Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 13
He lets go, gestures to a chair. “Sit. Have some tea. Do you still like English breakfast?”
“I never liked English Breakfast. I prefer coffee,” I say.
“Ah, right. Let’s get you some coffee, then, and talk about work,” he says.
My shoulders sag.
Work.
Always work.
But then, that’s all we have to discuss. What else is there?
Listen, Jo, let’s talk about the fact that I shacked up with your bestie. What it’ll take for you to forgive me?
He won’t say that because he doesn’t see it as a transgression. At the time, he saw it as his romantic right, and I doubt that’s changed.
I open the menu, perusing pastries and tea sandwiches I’ve no interest in eating. But it’s easier to stare at the page—it passes some of the time.
When the waiter arrives, my father orders Earl Grey and I opt for a bubbly water. The waiter’s brow knits. “A seltzer?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“Very well, then,” he says, then sweeps off.
My father arches a brow. “Seltzer, not coffee? Trying to keep me on my toes?”
Yes, Dad, it’s all about you, my beverage choices. “I already had coffee. I really only like to have one a day.”
“Ah. Right. You’re naturally caffeinated,” he says, and I wince a little. “Isn’t that what you always say?”
This should warm my heart, this little detail he remembers about me. But it doesn’t.
“Yes, that’s me.” I spread the linen napkin in my lap. “So, how are your students?”
That’s innocuous enough.
He spends the next ten minutes telling me about the classes he’s teaching. The waiter brings our drinks, and my dad lifts his cup, offering a toast. “To London,” he says, “and all the opportunities in front of you.”
I tap my glass to his and mutter, “Cheers.”
“Now, let’s talk about these opportunities,” he says. “Tell me the projects you’re working on. The auctions. It’s a much more complicated world here than in New York, especially for someone new to the city.”
Like you were ten years ago when you fell in love with my best friend, relocated to London, and changed your life?
“Sure. New York is Podunk, USA, compared to London,” I say drily.
My sarcasm isn’t lost on him. He sighs heavily. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“It’s different handling auctions for HighSmith in London than Bancroft in New York.”
I can’t resist the bait. “And what’s the difference?”
He takes a long pull of his tea then sets it down. “One is a distinguished auction house. The other is a mere upstart.”
I grip my seltzer glass so hard I’m afraid it might break. “I didn’t work for a mere upstart in New York, Arthur. I won the Abernathy collection. I competed against HighSmith, Christie’s, and Sotheby’s, and won. I was hardly at an upstart.”
He nods like he’s absorbing my points. “That’s all well and good, but it’s not the same. It’s like the difference between curating at The Met versus curating at a local university museum.”
I hate when he brings up Andrea, like he has any right to pass judgment on my mentor’s choices. She hired me at The Met five years ago, then stepped back a few years later to work in New Haven so she could be closer to her family and her grandkids.
“One is always better,” he finishes.
“I think Andrea would beg to differ.” She’s not here to defend herself, so the task falls to me. And dammit, I will do it.
He waves dismissively. “I’m sure she would,” he says, a little more lightly than I expected. “She’s happy, at least.”
At least? Isn’t that the goal of life? I wonder.
“But is she fulfilled?” he presses on. “Like you’ll be fulfilled at this place. I can tell.” There’s a kind of warmth in his voice that should be reassuring, but I don’t know what to make of it. Or him. “Just don’t forget it’ll take perseverance and dedication.”
“I have both those things,” I insist.
“Good. Then don’t let anything distract you.”
“I won’t,” I say, and this lunch can’t end soon enough.
My bitter mood lingers through the evening and into the next day at work. It follows me like a bad perfume, and I’m not as perky as usual.
The morning meeting with the team isn’t full of my usual fanfare or spirit, and Riya tugs me aside after and asks if I’m okay.
“You don’t seem yourself,” she says. I’m both embarrassed she noticed and grateful she’s so perceptive.
“Weird day yesterday. Saw my dad,” I admit. It’s just easier to be open with people. “It was . . . a day.”
She nods sagely. “I hear you. Family’s rough. My dad and I don’t get on so well either. Let’s do lunch in an hour. I’ll come up with a place.”
With that, my mood starts to shift.
An hour later, Riya raps on my ajar door. “Have you had proper curry yet in London?”
I look up from my laptop. “In theory, it sounds fantastic. In reality, I’m not big on spicy food.”
She clasps her chest dramatically. “Stab me in the heart, woman.”
“I just can’t stand feeling like my mouth is on fire,” I say, laughing at her antics.
She sniffs, so very wounded. “I was going to take you to my favorite curry spot.” A big sigh comes from her. “Fine, then. I’ll take you for burgers, you American,” she teases.
“Hey! I love all kinds of cuisine, just not spicy.”
“We actually have some stunning mild curry here.”
“Then count me in. I will try anything. Correction—anything mild.”
“Brilliant. There’s a fantastic place around the corner. They can make it extra mild for people like you.”
“Sounds perfect.” I grab my purse. “Any chance we can discuss the auction while we eat?”
She beams. “I love a working lunch.”
Over the meal, we talk about her favorite spicy restaurants in London, and after that, the museums here.
“Have you been to the Tate? Everyone goes, but it’s worth it,” she says.
“I keep hearing that. Is it a ruse just to get Americans there? Maybe there’s a portal that sends us back to the States,” I joke.
“My, my, someone has an active imagination,” she says.
“I do. I definitely do,” I say.
About lots of things.
Riya roots around in her purse, grabs something from her wallet, then offers it across the table. “Take my membership card. It opens an hour early on certain days for members,” she says.
“And the portal opens then too?” I ask with a smile.
“Of course. I’m secretly trying to get rid of you,” she says.
I take the membership card and tuck it into my wallet. “Thank you. I can’t wait to pretend I’m you. This is some serious espionage you’re working here, Riya.”
“Exactly. Don’t tell a soul I gave you my card,” she says.
“I’ll add it to my secret file,” I say. I’ll keep it safe and sound, right next to the intel about Heath’s dart skills.
We segue to other things—the food in New York versus here, how her father wanted her to be a doctor rather than an art specialist. I don’t dive into the details of my family story, but I listen to hers, then we talk about work.
“I have a good feeling about this, Jo,” she says. “I have a feeling we can make a splash with this collection. I want it to be a hit in the art world. Is it crazy that I’m so jazzed up about it?” She laughs, a little self-deprecating, but like she needs the validation. “Just want to be great at my job. I don’t want anyone to say I didn’t try hard enough or put in the time or the hours.”
There’s a deeper story there, and I suspect it’s related to her father. That I can understand. Along with her drive.
“We’re going to make it amazing,” I tell her, and I believe that we can.
All of us.
The time with my new friend energizes me for the next few days, powering me through meetings and planning, and a lunch with Freddy and Riya on Thursday afternoon.
After I return to the office, Emily buzzes and asks if I can join her in her office.
When I arrive, Heath is there.
15
HEATH
Oh.
I didn’t expect to see Emily’s niece in her office.
Sandy’s been around a bit since the day her loose lips sunk the ship of my novel, but I haven’t interacted with her. I suspect that was for both our benefits, but here she is, parked on the couch next to Emily’s desk.
She waggles a hand. “Hi, me again! Just doing some observing on . . . you know . . . stuff.”
Could she be any cagier now?
C’mon, Sandy. Tell me what you know. Spill the beans. You’ve got it in you.
It can’t be too hard to convince her to serve up details, can it? She’s got to know something about the promotion. She seems to have Emily’s ear.
I glance around, but Emily’s not here yet, so it’s just the two of us. “Good to see you again, Sandy. What sort of stuff?”
“Stuff for my psych internship. Workplace interaction and all. Human resources . . . stuff,” she says again, then waggles her fingers like she’s sprinkling magic and glitter. “See? I’m learning not to overshare. Confession: I’m an oversharer. Always have been. I meet someone and I’m like, here’s my life story.” She brings her hand to her mouth like she’s spitting up. “I just tell them everything. I have three brothers, I love Border Collies, I’m learning to quilt, my last boyfriend was a certified wanker, but I still believe in true love. That sort of thing. But . . . this time I left out a few details about the quilting and the ex,” she says, then pats herself on the back, literally. “See? I’m learning. I didn’t say everything.”
“That’s great.” It’s a shame, though, she’s changing her ways right now. “And how is school?” It seems I ought to at least try to engage her.
Sandy chats about her studies until Emily returns. My manager stops in the doorway, seeming flummoxed at first as she regards the tableau.
Her niece and me.
Talking.
Yes, I’m fucking personable, Emily. Who would have thought? Score one for the grump.
Though, I hate thinking of tallying points. I can’t stand seeing Jo as competition. I like competition, generally, but not with the woman I’m falling for.
A woman I shouldn’t be falling for.
Maybe seeing her as a competitor will help me stay the course when it comes to resistance.
Emily brings me back to the moment, gesturing from Sandy to me. “This is nice to see.”
And now I’d like to pat myself on the back. But I don’t.
Jo waltzes into the office, her laptop under her arm, and heads to the spare leather chair in front of the desk. “Hi, there,” Jo says, then turns to me. “Hello, Heath.”
“Hi, Jo,” I reply, keeping my tone professional, even though our inherent friendliness seeps through.
Jo says hi to the others. When she sits next to me—in the only free spot—she casts a secret glance my way, a demure little smile only for me.
And dammit, my heart races faster at the sight.
Is her pulse spiking too?
“All right, let’s talk about the collection,” Emily says, sitting at her desk, removing her gold-rimmed glasses, and gesturing to us. “Jo, you have the floor. Tell me the status on the lot, the marketing, and the expected attendance.”
Jo dives right in with the prelim plans, checking notes on her laptop, but Emily’s phone trills before she gets far. “Bollocks. My wife. Our dog is at the vet. Let me take this.” She swipes the screen. “One second, love.” She covers the phone. “Let’s make this a great collection. Tell Sandy your progress and she’ll update me. Must step out.”
Emily scurries out of the office, asking about the dog’s belly as she goes.
“Her pup has a special diet,” Sandy explains. “They just changed Polly to a new type of food, so they’re making sure she’s adjusting to it.”
“Of course,” Jo says warmly. “I hope she’s okay.”
“I’ll tell Emily you said so, but don’t worry about Polly. She’s a tough little Pom,” Sandy says.
“I’m sure she is,” I chime in. Because of course, I want the dog to be fine too.
Sandy shifts her gaze to Jo, then rubs her palms. “All right. This will be so fun. Just dive in, both of you.”
Jo turns to me, laughs, then goes at it. We trade off, like we’re a regular duo, updating Sandy on our fast-moving plans from marketing to client outreach.
When we’re done, Sandy smiles as wide as the Thames. “Emily is going to be so happy. She wanted me to convey how important this collection is.”
She doesn’t say it aloud, but her message is clear—our role in this collection will define our role in the company, determine if we’re VP level or not. Jo and I are both contributing to the project, but at the end of the day, there’s only one promotion.
“Glad to be working on it,” I say.
“Same here,” Jo says.
Sandy smiles, closing her notebook. “That was so much fun, running a meeting! But it must be awkward for you. You’re clearly such good mates, here in the same workplace,” she says. “Is it weird working together when this collection will count so heavily toward who gets the promotion?”
And yup.
There it is. Confirmation. This collection might as well be a fight to the finish.
I don’t even look at Jo when I answer. “No. It’s all good.”
Then I leave—because that’s a lie, and I hate lying to the woman I can’t seem to get off my mind.
“Knock, knock.”
It’s the end of the day, and I look up, both relieved and frustrated to see Jo.
Mostly relieved.
“May I come in?”
I gesture an invitation. “Always.”
She enters, tugging the door closed behind her. My skin prickles with anticipation. Is she going to kiss me again? Pretty sure I won’t stop her. And that closed door is quite a temptation.
“That was . . . annoying, earlier. The meeting,” she says, heavily, as she sinks down into the chair.
“Did I annoy you?”
“No. The situation. The whole this must be hard. Ugh. No kidding, universe, and fuck off.”
I laugh. “That ought to go on a pair of socks.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, slumping her shoulders. “So, I came to vent.”
“This is a vent-friendly zone, so vent away.”
“I hate feeling like I’m competing with you,” she seethes.
“So do I,” I admit.
“I wish . . .”
She doesn’t finish, and she doesn’t have to.
I know what she wishes. The same as I do—for things to be different. To not be pitted against each other this way.
I need this job because the work has been there for me when times have been tough—and I can’t risk losing it.
She needs it because she moved across an ocean for this chance.
To compete with her seems like a cruel twist of fate.
“I wish it could be different too,” I say.
“It’s like you can read my mind,” she says, with a gentle uptilt of her lips.
“Maybe because it’s in the same place as mine,” I say.
She nods, then slides her teeth along her lip like she’s thinking. “Do you want to go to the Tate tomorrow morning? It’s open early for members this Friday. Special deal, the website said. And we can see the Turners before it’s too crowded.”
My entire soul lights up at the invitation. The possibility. All of it. “You’re a member? Color me impressed.”
She leans forward in her chair, cups the side of her mouth, and whispers, “I nicked a card from a friend,” she says, in her imitation of a British accent.
A grin takes over my face. “I see you’re learning your way around my London.”
“Oh, are you a thief, too, Heath?”
“Perhaps I am. Let’s steal some time together tomorrow morning. Meet you at eight?” I tell her which entrance.
“I’ll see you on the steps,” Jo says.
Then she stands, locks eyes with me, and seems to think for a long time. I don’t move. I stay in my chair, waiting.
Hoping.
Being tempted.
My entire body buzzes with desire. With the wish that she’d come around and kiss me. My bones hum with longing. Throw yourself at me. Drag your hands through my hair. Cover my mouth with yours.
If she did, I’d lift her up on the desk, hike up her skirt, and sink inside. Fill her and fuck her and make love to her.
The fantasy is so potent, my mouth practically waters for her.
Kiss me, Jo.
If she did, I wouldn’t stop her.
I just don’t have it in me.
Instead, she sighs. “I still want to kiss you . . . my friend,” she says. Perhaps my face is an open book, with my lust written in my eyes.
I say nothing, offering one more silent plea that she will.
But she doesn’t, so I lay out the truth plainly. “I couldn’t stop you if you did.”
“I should go, then.” She walks to the door, opens it, and leaves.
I wake at four, wishing it were eight.
The same happens at five.
Then at six.
I throw off the covers, go for a run, then shower and get dressed. I’m still early, but I’m antsy, and I can’t wait for a morning museum date.
Or un-date.
I don’t even care what it’s called. I just want it.
I head to the museum I know better than the back of my hand and wait on the steps for Jo.
As the sun tugs itself higher on the horizon, the lovely American woman bounds up the concrete steps, her chestnut waves blowing in the morning breeze, a simple red dress hitting her knees and flats on her feet, as always.
