Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 2
He scoffs. “I did nothing of the sort. I saw it there and couldn’t be bothered to move it.”
“Oh, it just hid there by itself, did it?” I grab the new murder mystery and scan the jacket copy. A body turns up dead on a fishing boat, complete with a lure in the mouth. The detective smells foul play. “But does it have everything I like in it?”
Nigel looks up, strokes his beard. “Let’s see. Loads of red herrings. Bone-chilling suspense. A messy, on-page murder with tons of blood—I’d say it has all your favorite things, Heath.”
I thump the cover decisively. “Excellent.” I tuck the book under my arm and head to the counter. “And let me know when you get the Rhys Locke in paperback too. I’ve avoided all spoilers on his last jewel-heist mission for a year.”
“Your talent for avoidance knows no bounds,” he remarks.
“I could win a medal.” As he rings me up, I glance around the shop at the displays. Once upon a time, Nigel carried only books. Now, his little shop teems with cards, stickers, and coasters boasting ironic sayings, such as I like you. I’ll kill you last, and Wine. Because people suck.
“If memory serves, you used to sell books here, right?” There’s a pair of socks hanging near the till with an illustration of a young girl hugging a horse and the caption I hate everyone too.
Nigel’s eyes flicker with excitement. “Decided I rather like paying the bills. And these days, everyone loves cheeky sayings more than books.”
I finger the socks. “How many pairs of I hate everyone socks do you sell?”
His grin reeks of money. “Dozens. It’s the thing. People hate everything now, and they love telling each other so. Slap up a saying about how much you hate something, and you’re gold.” I’m hunting around in my wallet for some bills, and Nigel flicks a finger at my phone. “You could put your credit card on your phone, you know. Then you could tap it against the card reader.” He nods to a black, space-age device on the counter. “Makes it a lot easier for people like me.”
Shuddering, I shoot him a you’ve-gone-mad look. “Why would I want to do that? Make life easy for you?”
He shrugs, shaking his head. “Don’t know. Maybe fitting in with society and all that.”
“Ah, you mistook me, then, for someone who wants to be a part of things,” I tell him.
“Then you surely understand the market for these socks,” he says.
With a grin, I tuck the book in my canvas bag and head toward work, with a quick stop along the way. Around the corner from the bookshop, I dart up the steps into the local library for a drop-off.
“Better have something good this time,” Alice calls from behind the counter where she’s sorting returns.
“I only bring you the finest hardcovers and paperbacks.” I reach into my bag and grab the stack of books I’ve already read. “These all come with the Heath Graham seal of approval.”
“Someday, I’m going to turn that into a book club. Make you the next Oprah or Reese. For now, I’m just glad these are mine.” Flicking her long braid behind her shoulder, she bends over to check the titles one by one. “Ooh! I have a waiting list for the Rhys Locke,” she says, then pats the top of the stack. “I appreciate them all.” She winks. “And I won’t tell a soul you donate all your darlings.”
“Thank you for keeping my secrets,” I say, then I’m on my way.
The next day, I still have no clue who killed the fisherman.
At a café near the office, I flip another page, finishing my tea as I race through the whodunit. A quick glance at my watch tells me I can squeeze in one more chapter before my first phone meeting at the auction house where I work.
Normally, I’d head to the office and make sure I was there with five minutes to spare. But today is different.
Today, I desperately need the distraction of murder.
I focus on the story in front of me. The killer could be the bait supplier, the boat owner, or possibly the sea captain. It could be someone I haven’t considered yet. Intrigue has me racing through the pages, then a high-pitched voice slices through my concentration.
“Oh my God, I never saw that ending coming. I can’t believe it was actually the captain’s wife who did it.”
What?
Noooooooo.
Oh no, she didn’t.
In slow-motion, one painful millimeter at a time, I raise my gaze from the book in my hands.
A young blonde, maybe in college, notices me, starts to smile, then spots what I’m reading and gasps.
Her hand flies to her mouth then waves about like she can erase what she’s said. “Nope. I’m wrong.” She smacks the side of her head. “Dumb Sandy. That’s not what happened. I’m thinking of the first book in that series. Yes, that’s it!”
But it’s too late.
She’s popped the balloon of my reading pleasure.
At least she stops trying to fix the unfixable. I heave a sigh as the girl walks off. Why do I even bother to read here, in a place where people feel compelled to talk?
Oh, right. Because reading is one of the few things I unequivocally love.
Reading outside.
Reading inside.
Reading before work.
Reading after work.
One of the most solitary, simple joys is reading anywhere, and today, I need all the joyful I can get.
I finish my tea, pay and thank the waiter, then tuck the pointless book under my arm.
The captain’s wife. It figures.
I head along the pavement, making my way to the building where I work. Stepping into the lift, I wince. Sandy’s here.
And she’s grinning.
“It wasn’t her,” she says, backpedaling. “I was totally thinking of this Rhys Locke book, the one that came out last week. Where it turns out the jewels were in the hot-air balloon.”
Wait.
She backpedaled into another spoiler?
Stop. Just stop. I hold up a hand. “Want to let me know how the next season of You sorts out?” I hear my brother’s voice. Be nice every now and then. It wouldn’t hurt you. But his rebuke isn’t loud enough to stop me. “Maybe whether they killed off the latest doctor? Or could you perhaps just stop talking to me and cease ruining my day?”
Sandy’s lower lip trembles. “I’m sorry.”
Seconds later, tears well in her eyes.
My heart lurches. I’m such a sucker for tears.
Especially when I’ve been the arsehole who caused them.
But before I can reach into my pocket for a tissue, the lift stops on the sixth floor, the doors part, and she bolts like her feet are on fire.
I exit the lift more slowly, grumble a hello to the red-haired receptionist at HighSmith Associates, weave through the cubes to my office door. Inside, I sling my jacket on the chair, and roll up my sleeves as I reach my desk.
I toggle on the computer.
Despite my current mood, the phone meeting goes well, and I enjoy nine blessedly silent minutes while I review a report from the valuations department. Then, the goateed, bespectacled marketing manager pops in.
“Need any help with your reports, Heath?”
I don’t bother to take off my reading glasses. “Nope, Freddy. I’m all good.”
Freddy tugs at his bow tie, decorated with yellow ducks. “Well, then, want to help me brainstorm a marketing tagline for the new Expressionism collection? We could grab a pint after work at The Magpie and have a chat? My wife could join us when we’re done.”
Now I do remove the glasses, sensing this is leading somewhere.
Freddy clears his throat and goes on. “Millie has a lovely friend she wants to introduce to you. Name is Livvy, and she’s a teacher.”
Ah, the plot thickens—it’s a setup, and not even a veiled one at that.
A few years back, I would have said yes to this sort of thing.
I tried. Truly, I made the effort. I met the Livvys of the world, the friends of a friend, the cousins of a friend—even their tennis coaches.
Those blind dates never worked for . . . reasons.
There are some things in life where if at first you don’t succeed, you try, try again, but blind dating is not one of them.
I don’t need to explain to Freddy that I’ve been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt. It’s personal. Private. It’s not about art, or valuations, or collections, or any of the reasons why I sit at this desk each day. Neither do I need to remind me, yet again, of why I’m saying no.
Instead, I nod like I’m considering his offer. “Let me have a think on that.”
“Great. See you later, mate.”
No, you won’t.
Once he leaves, I call several clients, reviewing upcoming works, confirming details. As I hang up after the last one, Riya, one of the sales specialists, pops into the doorway, fidgeting with her chunky gold bracelet.
“Hi, Heath! I have to do a presentation for Emily tomorrow on how to best position emerging artists, and I would love some notes. Any chance you can feedback me as I practice?”
“Is feedback a verb now?” A rhetorical question—I’m fairly certain that’s not how grammar works.
“If not, it should be! I love being feedbacked. I can feedback you any time you want to collab.”
My stomach curdles at that truncated word. How much precious time does lopping off a few syllables save, really? Iterate, collab, feedback, deep dive—they’re all the worst.
How shall I dodge her request? I choose the speediest route. “Best way to position emerging artists is alongside established ones. That’ll help you reach new and seasoned collectors, Riya. So, pair them one for one.”
“Great! Yes, that’s brilliant. Cheers!” She ducks away, but rather than leaving, she pops in once more. “Do you like darts? Bunch of us here have a darts night at the pub around the corner, and some of my friends are coming too. If you want to join . . .”
Ah, so it’s not just darts. It’s never just darts. It’s the start of another Heath project.
“I’m afraid I’m busy then,” I say.
Her brow furrows, and she ums uncertainly. “But . . . I didn’t give you the date.”
Bollocks.
Normally, I stay a step ahead when evading social requests. That captain’s wife spoiler must have knocked my avoidance radar far off-kilter.
Best to recalibrate a smidge. “Oh, didn’t you? My mistake. Maybe send it via email, then.” I flash her a grin and make a mental note: do not open emails from Riya.
Once she’s gone, I spin back to my computer and click open my agenda for an upcoming private sale of some post-modern works. I’m ahead of schedule on it and should be able to turn it in early to Emily, keeping up my streak of handing in projects ahead of time.
No one even comes close to my record.
This hare’s pace gives me just enough time to peruse job openings here at HighSmith. Maybe there’s a work-from-home post somewhere within the company. I would have fewer distractions, could run more auctions, launch more sales . . .
See less people.
That would be bliss.
Work remotely are the two sexiest words in the English language.
I’m about to click on a job link when my phone trills. I answer and hear, “Heath, it’s Emily. Can you come to my office straight away?”
Her tone brooks no argument. I say yes to the boss then head to her corner suite, curious why she’s calling out of the blue.
When I walk into the office, I stop in my tracks. Sandy, the spoil-anything blonde, is perched on the edge of Emily’s couch. She clutches a book—looks like the title is There’s No I in Teamwork.
I never judge anyone’s reading choices—photo books do not count; they are not free from the arrows of my side-eye—so I’m not casting aspersions on this self-help workplace improvement book.
But the title does make my spine tingle—with concern.
“Heath, I understand you’ve met my niece. Sandy’s in London from Leeds, where she’s been studying psychology of the workplace at university,” Emily begins, then takes a beat to remove her gold-rimmed glasses, folding them and setting them neatly on her desk. “And we thought perhaps you might need”—she lifts her thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space—“more teamwork. More collab. It’s the new way of working. So, while Sandy’s here as an intern at HighSmith for the next month or so, she’s going to help me out. She and I will brainstorm on projects where you can team up with others. There’ll be some group projects and then a bit of one-on-one work—perhaps with Freddy or maybe Riya. I’ll let you know when we’ve decided.”
Kill. Me. Now.
“That sounds utterly fantastic.” I manage to force the words past the vinegar in my throat. I am now in utter sympathy with the pair of socks from Nigel’s shop.
When I return to my office, my goal is singular—find a new job.
I bring up the opening Emily posted earlier in the week and study it. Yes, this one would be a great feather in my cap. A fabulous string to my bow.
And—best of all—it would mean I could work remotely. Alone.
Just like I’ve been since my wife died, four years ago today.
2
JO
I have a talent for knowing when something fabulous is going to happen. And there’s an energy when I wake on Friday morning, a certain crackle in the air.
I throw off the covers, stretch my arms, and open the window. Cue the sunshine streaming in, the birds chirping. I blast an upbeat Broadway number as I go through my morning, dancing in my obscenely spacious New York apartment, one wall painted robin’s egg blue, another the color of mint. I brew the world’s best cup of coffee as I sing along to the chorus.
Okay, fine.
I live in a one-bedroom, not an obscenely large rom-com New York apartment, and if I open the living room window, the only bird flying in would be a pigeon.
But I have a window, and that never grows old.
Still, I like to imagine I live in one of those impossible New York pads that magazine editors can magically afford on the silver screen. I’m the plucky young New Yorker, ready to tackle the big, brave world.
Fine, I’m thirty-two, and hardly young or plucky.
But I have a young soul and an active imagination.
After a quick shower, I get dressed for a huge day at work. Twenty minutes later, I’ve applied my best professional eyeliner and mascara, buttoned up a cute blue blouse, and slid on a pair of Mary Janes covered with daisies in yellow and teal.
They’re good-luck shoes. I’m armed and ready for the big day.
I head out, making my way down Columbus Avenue with the soundtrack to Anything Goes chirping in my AirPods. All days are better when they begin with a Cole Porter number.
I swing past Dr. Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium, shielding my eyes from the morning sun as I peer in the window.
Easton looks ready to hold court at a table in the back. That’s my cousin. I’m pretty sure he has a patent on unshakable confidence.
After I turn off the tunes, I yank open the door, and march over to his throne. “Aren’t you just looking like the king of the world today?” I say to the guy who’s my biggest champion.
Easton shoots me an easy grin, his smile casual and cool and lighting up his blue eyes, the same color as mine.
We have a lot of sames, even for being cousins. Same shade of dark brown hair, same fair skin. Plus, we scored epic long lashes courtesy of our respective moms—who are sisters. Funny how you never think long lashes are something that work on a guy, but it’s a little scary how much the ladies dig Easton’s eyelashes.
Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard from his girlfriend, Bellamy.
Sliding a small jar of yogurt my way, he says, “Here you go. With blueberries. Figured you’d already had your daily allotment of coffee at home.”
I waggle a finger approvingly at him. “Just like I tell my girlfriends, you’re a goddess. And you should take that as high praise. It’s a rare guy who attains goddess status.”
He shoots me a dubious look, but shrugs lightly. “I’ll take the compliment, but how hard is it to remember you only drink one cup of coffee a day and you prefer yogurt for breakfast?”
“I guess it’s not too hard. It’s easy to see I only need one coffee. I’m naturally caffeinated beyond that,” I say with a playful bob of my shoulder.
“You’re the peppiest,” he deadpans.
I stretch an arm across the table to poke him. “Nothing wrong with peppy. Besides, peppy is good for my career.”
I’ve been racing up the corporate ladder at my company since I joined it 365 days ago—something my dad never believed I could do. But that’s my father for you—always warning me about the pitfalls of my career. Are you ready to take that on? Is that a little out of your league? You sure you can handle that?
Oh yes, Pops, I am so sure.
I’ve handled it all, thank you very much.
“And now I’m going to make my pitch for the VP post at Bancroft House,” I tell Easton.
He sweeps his arm majestically, granting me an audience. “Practice on me. That is how you’ll become the youngest person ever to hold VP status there.”
“Indeed, it is,” I say.
“And a rehearsal in front of the best will help you get there.”
I give him an I’m-so-touched grin. “Aww, I love your humility.”
“It is, indeed, endless,” he says. “Proceed.”
I’ve been practicing my pitch for days. I have it down pat, but I could use one more go. I square my shoulders and dive in. “I’m ready to oversee the Modern Art department,” I say, then I give him my speech. I give him my speech as I’ve rehearsed it, stating my case with logic and positivity. “And that’s why I’m the best candidate for the job.”
Easton has a few tips—slow down and don’t race through my accomplishments, mention my visions for the collection but don’t go into too much detail. I go through it one more time, taking his advice.
When I’m done, my business-savvy cousin slow-claps. “You’re ready. Now, go get ’em, tiger.”
