Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 17
“I suppose.”
My shoulders sink as I voice the thing that worries me. Well, one of many things. “I don’t like competing with you, Heath.”
“I don’t love it either. But why do you dislike it?”
I prop my head in my hand. “I just want to be with you. I don’t want to have this thing between us. And I don’t want to feel like if you get the job, I’m second best. Or if I get it and you’re the one who feels bad, I don’t want it to create any weirdness between us. I almost wish I could just . . .” I trail off, unsure if I should say what’s truly on my mind.
Heath has always been good at reading me, though. “Just what? Just take your name out of the hat?”
That’s part of it, in a way. I had considered that recently. “Sort of, even though I don’t want to do that either.”
I must be confusing him. Hell, I’m confusing me. “I like competition. But I want to compete with other houses. I want to compete with other people in the field, who I should compete with. I don’t want to vie with you. That’s not my kink,” I say, pushing out a light laugh.
He laughs too. “Sure. It might work for others, but it’s not for you.”
“Or you?”
He shrugs. “I think you know me well enough to have figured out I simply prefer working alone.”
I press my forehead to his. “Tell me again why you don’t work in a library.”
“Libraries still have people,” he says drily. “Occupational hazard.”
“You need a den in a country home. With a window overlooking a pond. A pond that has ducks,” I say.
A soft chuckle falls from his lips. “Pretty sure I’d sign up right now for a life of happily feeding the ducks every morning.” Then his smile fades away. “But I know what you’re saying, Jo. You don’t want . . . complications.”
“Maybe that makes me selfish. Or foolish. I don’t know. I just want to do the job I love and be with the man I love.”
Whoa.
Holy big love confession.
I mean, sure, I told him already. But saying it in a conversation feels like leveling up. Did I just go too big?
But his strong hand stroking my hair tells me he’s all in too. “I want the same. And I wish I had an answer to the job issue, but I don’t.”
My brow knits as a thought springs out of nowhere. “Do we have to disclose that we’re involved? Is there a policy?”
He nods. “I believe so, but it wouldn’t change anything. Since we’re not direct reports, there’s no rule against it as co-workers. We won’t even be direct reports if one of us is VP because we all technically report to Emily.”
So why do I feel so unsettled, like I don’t quite fit in my skin? Maybe because work has always been my domain. My passion. I haven’t ever shared it with a man, haven’t needed to, and I don’t know how to navigate this new space.
“When do you want to tell her?” I ask, then I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t say tomorrow. While this burgeoning romance doesn’t feel fragile, it does feel like ours alone. I don’t want to bring it out in the open on Monday morning, especially during a high-pressure week as we prep for the auction. Before he can speak, I answer my own question. “How about next week, when the auction is over?”
“Perfect,” he says.
My forehead creases with another worry. “Until then—and honestly, after then, too—how do we act toward each other, Heath? Like we’re not . . .?”
“Like you’re not my girlfriend,” he says, teasing.
I roll my eyes. “You don’t seem like a boyfriend.”
“What am I? Your lover?” he says, all 70s porn star.
I slug his arm. “No. You just seem like mine, okay? Stop making fun of me.”
“I’m not poking fun at you.” He laughs, then his smile turns kind, and he kisses my head. “Okay, maybe I am a little bit. I told you I want to be yours. That’s all I want, Jo.” Then he taps his chin, humming. “Well, the other thing I want is to beat you at darts.”
“We’ll see if you can,” I challenge.
That night, he destroys me at darts in a pub around the corner, then he takes a picture of us kissing in front of the dartboard.
On the way to my place, he smooches me in Neal’s Yard, and snaps that shot too.
Then he spends the night with me at my flat, leaving early in the morning. We go into work separately, and something about that feels a little bit wrong.
20
HEATH
The auction kicks off tomorrow night. It’s Thursday, and we’re working late, putting the finishing touches on an impressive collection of modern art.
On the fifth floor, in the auction room itself, the chairs are arranged, the lectern is set up, and the lots have been prepared.
All the marketing, all the outreach, all the artist contact is complete. We’ve posted exclusive video tours of artist studios online and on YouTube during the last week. We’re donating a portion of the proceeds to some of the artists’ favorite charities, and we’ve corralled works from emerging talent to offer alongside art from well-known artists.
Jo is a firecracker, and her whirlwind energy has lit a match under the marketing for this auction.
Emily stands with her arms crossed, looking pleased as a lion after a meal on the Serengeti. Sandy sits on the edge of the raised stage, kicking her heel. “Attendance is ten percent higher than at our last auction,” Emily coos, then shakes her head in admiration as Freddy straightens the lectern.
“Because we’re rock stars,” he shouts then gestures to his neckwear, decorated with illustrations of guitars. “Which is why I picked this bow tie for auction eve.”
“You are rock stars, indeed. All of you,” Emily says, pointing to the main team members—Jo, Riya, Freddy, and myself. “And our newest team member too.” She stays on Jo the longest.
And it seems Jo deserves most of the credit. Her ideas ignited the buzz. She’s driving the attendance uptick with her strategy.
In the past, I’d have been rankled to see that. My ego might have felt bruised.
Now, though, I’m proud of her. Wildly proud.
She certainly seems the most likely candidate for the promotion. Perhaps that would solve everything.
Then Emily turns to me. “But none of this would be possible without someone like you. Your depth of knowledge in the London art world, your contacts, your artist outreach are all second to none.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. Inside, I’m enjoying the praise. Mostly. I’ve spent years honing those skills. It’s good to see Emily recognize them.
And yet, the compliment makes me feel a little uncomfortable, like I don’t quite want to take it.
“And don’t forget, Monday is a bank holiday, so don’t do something to impress me, like send me emails or proposals, since I’ll be taking the day off too,” she says with a cheeky grin. She knows most of us are workaholics and would do just that.
“I shall restrain myself from hitting the send button over the three-day weekend,” Riya says.
When the prep work ends and we make our way to leave, Emily sets one hand on my shoulder and another on Jo’s. “You make choosing the right candidate for the promotion very hard, you know.”
“That’s a good position for you to be in, then,” says Jo, ever the diplomat.
Sandy sails by, a smile on her lips. She mimes zipping them.
Emily laughs. “Sandy,” she says, chiding but a little delighted, too, like they know what our fate is, and that maybe it’s not a hard decision at all.
Maybe for them, it’s not.
But this isn’t a good position for us—not for Jo and me.
Later that night when I shut the door behind me at Jo’s flat, she sets a hand on my chest. “I don’t want to talk about work.”
“Fair enough.”
We don’t talk much at all. Instead, I undress her and kiss her everywhere, at last settling between her legs, where I spend a good, long time using my mouth for much better things than talking.
A few orgasms later, she’s spent and glowing.
That’s how I want to see her—in bed and blissed out.
Across the table and animated.
By my side as we walk through the city.
In the shower with me in the morning.
Falling asleep with me at night.
The question is, how to get there?
But I’m starting to see the answer. And it might be an answer to more than one question.
21
JO
As I apply my mascara the next evening, Emerson asks, “Are you nervous?”
I let my gaze stray from the mirror, meeting her eyes through FaceTime on my phone as I get ready. “Terrified. Like, I’ll need three applications of deodorant because I’m going to sweat all night tonight and not the good kind of sweat.”
She gives me a sympathetic frown as she power-walks through Central Park, sunglasses on, the noontime rays lighting her face. “Are you a sweat monster? How did I not know this about you?”
“I just sweat when I get nervous. And the first night of an auction in my new job is one helluva recipe for worry.” I gesture to my pink bra. “Which is why I haven’t put my blouse on yet. That’ll be a last-minute thing.”
“Ah, and this whole time I thought you were just trying to be sexy for moi,” she quips as she rounds the reservoir. “But seriously, it’s going to be great. I’m proud of you and your boss will love it. But . . .”
I return to the mascara, answering her. “But what?”
“Do you still want the promotion?”
As I apply the finishing touches, I answer her. It’s simple. I’ve thought about that question since Sunday—since I’ve been together with Heath. “I do. I wish I didn’t want it. I wish I had less . . . ambition. But I do want it.” I drop the mascara wand onto the vanity. “I love my job. The work here is energizing. I’m doing everything I’ve wanted, and I crave more. And that’s why this thing with Heath is so complicated. I want him, and I want work.”
“You’re a modern woman. You want it all,” she remarks.
“I do. Call me greedy.”
“Nothing wrong with being greedy. As long as you figure out how to deal with it.”
“And I will do that after tonight.”
“I support this plan,” she says.
I finish my makeup, head to the freezer with Emerson in my hand, and open the ice box for a minute.
“Sweat begone,” I say.
She laughs. “I miss you something fierce.”
My heart squeezes for her. “Miss you too.”
I end the call, grab a burgundy blouse, and button it up. As I leave, my phone pings, and Andrea’s name flashes across the screen.
Andrea: You’ve got this. Can’t wait to hear how fabulous tonight is.
Deep breath. Maybe I do have this. I reply with a thanks and a multitude of emoticons. As I head down the steps in my building, my phone goes off like a jackpot.
When I reach the street, I check it again. My texts are filled with notes from TJ, Easton, and Nolan wishing me well.
I fire off a text to Emerson.
Jo: Did you tell them all to text me with good luck?
Emerson: Nope. Your friends remember stuff :)
With a fresh dose of confidence, I head into HighSmith.
I’ve run countless auctions before. Chatted with clients, schmoozed collectors, and waxed on about the meaning of art.
That’s what I do during the cocktail reception, barely meeting Heath’s gaze at all. I say hi to nearly everyone, shaking hands and hearing tales of kids and puppies and other acquisitions in their collections.
In a few minutes, the auction will begin.
I rush to the ladies’ room to pee and fan my face.
But I’m not actually sweating.
And hey, that’s awesome. I feel . . . good. About all of this. The only issue is what’s next with the job and what that means for Heath and me.
I’ll figure that out later.
I leave, head into the HighSmith auction room, and take my post at the back by the wall so I can watch the action unfold.
As the auctioneer walks to the stage, a few last-minute stragglers rush in, including a woman I haven’t seen in ten years.
Poppy.
22
JO
I haven’t rehearsed a word.
Why would I?
I didn’t expect to see Poppy—or my father, for that matter. But here they are, mere feet away. This is the first time I’ve seen them together since that day in the park, when they were wrapped up in each other, leaving me reeling with the betrayal of a summer of lies.
That cruel hurt clung to me for months, and then for years after that, though in a faded form.
Now, I take a beat to catalogue my emotions. My pulse spikes a bit faster, but not too much. Beyond that I feel . . . little more than curiosity.
Is she here to apologize?
But as soon as the thought touches down, I dismiss it. I don’t want one. And what’s more, I don’t need one.
Time has done its trick. It’s washed away the pain, and I can navigate this moment without that bitter ache.
I flash her a professional grin, then him. “Hello, Poppy. Arthur. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Thank you. You have some great items in your collection. You’ve done some truly amazing work,” she says, and it sounds legit, her compliment.
“I hope you find something to your liking.”
She smiles, more warmly than I expected, then she steps toward me, sweeping her blonde hair off her shoulder, making like she’s going to hug me.
I’d rather not be hugged. The hurt may be over, but I don’t need to open my heart to her.
I step back.
She smooths her skirt instead. “I just wanted to be here for your first event in London.” Ever polished, she gestures to the room, buzzing with energy. “You should be proud of yourself.”
My dad chimes in a little awkwardly with, “I . . . we wanted to show our support.”
That’s all he says, but from him, it’s high praise. Did Poppy put him up to this? Tell him to change his ways? Who knows? I’m not sure I ever will, or if it matters. But those few words are so much better than his usual backhanded compliments.
“I appreciate you saying that,” I tell him. We all sound stilted and uncomfortable, but that’s to be expected. I turn to the woman I used to think of as a sister, and I try to show some grace. “And how is everything with you?”
“The gallery is fabulous. Life is good,” she says, taking my father’s hand once more. “I’m happy. Are you?”
The answer is easy. I glance around at the auction room, teeming with people—my new co-workers, and the ones who have become my friends, like Riya. There’s the man who’s become my person, and beyond these four walls, there’s a city I’m learning to enjoy.
I don’t love London yet.
It’s not quite home yet.
But I’m getting there.
“Yes. Very much so.” Then I take a breath, dig down deep, and say, “And I’m glad you two are happy together.” That’s hard to say without gritting my teeth. I don’t feel happy for them. Truthfully, I’m not sure I’ll ever be pleased with my one-time best friend shacking up with my father. I definitely don’t condone their lies. But I also don’t have to keep poking that bruise to see if it still hurts.
I’m done with this part of the past. I’m not saying I’m happy for you for Poppy or for my father. I’m saying it so that I can finish a race I barely realized I was running till now.
The letting go.
And speaking those words aloud gives me something I suppose I’ve been quietly searching for all along.
The last kernel of pettiness, the crumb I’ve held onto for a decade, falls away.
I’m free of them.
And that is why I’m truly content.
“We are happy,” my dad says, answering an unasked question.
Poppy gazes at him with an adoring smile, echoing, “We are.”
Perhaps, in some way, I understand her as well as I can. Love can’t often be stopped. “That’s good,” I say softly, then gesture to a pair of empty seats.
They head down the aisle, and the auction begins.
It’s a record turnout, with record sales. I’m proud of my team’s hard work, beyond pleased with the success of the night, aglow with satisfaction. Proud of our leadership.
I do love my job so. I love it with my whole heart. That’s a gift—getting to do what you love, and I want to always treasure that.
I lift the champagne glass high, clinking once again with Heath. I swallow some bubbly then set down the flute to wrap an arm around his waist and jerk him against me. “Hey, lover.”
“Hey, girlfriend,” he teases, looping his arm around me. We’re at Sticks and Stones later that night, celebrating the auction at the place we met.
But I also want this little fête to end so we can celebrate in other ways. He sets down his glass, then I bring my lips to his, whispering, “Let’s celebrate naked.”
He glances around. “Right here?”
I tug his collar. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Fine, fine. We’ll go to the loo and have a shag there.”
I laugh, delighted, utterly giddy. “God, you’re so British it’s sexy.”
“So, my nationality turns you on?”
I put on a lascivious grin. “Yes, yes it does. Does that bother you?”
He pretends to consider that for a second, then shakes his head. “No, I’m not bothered at all. But one suggestion? Let’s do the turning on in private,” he says, then presses a hot kiss to my neck, brushing his stubble-lined jaw against me, planting greedy, possessive kisses along my throat, up to my ear, then whispering, “I want to take you home. Eat you, fuck you, make love to you. Congratulate you properly in bed.”
