Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 14
I glance at her shoes. “New York taught you that, I suspect. To always wear flats?”
She smiles, as she stands on tiptoes and sweeps her lips over my cheek. “Yes, it did.”
My breath hitches as she lingers for a beat longer than she should for an eight-in-the-morning hello. Then she lets go, and I feel dazed.
From that.
She is dangerous for my heart, and I can’t seem to stay away.
She takes a card from her purse and holds it up between us. “Today, we are scofflaws as we check out . . . our London.”
I lift a brow playfully. “This is ours?”
She bumps her shoulder to mine as we reach the entrance. “Yes. We can share the gallery, I’ve decided. It’s not yours or mine. It’s ours.”
Ours.
How I love the sound of that.
How many other things do I want to be ours?
“I didn’t think we were squabbling over the rest of the city,” I say as we go inside. She shows the card at the membership desk, and the man working waves us in.
“True. But I guess I just like the idea that I can show you something too,” she says.
Oh, Jo, you have no idea what you’re showing me.
What you’re doing for me.
What these coincidental moments mean.
“Then let’s see our Turners.”
She grabs her phone from her purse, taps on the screen, then tilts it my way. It’s a map of the museum. “I plotted out the fastest route to see all the Turners, since we only have forty minutes if we’re going to make it to the office on time.”
“Pretty and witty,” I say. “That’s what I said to my brother the night I met you.”
A crease knits her brow. “About me?”
I shake my head as we keep up a good clip toward the first painting. “No, before you walked into the bar. He asked about my type. I said I don’t have one, but that I like pretty and witty. And fate brought you.”
“Do you believe in fate?” She asks me the question this time, as we bound up the steps.
“I believe fate’s having a field day with you and me,” I say.
“Fate is showing us who’s boss,” she seconds, then we practically race through the floor, stopping at a painting of a burial at sea, then a steam train racing through the rain, then a sunrise.
It’s soft, the colors light, practically shimmering.
She sighs almost reverently as she stares. “I don’t even know why I like it so much,” she says. “Maybe that’s the true puzzle. It touches me and I don’t know why.”
“The mystery of art,” I say.
“Or is it the chemistry of it?” She shifts her gaze to me. My skin warms at the way her eyes linger. “Can we ever truly explain why we fall for something? For someone? Sometimes, maybe most of the time, it just is.”
My chest squeezes, and my body feels alive as the space between us crackles. “Some things just are.”
I turn back to the painting, gazing at it with Jo by my side. I’m keenly aware of each breath, mine and hers. Of how close our bodies are, how near our shoulders. And how alone we are in this gallery.
We’re the only ones here, and it seems a crime not to reach for her fingers, glide mine across hers.
And so, I do.
Her breath catches, and she grabs my hand.
Our fingers thread together, holding tight. Maybe to each other. Maybe to the chemistry.
My heart slams hard against its cage. Perhaps we have both unlocked the puzzle of the Turners.
They just make me feel.
Or really, she does.
A minute later, she lets go of my hand.
Good thing, since I don’t have the willpower.
Quietly, we work our way across her map, stopping, staring, talking again.
The clock ticks closer to nine, and soon it’s time to go.
“We need a picture of Our London.”
We return to the sunrise, and I snap a photo of our hands.
Together.
Then we go to the office where one of us will get the promotion the other so badly wants.
16
JO
That weekend, he takes me on a tour of the bridges.
“To show you that Tower Bridge isn’t the only one,” he says as we meander across Albert Bridge with its pastel greens, pinks, and blues. Heath takes photos of the water, then of me.
“Don’t pose,” he tells me, a man who knows his mind.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, a little confused.
“Think. Read a book. Stare into the distance,” he offers.
I choose door number two, grabbing a new romance that TJ told me about from my bag. It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time.
Flipping it open, I return to where I left off, the moment when the hero is so twisted up in his feelings he can barely think.
I stand at the railing, reading, and from a few feet away, the man I’ve grown to care so deeply for records the moment.
When he’s done, he returns to me.
“Share this one with your friends. This is how I see you here.” He slides next to me, his shoulder brushing mine. A spark rushes over my skin as I peer at the screen on the back of his camera, checking out the shot of my hair blowing in the breeze, my nose in a book.
“I feel seen,” I say with a smile.
He lowers the camera, tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You should.”
The double meaning flowing between us is almost too much.
We reach Southwark Bridge as twilight draws its curtains around the city. Strolling across, I take in its arches, lit up in orange, purple, and pink. They glow over the water, and it feels magical.
It feels like a miracle that I don’t grab Heath and kiss him, then beg him to take me home.
But I don’t because he’s fast becoming a part of my life here.
And I need this life. I need to feel at home in this still-new city.
How can I risk that for a kiss?
The question gnaws at me that night, and then again in the morning.
It hangs in my thoughts all the days at the office too. The weeks pass as we prep for the collection until it’s just around the corner.
The Friday evening of my third week here, Heath and I leave the office at the same time. It feels purposeful, yet it’s mere chance.
“So, this is coincidental, walking home together,” I say as we hit the sidewalk outside our building.
“Since we live in the same direction, that definitely applies,” Heath says.
Along our walk, we pass a shop that sells some books, but mostly cards and socks, like the ones he gave me. I’ve seen it a few times before, but the socks didn’t register till now. I point to the display. “Oh, they have my socks. The ones you gave me.”
“I’ll let you in on another secret. That’s where I got them.” Heath waves at the man at the register. “Good evening, Nigel.”
The man at the counter smirks then swings his gaze to me and says, “Your new co-worker?”
Rolling his eyes, Heath gives him a you cheeky bastard shrug, and we continue on.
“He knows we work together?” I ask.
Heath can’t seem to erase his grin. “I might have mentioned you to him.”
I’m all sorts of effervescent learning that he talked about me to someone. “What did you tell him?”
Heath lifts a brow. “Are you trying to get all of my secrets, Jo?”
“Is it a secret?”
“No. Not to you at least.” He pauses as we reach the corner. “I didn’t say much, except a few weeks ago I remarked that the woman I want is my new co-worker. But if I were to have said something, I would have said she’s bright and kind and thoughtful. She’s challenging and intelligent and beautiful, and I’m a little bit sad that I can’t take her home tonight, but mostly, I’m glad that she’s in my life.”
The tingles.
Dear God, the tingles. They become the dancing fountains at the Bellagio. My whole body bursts with sunshine and happiness.
It’s Friday night.
I don’t want the evening to end. “Do you want to get a bite to eat? Like the other week?” I ask, my nerves jumping. I want his yes so badly. I suspect I’ll get it, but the power of my want for it is staggering.
“We’re very good at this coincidental dining,” he says.
“We could write a book about it.”
“There’s a great Szechuan place near your flat.”
“It has our name on it, I bet.”
After we order, I ask about the book he was reading the day we went to the gardens. “So, did the butler do it?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” he says, lifting his chin, taunting me.
“So, you finished it?”
“I did. It was excellent.”
“Did it keep you up late?”
“Yes, and it’s possible I might have absolutely no regard for bedtime when I’m reading a good book. And what about you and the tale of love I found you with?”
“I finished the Hazel Valentine a week ago. It was wonderful. I’ve moved on to a new story. The one I had at the bridge. A woman takes the wrong laptop at airport security, and when she returns it to the owner, they have a hot night together.”
“But he turns out to be her new co-worker and they’re vying for the same post?” he asks, deadpan.
“Exactly.”
He lifts his glass, takes a sip of water. When he sets it down, his eyes are hungry, but not for food. “How does it end?” The question comes out almost desperate.
“That is a most excellent question,” I say.
“I guess we’ll find out,” he replies, then taps his lip. “We should trade books.”
I shoot him a curious look, intrigued by the suggestion. “I’ve never met a man who wants to share books before. I trade books with TJ, but he’s a writer.”
“You think I wouldn’t want to read what you do?” Heath asks.
I’ve never thought about it before. But now I can’t let go of this delectable idea. “So, I’d give you mine and you’d give me yours?”
“That’s how a book trade works,” he says drily.
“Let’s do it,” I agree. I can’t wait. There are so many things I can’t wait for with him. Like everything. Like every time we get together. Like every moment. “Just the two of us. We’ll form the coincidental-dining judgment-free book club.”
“Charter members,” he says.
Soon the food comes, and we eat and talk. “How was your time with your father the other week? Was it hard?”
I picture my dad at tea, his words about Andrea, about happiness, about pushing myself. “Tense, I suppose. He wanted to give me work advice. He always does.”
“What sort of advice?”
“Try harder. Work harder. Be better,” I say, then take a bite of my salad.
Heath scoffs. “Doesn’t he know how bloody hard you work?”
“He likes to light a fire under me.”
Heath shakes his head, perhaps frustrated, but his answer seems imbued with understanding. “Maybe it’s his way of staying involved with you. Maybe he feels like it’s the thing you have in common, so he won’t let go of it. I’m not defending him, mind you. But maybe he’s holding on to that.”
I noodle on that for a minute. Heath might have something there. “You could be right. Especially since I don’t talk to her at all.”
“Do you want to?” he asks carefully.
The prospect should make me shudder. The thought of seeing Poppy has always felt traumatic. But maybe that’s a vestigial reaction. I don’t want to give her that sort of power in my life, so I take time to truly think on his question. “At first, I didn’t want to talk to her. She tried to call me a few times and I avoided her. She sends me Christmas cards, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know her again.”
He gives a supportive smile. “Then don’t. You don’t need to invite people who’ve hurt you in the past into your present life.”
Maybe the corollary to that is I don’t need to avoid them either.
Maybe if I need to go to Chelsea, need to visit the street of her gallery, I shouldn’t let the thought of seeing her stop me.
I’ll be fine.
My father, though? I can’t just erase him. He’s my dad.
But I don’t want to linger on my father at this impromptu dinner. “What about your parents? You said they live nearby?”
“Just outside of London.”
“And what do they do? Wait! Are they librarians too?”
After he finishes the bite of chicken, he laughs, pointing at my smile. “You’re never not going to pretend I’m a librarian, are you?”
I shake my head, maintaining a very satisfied close-lipped smile. “You’re just a sexy librarian to me. You’re going to have to accept it.”
He leans a little closer, drops his voice to a smoky timbre. “I happily accept it. And no, they’re not librarians. He’s an illustrator. She’s a copywriter.”
“Oh, everyone’s so creative,” I say.
“They are. They’re why I love art,” he adds.
“How so?”
“Huge museum fans. They used to take us all over Europe to visit them. I loved it growing up. Never complained. Always asked to see more. To go on trips to Barcelona, Vienna, Rome, and of course, Paris, to check out every museum.”
I sigh happily. The story warms my soul. “You’d found your calling.”
“Found it in Paris. In the Musée d’Orsay, to be exact.”
I motion for him to keep going. “More, tell me more.”
“They took us there when I was sixteen, and I didn’t want to leave. I spent the whole day. My brother is younger by nine years. He wanted to go to a park, so they took him to the Tuileries across the river, and I stayed with the Van Goghs and Monets, the Picassos and the Renoirs, wandering the galleries until the museum closed.”
“A love affair began,” I say.
He smiles. “Indeed. That was it. I knew I wanted to work in art.”
“And does your brother work in parks?” I ask playfully.
He laughs, shakes his head. “My brother’s an actor. He’s in a play now. And So It Begins. It closes in a week.”
My jaw drops as my smile ignites. “I’ve heard great things about that play.”
Heath stops eating, fork in midair. “Do you want to see it?”
“Yes. I love the theater.”
“I had a feeling.”
“I’m so predictable,” I joke.
“Or maybe I already know you well.”
It feels like he does. It feels, too, like he could know me better than anyone ever has.
When he walks me home, we trade books, and the effort it takes not to invite him upstairs is monumental.
We meet after work a few days later at a café in Neal’s Yard, an alley that opens into a courtyard, not far from Heath’s home.
Time for our first book club. We settle into chairs at a sidewalk café, ordering wine for me, beer for him, then we set the paperbacks on the round iron table.
When the drinks come, we talk about stories. “I think, for me, I really responded to the whole thrill of the new lover with the impossibility of at all,” I tell him of the Hazel book.
“Yes, I have to agree. Though, sometimes I just wanted him to say, ‘Fuck the world’ and be with her,” he says, leaning back in his chair, taking a drink of his ale.
Love the thought. Truly, I do. “But can anyone really do that?”
“It all comes down to the risks.” Those brown irises take on a thoughtful, faraway look.
Is he thinking about the risks between us? Or are we just talking about books?
My heart scampers, and I hunt for the answer.
What risks would I take to be with him?
He taps the cover of Hazel’s romance, an illustration of a man and woman embracing. “The night I met you, you thought I was going to make fun of this,” he says.
I shrug. “It’s happened before.”
He rolls his eyes. “Who are these idiots?”
“It happens,” I say, indignant at the memory. “I went on a date with this guy in New York, and when he found out I’m a big reader, he said he liked that about me. But his messages would say, ‘Are you reading one of those romance novels? LOL!”
“Why did he think that was funny?” Heath asks, perplexed.
“Because he was a pretentious dick. People like that—if it’s entertaining it’s beneath them.”
“Reading is like sex, I suppose.”
That makes me sit up straighter, and I laugh. But I have to know. “How so?”
“Who really cares if somebody likes it vanilla, or kinky, or hard, or with leather or whips? Who cares if a boy likes a boy or a girl likes a girl? What does it matter? Why does everybody want to judge?”
“Unless it’s Instagrammable photos at pink cafés. Or gatherings,” I tease.
His lips crook into a grin. “There you go. Seems you know me so well.”
Under the table, I tap his calf with the toe of my flat. “I think I do.”
“You definitely do,” he says.
“But let’s return to one thing you just said.” I put on my best seductive purr. “Is this your way of telling me you like whips and chains?”
He laughs huskily, then the laughter burns away when he shifts closer to me, his tone deep and smoky. “I am an open book in that regard. My likes are simple.” He drags the pad of his finger along the edge of his glass. Slowly. Seductively. So luxuriously that I’m mesmerized by the image of what his fingers can do. “I loved everything about our night together. And I want to taste you everywhere. Kiss every inch of your body. Explore you. Have you. Make you feel incredible pleasure.”
That’s it. I’ve officially melted. A sparkler ignites in my body, then bursts into full-on fireworks. “I want that,” I whisper.
His eyes stay locked with mine, darkening as he talks. “I do often wonder why we aren’t tangled up together again. Every night. Every morning. Skin hot, lips eager, under the covers.” My mouth goes dry as my face flushes from the red-hot images he’s painting for me. “But then I remember, and so I do my best to savor everything else with you.”
