Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 18
His words ignite ten thousand fires inside me, and I ache for him to put out all of them.
And soon.
A few minutes later, we stumble out of the bar, but we’re not drunk. We’re tipsy on this night, on success, on the high of the auction, and on each other.
On falling in love.
On letting the past go.
There’s only one thing standing in our way now, and we’ll figure the work thing out this weekend. We kiss on the street as midnight nears and cars and cabs race by, as passersby chat and laugh, reveling in the late spring night. Heath drapes an arm around me, and we walk like that, me and my Englishman, along a busy street, surrounded by Londoners, and Europeans, and tourists, and everyone.
I feel a lot like champagne, especially when Heath stops me on a side road, under a faintly glowing streetlamp. He tugs me close, and I’m filled with bubbles, half expecting another kiss when he cups my cheeks, but he doesn’t drop his lips to mine. He just gazes at me, serenely.
Maybe like he has a secret.
I tilt my head. “What is up with you, my English hottie?” I ask.
Okay, maybe I’m a little buzzed.
He smiles, shaking his head. “I solved it. The riddle of you and me.”
I lift a questioning brow. “We’re a riddle?”
He tips his head in the direction of St James, where we work. “Yes, that whole . . . complication.”
Color me all shades of intrigued. “You did?”
“I believe I did,” he says, sounding deliciously pleased.
My eyes widen, demanding answers. “Don’t keep it all to yourself.”
With a soft laugh, he sweeps his lips across mine, lighting me up, making me melt. Somehow, impossibly, I’m even hungrier for him. But curiosity wins. I pull back, setting my hands on his shoulders. “What did you solve?”
“On Tuesday, after the bank holiday, I’m going to give my notice.”
23
HEATH
She blinks then shakes her head, but it’s not like she’s saying no. More like she thinks she didn’t hear me right.
“You’re . . . what? You’re doing what, Heath?”
This wasn’t an easy decision, but it wasn’t the hardest one either. I just hope I don’t seem like I’m overstepping, even though this choice solves so many of the questions I’ve had lately about what I want.
“I’m giving notice at HighSmith,” I say, so we’re clear on that point.
“But you love art,” she insists.
“Exactly. I love art, but I don’t love the job anymore. Not like you do. You love it like it’s a piece of your soul. Like you’d be devastated if you couldn’t plan and curate these incredible collections.”
Her brows knot in a frown. “It’s not that way for you?”
I think she already knows the answer. “No. I love it because I’m good at it. It’s been a salve while I’ve found my feet and my purpose. Now it’s part of my identity. But I’m not in love with it anymore. I’m in love with you.”
“I’m in love with you too. Obviously,” she says, but she still sounds shocked.
“And that’s another reason why I’m doing this. I don’t want to compete with you. You told me the other day that you don’t like it either. Neither of us cares for the complications,” I say, swallowing roughly, hoping I get the words out right. “I don’t want to presume, but I just want to make it easier to love you. And that’s really what I want most . . .” I pause, the whole city rushing by and everything I want right here in front of me. “It’s you.”
Her breath hitches. A tear rolls down one cheek, then the other. “You don’t have to do that,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “We can work together. We can figure this out.”
I shake my head. “I know I don’t have to quit. Trust me, I’ve thought about this a lot. I’ve thought about us, and you, and me. And what I want. And I’ve also thought about what’s right. And honestly, Jo, it’s you who deserves the post. You’re incandescent when you work. It’s a light shining inside you, and it’s beautiful to witness. You should have the post, and I believe from the bottom of my heart that you’ll get it. But I want to do this, anyway, because I don’t want to mix work and love anymore. And I don’t need the crutch of distraction anymore.”
She blows out a breath, taking a beat. “Because of . . .?”
She doesn’t finish, but she absently touches her throat as if to say because of me. But she’s not a replacement for work. She’s not a new balm. I love her for who she is, not because she soothes an ache inside me.
“No, it’s not because of you, Jo. At first, I poured everything into HighSmith because I was there, and I could do the job well. But I’ve had time to heal—by taking photos, reading, wandering the city, spending time with friends. And by living. Just . . . living life.”
“What will you do, though?” she asks and my darling woman sounds so distressed. That’s the last thing I want. I know I’ll be all right, and she doesn’t need to fret.
I run a hand down her arm. “I’ll figure that out. I’m not worried. I’ve got some ideas,” I say.
I’m not wealthy, but I’m wise. I’ve saved over the years, and I’ll be fine, for many months and longer. Time enough to find the thing that feeds my soul the way planning auctions and curating collections used to nourish me.
I tighten my arms around her. “Work has given me many things—a place and a purpose. But the job isn’t the same as the work of curating art. And the job itself doesn’t feed my soul like it did. Like it so clearly does yours.”
“I don’t want you to lose out on what you love.”
I shake my head. “I love many things. Art and books and London and my family. The theater and my brother. Curry and beer and discovering hidden gems. Taking photographs and telling stories through them. And you. Most of all, you.”
Maybe it’s too soon. Too crazy. Too much.
But life doesn’t give you many second chances at love—let alone a great love. She feels like the next great love of my life.
“You can’t quit,” she says softly, her eyes shining with tears, but her voice is a feeble protest. Her lips seal to mine, and she kisses me like she’s saying thank you. “You just can’t,” she whispers, but she’s running out of steam to protest.
“But I want to,” I tell her. “And I think a change will do me good.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I want to find work that gives me joy the way you give me joy. If it makes our work lives less complicated, that’s just the jam on the scone.”
“I love jam and scones. And you.” She grabs my face. “And when you say those things you make it impossible not to fall deeper into love with you.”
I laugh. “Then I’m brilliant.”
She grabs me harder, pulls me closer. Kisses me desperately.
It’s a kiss that leads straight to the bedroom.
Mine.
Once there, our clothes vanish. She’s on her back, naked and needy, pulling me close then wrapping her legs around my waist as I fill her.
I groan. She murmurs.
And I was right. This is the answer.
I hook her leg higher around my hips, thrust deeper, and give her what she wants. Already I’ve learned her needs, her wishes. She loves it deep and hard. She loves to be fucked with abandon. She wants me to take her.
I grab her wrists, lift them over her head to pin her in place as I swivel my hips. I sink deeper, pump harder, show her with my body how much I want all of her.
And I do.
I want all of her, separate from work.
Just her for me.
And like that, I bring her over the edge. Her lips part, and she calls out my name in a breathless, stuttering gasp. A gorgeous cry that rips my own climax right from me.
I join her on the other side of bliss. We pant and moan, coming down from the high together.
We spend the next day like that—together.
We wander around our London, taking photos of us kissing.
It lasts until Saturday night, when her phone pings at dinner. She grabs it, scans the message, and her face goes still.
“What is it?”
Looking up, she meets my gaze. Her irises are laced with both fear and rabid excitement. She swallows roughly. “It’s my mentor, Andrea. She said her friend at The Met has an opening for a curator. She’s recommending me.”
For a job in New York.
24
HEATH
Some job openings move slowly.
Some are rocket fast.
The Met is the opposite of HighSmith, it appears.
While Emily has kept the VP post unfilled for more than a month, The Met wants to hire stat.
The museum wants to fill the job before the summer begins in earnest, before crowds pick up. The Met is the most popular art museum in the United States. Jo worked there several years ago with Andrea, who’s now at a museum in New Haven but still advises The Met on personnel.
Jo tells me all this as I walk her to her flat after dinner.
“And then she said This is a huge opportunity for someone so young, and for a woman so young,” she says as we round the corner to her place.
Andrea isn’t wrong. The Met is an art pinnacle.
Jo holds my hand, squeezing it, a little too tightly.
That’s not like her to hold on as if she needs a mooring.
Oh bloody hell. She’s nervous about the interview.
I’ve got to try to soothe those worries. “Did you love it while you were there?”
“I did,” she says, reaching for keys in the side of her purse, then fumbling at the lock of her building. It takes her a few tries to get the door open. “The collections are incredible,” I say, and it’s not a chore to give her a pep talk as we head to the fourth floor. Not only does she need it, but it’s my turn. She said all the right things when I told her I was leaving HighSmith.
And, yes, a job in New York opens a box of new questions, but now hardly seems the time for a how will we do this relationship talk.
“Yes. They are. But, Heath…” She turns to me, worry in her eyes as she opens the door to her flat. “Should I go?”
There can only be one answer. “Yes. This is a tremendous opportunity. When do they want to see you?”
“As soon as possible. I don’t even know what to do next.”
Then I need to help her. “Let’s get you on a plane, woman.”
“Right. Right. Yes. A flight. Of course. I could get on a plane tomorrow morning and be in New York Sunday night, I guess.”
“You do the interview Monday morning when the office is closed here,” I say.
“And I’ll be back in time for work on Tuesday,” she says, taking her time to work out the details.
“So it’s a plan.”
“Yes, I could do that”—she drops her keys on the kitchen counter, biting her thumbnail briefly. “But I have a job in London. And you are in London.”
“Jo, this sounds like working at The Met has been your dream.”
She gives an apologetic smile. A tiny one. “I admit it has been.”
“And you want to go to the interview. We just worked through the logistics.”
“Yes, I know.” A deep breath, then a grimace. “I should be jumping at an opportunity like this.” She steps forward, grips the collar of my shirt harder. “But everything is happening so quickly.”
Everything with work? Everything with us?
But the answer doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that she gets on that plane with all the confidence she possesses.
“Yes, some jobs are like that.”
“Would you…” She stops, swallows, then speaks again. “What would you do if you were me?”
“I’d go to the interview.”
I leave it at that. There is a time and place for relationship talks and it’s not now.
Do I want her here in London with me? Of course I do. My family is here. But I don’t want her to ditch the interview and regret it. And if The Met is too wonderful to turn down, then we’ll figure out what that means.
For now, she needs to get ready for a flight. “Anything could happen, you don’t know the future, so don’t shut the door on opportunity until you’ve seen what it’s offering,” I add.
“But you live here and you’re giving up your job. And that’s huge. I can’t just jet off,” she says, but there’s a tiny note in her voice that says . . . or can I?
That means I need to get out of her way so she can choose her own adventure. She’s thirty-two, vibrant and bursting with energy. She has a bright future in front of her.
“You can, though. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t try,” I say, even though the prospect of her saying yes to the job is a new fork in our road.
I’m not sure of the path we should take then.
But I don’t want to plant new worries in her head. She needs to give the interview and the job her full consideration.
“Heath,” she says, and my name sounds a bit like a plea, and a little too like she’s asking for permission.
To pursue this, perhaps.
“Jo, you’re in love with art and curation. This possibility is too good.”
“But what about us?” she asks, all sadness and worry. But then, her eyes spark. Possibilities flicker in them. “Come with me.”
A shocked laugh escapes me. “What?”
“We can get away to New York for the weekend. Or a night, rather, but so what if it’s only one? We can make the best of it. Please say you’ll come with me.”
“Oh, sweet, brilliant Jo. You know I love you madly . . .”
Her shoulders sag more. “But . . .?”
“Why is there a but?”
“I hear one,” she says, her voice thin with worry.
I take a steadying breath. “There’s no but. I promise. You should go do the interview. You want to and I want you to. Then we’ll talk about us and long distance and what it means.”
Her lips quiver as she shakes her head. “This is silly. I love my job here. I love you . . .”
“But you don’t love London. And New York is your home,” I say gently. “You have to try for this.” My voice cracks. “We’ll figure out the rest.”
She tilts her head to the side. “We will?”
“Of course,” I say, and I mean it, though I know it won’t be easy.
But she needs to make this decision without my influence. And I need to let her.
“We will find a way,” I promise. I’m not sure how to keep that promise, but I know I want to.
She ropes her arms around me tighter, pulls me closer, then murmurs, “I want to find a way.”
When she kisses me, though, I can taste the salt of her tears.
Early the next morning, I open the door to a black cab, set her overnight bag in the backseat, and kiss her hard.
“Break a leg,” I tell her with a smile that I’m trying to mean.
“Thank you,” she says, then she gets in the car and leaves.
I walk away through the neighborhoods I know well, a little aimless, a lot lost. I don’t go home.
I just wander along side streets, down alleys, looking for something to photograph. Something that sparks an idea. A story I can tell with my camera.
I find nothing.
25
JO
“Good morning! Welcome to your British Airways flight from London to New York. Our flying time is seven hours and thirty-five minutes, and we’ve got clear skies across the Atlantic. We should have you to the Big Apple at ten-thirty. Be sure to fasten your seatbelts, lock your tray table in the upright position, and settle in.”
The flight attendant’s chipper English accent should make me feel better. After all, she just uttered my two favorite words: New York.
But in my chest, my emotions are a ball of twisted yarn, the kind you can’t unravel.
Am I sweating?
I feel like I should be.
Instead, my stomach is jumping.
Licking my lips, I stare out at the tarmac as we begin to taxi, but the view doesn’t soothe me. Jerking my gaze away, I let out a long, heavy breath.
The gray-haired lady in the seat next to mine shoots me a sympathetic smile. “I’m a nervous flier too,” she says.
I try to smile back, but I feel like my lips are cracking my face.
I grab my phone from my jeans pocket, click on my texts, and tap out a note to Emerson. As Heath suggested, I’d told her and the guys that I was coming. We’re meeting for dinner in Chelsea, at one of our favorite spots. Maybe when I see them I can sort out all these what ifs. Far too many thoughts ping pong in my head.
Emerson: Made an executive decision. I’m going to meet you at your hotel and we’re spending the afternoon together. Girl time! And that’s my official declaration.
That makes me feel a little better, but not by much. I’m out of sorts, twisted upside down. New York is my love, my home, my place. But already I adore my job in London. And I already miss Heath. The biggest what if of all.
Jo: Good. I need it. I’m kind of a mess.
Emerson: Talk to me.
Jo: I might lose service soon, but I’m feeling . . . conflicted.
Emerson: Because you love him.
My emotions crawl into my throat and stay there in a huge, uncomfortable knot.
Jo: Yes.
Emerson: Oh, sweetie. That’s so hard. You leave home, take a chance, go out on a daring adventure. And then you met your dashing Englishman.
Jo: That sounds like a novel.
Emerson: Tell TJ to get on it.
