn’t going to lead anywhere, after all.

At the theater, they walked in the front door like average audience members, had their tickets scanned, and headed up the steps. Luke eyed the oversize marble statues of plump women situated on the promenade. “They look like wrestlers, not ballerinas,” he said. Since Miranda had always thought the same thing, she stifled a chuckle.

“Let’s get you into your seat before anyone recognizes you,” she said.

“I don’t think this crowd will know who I am.” His tone was dry as he looked around the big open space with its gray stone floor and tiers of walkways.

“You didn’t think they’d know you at the Morgan Library and look what happened.”

As Luke settled into his red velvet orchestra seat on the aisle of the vast, modern theater, he removed his baseball cap and slid down so his knees nearly hit the seat in front of him.

“No one will bother you while you’re sitting,” Miranda whispered, “so you don’t have to slouch.”

He slanted her a smile. “I’m being considerate of the person behind me.”

She looked at the difference between his eye level and hers and muttered, “Oh, right.” It was one of those small, courteous gestures he kept surprising her with.

Opening the program, she pointed out the write-ups about the three pieces they were seeing. “Just forget about the tutus, and watch the dancers’ bodies. I think you’ll be impressed by what they can do.”

“Do you like the ballet?” he asked.

“It was one of the things I most wanted to see when I left the farm. The first live performance I came to, I kept getting distracted by this soft tapping sound. It took me a while to realize it was the hardened toe boxes of the ballerinas’ shoes hitting the stage floor as they danced. On television, they edited that out, I guess.”