Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 1
KISMET
LAUREN BLAKELY
CONTENTS
Also by Lauren Blakely
About
Kismet
His Prologue
Her Prologue
1. Heath
2. Jo
3. Heath
4. Jo
5. Heath
6. Jo
7. Heath
8. Jo
9. Heath
10. Jo
11. Heath
12. Jo
13. Heath
14. Jo
15. Heath
16. Jo
17. Heath
18. Heath
19. Jo
20. Heath
21. Jo
22. Jo
23. Heath
24. Heath
25. Jo
26. Heath
27. Jo
28. Heath
Epilogue
Epilogue
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by Helen Williams.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
Hopelessly Bromantic Duet (MM)
Hopelessly Bromantic
Here Comes My Man
Happy Endings Series
My Single-Versary
A Wild Card Kiss
Shut Up and Kiss Me
Kismet
Rules of Love Series
The Rules of Friends with Benefits (A Prequel Novella)
The Virgin Rule Book
The Virgin Game Plan
The Virgin Replay
The Virgin Scorecard
Men of Summer Series
Scoring With Him
Winning With Him
All In With Him
The Guys Who Got Away Series
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend
The What If Guy
Thanks for Last Night
The Dream Guy Next Door
The Gift Series
The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift
The Extravagant Series
One Night Only
One Exquisite Touch
My One-Week Husband
MM Standalone Novels
A Guy Walks Into My Bar
One Time Only
The Bromance Zone
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
Never Have I Ever
PS It’s Always Been You
Special Delivery
The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
One Love Series
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
Sports Romance
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
The Caught Up in Love Series
The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)
The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)
Seductive Nights Series
Night After Night
After This Night
One More Night
A Wildly Seductive Night
ABOUT
When a scorching hot one-night stand with a stranger turns into a deliciously forbidden office romance...
My first evening in London feels like kismet when I bump into a charming, book-loving Englishman, and by the end of the night, he’s making me see stars. I’m floating when we make plans to meet again.
Then fate decides to pull a fast one on me.
Turns out my smoldering new lover is my red-hot competition, and we’re vying for the same promotion at the elite auction house I crossed an ocean for.
If that’s not enough, the hottie and I are forced to work together on a brand new collection.
Every. Single. Tempting. Day.
What's an American woman in London to do?
Staying far, far away would be the safe choice, especially when I learn about his past and how it mirrors mine.
But I don’t always play it safe with my heart…
Contents Include: A grumpy/sunshine office romance, secret gardens, knee-weakening kisses by the river and a hero who loves books.
KISMET
By Lauren Blakely
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Trigger warnings in this title include prior off-page death of a parent a decade before the story begins, and prior off-page death of a spouse four years before the story begins.
HIS PROLOGUE
A little while ago
Ivy crawls up the battered wall, skating between seams, gliding along the old stones until it wraps its green arms around a cracked windowpane.
As if embracing the window—or perhaps silently strangling it.
Ivy on a secret mission.
That’s what I’ll call this shot.
I lift my camera and snap a pic, then another of a sneaky vine hellbent on covering the corner of this tiny old church tucked into an alley several streets away from St Paul’s Cathedral.
There, crowds snake around the famous site, waiting for its doors to open.
Here, there’s only me at dawn, like an intrepid modern-day explorer stumbling upon a hidden gem in London.
I’ll plant a flag and mark my discovery.
Right, sure.
Like that’s my style.
My soft laugh lands lightly in the eerie early morning quiet. The city has barely stretched its arms and drunk its tea. “Bet this ivy becomes famous any day now,” I murmur.
It’s an offhand remark, the kind I’d make while sharing the photo over lunch. “Want to lay odds on when this spot will be overrun by Instagrammers?”
We’d place our bets, I imagine—make predictions, then exchange stories of the day.
It’s a possibility for a future, but an unlikely one.
I dismiss the make-believe afternoon scene and take a few steps back from the church to frame another shot.
Another angle. Another perspective.
I click off a few more, then I lower the camera and drink in the view alone, letting go of the fleeting wish that I could share it.
With . . . someone.
There are plenty of other things to do than share.
Pictures to take, books to read, and work to do.
It’s time to go.
HER PROLOGUE
Ten years ago
I. Can’t. Wait.
With bated breath, I turn the key in the lock of my studio apartment.
Fine, fine. Studio is a generous term. “Closet” is more like it.
But hey, it’s New York, and it’s mine.
I exhale, still over the moon that I’m here, still thrilled about this place I found online.
Despite the ear-piercing squawk from the door as I push it open.
Whoa. That squeal is like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz.
But I’ll snag some WD-40, give the hinges a tune-up. Just like I’ll lavish love on my brand-new place—plants, flowers, posters, the whole nine yards.
I step inside for the first time.
Huh.
It’s smaller than the pics on the website. Stretching out an arm, I can almost touch the other wall. The one with the . . . drawing of a window on it.
Yup. The only window in my basement studio is the one painted on the wall.
I drag a deep inhale of . . . sauerkraut. My new matchbox of an apartment smells like a hot dog cart.
And what’s that hanging from the ceiling?
As I wave a hand in front of my face, something sticks to my fingers.
No. Just no.
Spiderwebs.
There are spiderwebs in my sardine-can home.
I shudder.
Spiders and I don’t get along.
But that’s okay, I reassure my racing heart. No big deal.
I’m in Manhattan. Spiders are nothing. Food smells are a fact of life. Besides . . . I have my own bathroom. I turn ninety degrees, and there it is, literally the size of me.
Yes, I have a gym locker of a bathroom.
But it’s all good.
I can handle this—because the great big this of New York City has always been my goal after studying for my Masters on the West Coast. I plan to embrace every single second in the city of dreams.
I’m like the starlet in a movie musical, fresh off the bus, singing and twirling in her flouncy skirt, ready to tap dance down the Great White Way and show the Broadway director what she can do.
Okay, I don’t sing, dance, or act. But I do know art history, from the caves of Lascaux to Warhol’s Campbell’s soup cans and back.
Nothing will stop me from owning the New York art world.
Not my past, not the tangled web of lies woven through the last few years, and not the people who deceived me.
They’re out of my orbit now, and I plan to make my life my own. New home, new city, new friends.
This is me starting over.
I remember what Mom told me before I left for college. You’ve got this.
I so do.
Goodbye, past. Hello, present.
Ten fast, fantastic years later, I’ve moved out of that first windowless, condiment-scented coffin and into a one-bedroom on the Upper West Side.
Bonuses include a window, the smell of lilacs, and the blissful absence of eight-legged creepy crawlies.
I’ve worked my way up to a better job, and I’m making more moolah and loving life in my favorite place on Earth.
This city.
I have oodles of friends, loads of inspiration, and a ton of found family.
After years of feeling a little bit lost, New York is now my home.
I’m ready for whatever’s around the corner.
Ideally, it might include a four-letter word like, gasp, love.
Then, one morning I walk into my office, and I learn that the real dirty word is next.
1
HEATH
I’ve become resigned to the meager offerings on the new-release shelf in my neighborhood bookshop, disappointed by both the number and content. I pick up today’s featured contender—a photo book of the most social-media-ready spots in all of London, compiled by, let’s see, a quartet of Instagrammers.
Great.
I scoff as I flip through the pages. It’s like every top-five London list ever—Big Ben, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, blah, blah, blah. So many unique views in this city, and not one of them included.
Missed this great spot. Missed that great spot.
I snap the book closed in disgust.
“Something displeases you, Heath?” The question comes from Nigel, the shopkeeper.
I glance his way and see that he hasn’t even looked up from the counter.
“About this?” I hold up the offending book. “That’d be . . . wait for it . . . just about everything.”
“Then you should grab the green book next to it. It has you written all over it.”
I give him a side-eye, but it’s wasted. Nigel’s attention doesn’t stray from his tablet. I step closer to the counter so I can see the screen where he swipes at numbers in boxes on the screen. “Can’t you have the decency to do Sudoku with an actual pencil? And, say, on paper? Like, in a book, with pages?”
Nigel shakes his shaved head. Not a speck of hair covers his gleaming skull. “Nope.”
I harrumph and turn back to the shelf, then recoil when I spot a mint green paperback the size of a deck of cards. And the author is . . . the wit and wisdom of Twitter. “Seriously? You’re peddling this tripe? It’s not really a book. It’s a collection of inspirational quotes curated from a social media feed. I bet it has pictures of sunsets, and teacups with steam rolling off them, and twinkling chili-pepper lights strategically hung on doorways.”
At last, Nigel raises his face. He flashes me a toothy grin, pearly white against his dark skin. “And it sells like half-off tickets to a strip club in Leicester Square.”
I don’t have to open it to know I’m right, but I do, shaking my head as I ingest the bland banalities. Follow your dreams; today is a gift; embrace the future. “Books are for stories. Any kind of story. Adventure, romance, mystery, horror. Or for useful information. But this? This is just regurgitated musings on taking a bath at the end of the day or drinking wine when coffee won’t do the trick. I could find all of this insight on the internet like that,” I say, snapping my fingers and reshelving the excuse for a book.
Nigel’s eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “You know how to use the internet? Miracles abound every day.”
“It’s that thing where you type in any question, right? Like, ‘Why is everyone an arsehole today?’”
“Now that would be a good book. Hmm. . .” He scratches his jaw. “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure we’ve got that very title right behind the new biographies.”
And I’m pretty sure he’s taking the piss out of me. “Is that so?”
“Yes, behind the bio of that reality show socialite.” He snaps his fingers as if to jog his memory. “The one who had a boob job. Or . . . wait . . . was it arse implants? Something got bigger, something got smaller, someone was sued, someone’s a twat. Take a look behind it. You’ll find the book you’re looking for.”
I fold my arms and stare him down. “Why not just tell me what’s at the end of this scavenger hunt?”
Finally, Nigel clears his throat and returns his attention to his puzzle, giving in and muttering, “There’s a new Trevor Masters. It’s fantastic. You’ll find it tucked behind the bio, you fucking prick.”
Oh, that is indeed the one I want.
I move the torrid tell-all aside. Nothing wrong with tell-alls, but it’s not what I came for. My grin broadens with satisfaction when I find the prize. “I knew you were holding on to something good. Admit it—you tucked this nugget away just for me.”
