Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 3
Thirty minutes later, I march into work, head straight for Miranda’s office, and make one hell of a case for why I’ll serve this company well as the newest VP.
We’re an exciting new auction house that’s been winning business left and right from the bigger, older, more established ones. This promotion will be the cherry on top of my fabulous New York life, the one I’ve crafted over a decade on my own, with no help from my father.
And that’s fine by me.
That’s why New York is so precious to me. I love this city with all its flaws and craziness. Manhattan and I are tight. Not a weekend goes by when I don’t partake of a museum, a show, a pop-up shop, a new art installment, a pickle-ball bar, or a karaoke club. I imbibe this city, and it gives me joy, in no small part thanks to the people in my life. Men come and go—do they ever—but friends stay. I have a great crew sprinkled around the city; they’re my rocks, and I’ve cobbled them together from a patchwork quilt of the best people.
This new VP post will tie me more tightly to the place I love.
Holding my breath, I prep for good news, hoping it comes my way.
Miranda Bancroft flashes me her peach-lipsticked grin. “You make an excellent case, Josephine,” she says, and I want to kiss the sky. I’m this close to VP. Surely, Miranda’s going to tell me about my raise, and new business cards, and the first auction I’ll run in my new job. I mean, there she is, sitting tall, tucking her red hair behind her ears, her smile bursting.
“There’s only one little thing,” she adds, like it’s a treat she’s about to offer. That’s promising—maybe I can even start with the upcoming summer evening exhibition, just to convince her I’m her gal.
“Sure. What is it?” I ask, ready for anything at all.
Bring. It. On.
Miranda’s smile widens. “As you may be aware, our elite little auction house has been growing so quickly and winning so much business that the older ones have sat up and taken notice.”
“Right, of course. Earlier this month, we beat out Christie’s, Sotheby’s, and HighSmith for the Abernathy collection,” I say. That was quite a coup—winning the chance to run the auction for one of Europe’s most celebrated art collectors.
Miranda runs a finger over her pearls, her reward for that successful auction. “Ah yes. That one made me quite happy. So happy, in fact, that when HighSmith came calling with an offer too good to refuse, I didn’t refuse it.”
My brow knits as I try to solve her riddle. “What sort of offer?”
“HighSmith is buying Bancroft.”
“Oh,” I say. That wasn’t what I expected to hear today. Or tomorrow. Or any day.
“It’s a great offer,” Miranda goes on, “and the best part is, HighSmith wanted to know who they should keep on, my top employees. I said you, of course.”
Despite the glow of pride that inspires, I’m dying to know what the heck it means. “Thank you. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“You deserve it, but here’s the thing: HighSmith wants to keep you, but they’ll be relocating your current job,” she says, like she’s handing me the keys to The Met. “If you’d like to stay on, we’ll be sending you to London. And in a month, you can make your pitch to Emily Hathaway, the department head there.”
London?
Did she say London?
The air goes still.
My muscles tighten.
My throat constricts.
Memories of the last time I was in that city rush painfully into the present. The summer I spent there studying. The things that went down. The backstabbing secrets.
The betrayal.
“London?” I ask weakly, making sure I heard her correctly.
She seems delighted for me, as if she can’t imagine I wouldn’t want to up and move to another country. “Yes. It’s fabulous there, isn’t it? If you want to keep your current job, we need you to start in a week. And I’m confident the pitch you just made will be a terrific one across the pond too.”
I slap on a smile that’s fully fake.
I don’t really dislike anything. I’m not that kind of gal.
But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s bloody fucking London.
The next morning, Emerson announces she’s coming to the rescue with cinnamon rolls.
Emerson: They make everything a little better. I promise. See you soon.
Thirty minutes later, I swing open the door with a beleaguered sigh.
With her chestnut hair bouncing in a high ponytail, my friend walks in, a purple box balanced on one hand, her purse and messenger bag on her shoulder. “I’m here to save the day.”
“With breakfast?”
She gives me a duh look. “Breakfast is a very important way to reorganize all the dread in your life. Plus, I rounded up some strays.” She nods behind her, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “One of them is related to you, but we’ll still consider him a friend.”
“Thanks, Em, for the heartfelt endorsement,” Easton deadpans as he appears in the hall behind her.
“You’re welcome.” She sweeps into my apartment, along with my cousin and more of our crew.
“Just so you know, London isn’t that far,” TJ says, straight to the point, as usual. He drops a friendly kiss onto my cheek, his bearded jaw scratchy and familiar. I’ll miss his scratchy hellos. His wise words.
Even though he’s wrong. “It’s like living on Mars.”
Nolan plays the caboose, coming in last, and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Look on the bright side—the food’s better in London than on Mars.”
I pretend to gag. “That’s not saying much.”
With slumped shoulders, I head to my purple couch and flop down. Everyone joins me in the living room. Easton hands me a coffee before he settles into a red chair. “Just the way you like it, Miss Perky,” he says.
I groan but clutch the cup like it’s the holy grail. “I’m already missing coffee. The coffee is awful in London.”
“I don’t think London can be all bad,” Emerson says, flipping open the box of baked goodies.
“London is awful. And you know why,” I say.
“I do,” Emerson says sympathetically. “Poppy and everything.”
A shudder rolls down my spine at the name of the woman who was once like a sister to me, something this only child desperately craved in my early twenties. Something I needed terribly given the way my world fell apart during my master’s program.
It’s been so long, though.
So many years ago.
“Will you have to see her?” TJ asks, his tone careful.
I grit my teeth like I’m girding for battle. “Good question.”
“Or him?” Emerson adds.
“Equally good question.” I draw a deep, fueling breath—resetting, letting the memory of those two go. “Let’s talk about something else. Anything else.” I wave toward the purple box, licking my lips at the sight of the cinnamon rolls. “Like, Emerson’s booty.”
“It is a nice one,” Nolan says drily, giving Emerson’s backside a lascivious look.
I thump him on the shoulder. “Booty as in plunder. Food plunder. Baked goods.”
“Prizes, riches, loot,” TJ puts in, then adds, “At least, that’s how I sometimes use the word.”
“Word snobs,” Nolan accuses. “I know how to use the dictionary too.”
“But do you ever?” Easton counters, deadpan.
I laugh, loving these guys and their zings.
Taking a sip of the good brew my cousin brought, I peer inside the box, shoving aside all this talk of Poppy and him. The sight of pipsqueak-sized baked goods enchants me. “Are those the world’s tiniest and tastiest cinnamon rolls?”
Easton shoots Emerson a glare. “You need a microscope for these. Your texts promised cinnamon rolls, not a science experiment.”
TJ clears his throat. “Sometimes size does matter, Em.”
Nolan chuckles but glances away like he’s trying to hide something.
I arch a brow, meeting Emerson’s gaze, trying to read the meaning behind Nolan’s private laugh, his booty comment.
But her green eyes give nothing away. “They’re delicious. Don’t be size-ist, TJ. Plus, they’re fuel. We’re going to help JoJo pack and prep this place to sublease.”
TJ reaches into the box, grabs a roll. “Good point. All packing must be preceded by a moment of sweet supplication when the host presents her friends with treats in a blatant attempt at packing bribery.”
I laugh, even as my heart squeezes. “See? I’ll miss that too.”
Easton scoffs drily, pointing a thumb at TJ. “This guy?”
“I’m highly missable,” TJ counters, then pops the cinnamon roll into his mouth.
“You all are,” I say, with a helpless shrug. I grab a roll to sop up the river of emotions rising in me.
Easton clears his throat. “Listen, you’re only moving, JoJo. You’re only going to be a seven-hour flight away.” To the outsider, I probably sound like a privileged bitch complaining about moving to one of the most famous cities on Earth, a place that tons of people would beg, borrow, or steal to visit just once.
But for me, London is lies and secrets.
New York is truth and honesty.
And home.
“It’s not the distance,” I add. “It’s just that, well, I’m going to miss you all so much.”
Emerson frowns with sympathy as she wraps an arm around me. “I’m going to miss you too. Like, so much I have to pretend that you’re not going to get through the days.”
My heart glows a little from all the mutual missing and love. “Exactly. Who will see Wicked with me for the ninth time?”
“I’ll go to London for Wicked,” Emerson offers.
“I will not,” TJ declares. “Just putting that out there. Not a musical fan. At all. But I’d definitely go to London for other reasons.” He wiggles a brow, a salacious glint in his brown eyes.
“Yes, yes, King TJ, I know you love British accents,” I say.
My romance writer friend nudges me with his elbow. “Bet you’ll love the accents too. Pretty hard to resist.”
He’s not wrong. Even if the city holds unpleasant memories, I do like a British accent. Always have, ever since I was a young girl. “I mean, Mister Darcy and Robin Hood. Hard to go wrong,” I add, owning it. “But will we still talk?”
Emerson lifts a cinnamon roll in solidarity. “Yes. We absolutely will.”
Nolan thrusts an arm skyward, classic superhero style. “From New York to London in a single FaceTime connection.”
“People say that. But do they do that?”
TJ waves an arm. “Hello? I can write. It’s literally what I do.”
I shoot him a dubious look. “I’m sure after penning hot, racy scenes all day you want to write Hey, how are you emails at night.”
“The scenes aren’t all hot and racy,” he points out. “Some are romantic and heartfelt. Many are banter-driven. Some are really fucking funny.”
I pat TJ’s shoulder. “I read your books. Don’t forget, I’m your biggest fan.”
Easton clears his throat. “I read Come Again. Clearly, I inspired TJ. I felt like it was written about me.”
TJ rolls his big brown eyes. “And if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you.”
Nolan jumps in. “Does the bridge come with fries?”
“Nolan, don’t you know? Nearly everything good does,” Emerson says to her co-host, a little flirt in her tone. I file that sound away so I can ask her more about it privately.
“Words to live by,” Nolan says. He turns to me and counts his fingers as he rattles off, “FaceTime, Google Duo, Skype. It’s going to be easy.”
“Don’t forget Zoom. We can even do a Zoom watch party to finish the final episodes of That’s What She Said,” Emerson points out.
That brings a small smile to my face. “I’m dying to know how it ends. I hope they stay together. If Webflix breaks up my favorite fictional couple, I will protest.” We’ve watched the show together all season, sometimes on Zoom, and sometimes in person.
“See? We already have plans for a watch party,” Emerson says, cajoling me. And she’s right—there is that.
Easton sips his coffee, going thoughtful. “I think we keep in touch with the people we really want to stay in touch with. No matter how hard it is. You can’t just kick me out of your life.”
TJ offers a sympathetic smile, too, as he reaches for a cinnamon roll. “I’m not very easy to get rid of. Ex-boyfriends might say otherwise, but everyone else would pretty much agree.”
Nolan nods, straight-faced. “He’s pretty much a barnacle. I have barnacle tendencies too,” he adds drily.
I wiggle my arm. “Barnacle here as well! And hey, maybe it’ll just be a short stint. Maybe it’ll be like a year. I’ll try to come back as often as I can.”
Even as I say it, though, I question my own words.
Will I?
I’m obsessed with my job.
Dating has fallen by the wayside. My forays into the world of apps feel like ancient history. I didn’t meet anyone who floated my boat or rocked my bed.
Truthfully, I haven’t since grad school. Since Jacob. Sure, I’ve dated, had a few short-term boyfriends, but no one I fell for like that. No one who made me want to change my life.
No one who hurt me that badly either.
But I’d like to meet someone. I absolutely want to meet a fantastic man. Someone who likes the same things I do, who has the same dreams, who’s warm and witty and outgoing. A people person. Like me. That’s my dream guy.
“Just don’t sublease my place to somebody you’re going to like better than me.” I add a laugh, but it comes out like a sob.
“Impossible,” Emerson says, and everyone else chimes in too.
We switch gears to the practical, finishing the coffee and cinnamon rolls, then turning to the hard work of packing.
When I head to my bedroom to sort clothes, TJ and Emerson follow. “We have some gifts for you,” Emerson says.
She hands me a book of the most photogenic spots in London, curated by top Instagrammers. I arch a brow at her choice. “Are you trying to get me to fall for the city?”
Emerson shrugs, like she’s saying we know you so well. “It’s just places to check out when you decide to explore.”
“Take pics for us,” TJ adds. “You know, so we don’t forget your face.”
I stare at him. “You’ll get a ton of shots for that remark.”
“Excellent,” he says.
I hug the book to my chest, grateful for the gift. “I will.”
TJ goes next, offering me a paperback with a strapping stud on the cover. My favorite kind. “It’s an advance copy of Hazel Valentine’s new book. I know you love her.”
I beam, giddy at the chance to gobble up her story before anyone else. “Almost as much as your books.”
“Keep that praise coming, girlfriend. And listen, we have a plan for you.” His baritone voice always feels like a warm hug—especially now, but also when he’s being sarcastic, which is ninety-nine percent of the time.
Emerson tips her head his way. “It’s his idea.”
TJ deals her a sharp stare. “You didn’t have any issues when I first mentioned it to you.”
“Fine, fine,” Emerson concedes. “I approve of this plan too.”
I park my hands on my hips. “What is it, then?”
TJ’s eyes gleam with mischief. “You know what you really need in order to embrace London?”
I’m dying for the answer. “Tell me, tell me.”
TJ draws a deep breath. “A red-hot one-night stand the night you get there.”
Emerson raises a finger to make a point. “Or the second. She might be jet-lagged. Sometimes you have to think practically.”
“First night, second night, whatever. There is nothing that makes a city better than a one-night stand with a sexy stranger who’s got a smoking accent,” TJ says.
It’s not a bad idea. Orgasms do have a way of making everything feel a bit better. They give you a hazy glow.
I wouldn’t mind a little glow. Something to take away the missing. To ease the entry into my new country in one week.
“Am I Tindering?” I ask, then I shake my head. That’s led nowhere for me. “The guys I’ve met there are too young and immature.”
“You need a guy who’s lived a little, JoJo,” TJ says, like a dating sage.
I turn to Emerson. “Is he right?”
She shrugs, a he’s not wrong type of shrug. “I’m not saying a grandpa. But I don’t see you with someone who has Snapchat,” she says.
I laugh. They know me so well. “And where does that leave me in this one-night stand pursuit?”
TJ wiggles a brow. “Go old school and bar it up,” he says.
“Guess that means I need a killer pickup line,” I say.
I spend the next week prepping to leave the country, stuffing my days with paperwork and goodbyes. I catch the train to New Haven to grab a quick lunch with my mentor, a curator at the university’s art museum. “Your mom would be so proud of you,” curly-haired Andrea tells me with a warm smile. “And I am too.”
Her words make me feel a little better about getting on the plane. So do TJ’s and Emerson’s as they feed me pickup lines all week.
Then I get on the plane for London, eager to work.
But first—one-night stand, here I come.
3
HEATH
I survive five days of this mad state of affairs at work, but Emily hasn’t yet rendered her verdict—will it be Riya or Freddy who’s my new . . . partner? I worry the delay means she’ll assign me both, and the joke will be on me.
But for the weekend, I’m free.
On Friday evening, I escape the office by way of the stairs, avoiding lift chatter and happy-hour invites.
When I reach the main level, I peer to the left, the right. The coast is clear, so I cruise through the lobby. Once I’m safely on the street, I walk quickly away from the building, heading toward the river as the fog rolls in.
