Kismet (Happy Endings Book 4), page 4
Ah, yes.
It’s everywhere, this beautiful beast.
Up the river, down the river, like a smoky gray animal, brandishing its claws.
I stop when I reach the bridge, where I fish my camera from my pocket and snap a picture.
I’ll call it Coming to Get You.
It seems a good omen, catching that moment, and the weekend coasts on like that, a mix of reading and walking, stories and photos. My friend Griffin sends me a text, asking me if I’ve ever been to the apothecary garden in Chelsea near the Thames, and if he should add it to his tours.
I bristle because I have not been there yet.
But no is an unacceptable answer, so I immediately make my way over to the Chelsea Physic Garden, which happens to be open that Saturday. I slip through a little gate in the garden wall, then wander the pathways.
I record my trek past the flower beds and orchards, snapping photos of plants, and sending him them along with details about the foliage.
These are the oldest medicinal gardens in London, home to more than five thousand plants which experts have claimed can cure all kinds of malady.
Maybe there’s a plant here that can cure my woes. But what are they? Loneliness? Grumpiness? Or maybe there’s no tincture for being malcontent.
Later that day, I find Nigel and some of my other mates for a game of chess in the park. It’s quiet, barely a word spoken. I beat Nigel, and leave the game mostly satisfied.
On Sunday evening, I head out of my flat in Covent Garden to meet my younger brother at Sticks and Stones, a nearby bar. He lives in New York, but he’s in the homeland for a month for the world premiere of a new play on the West End. And So It Begins. The show is dark on Sundays, so it’s our catch-up time.
Jude’s already at the counter, all sun-streaked blond hair and soon-to-be-a-movie-star grin, chatting with the bartender.
When he spots me, he turns away from her, and rises from the stool. “You made it through an entire week of peopling,” Jude announces as I stride toward him. “Congratulations.”
I make a quieting motion, as if quelling thunderous applause. “Please hold the standing ovation until later. They haven’t yet announced a verdict.”
He cuffs me on the shoulder, then settles back onto his stool. “Ah, well, I simply meant . . . you’re alive.”
“Miracles do happen,” I say.
“That’s what I tell myself every day as I stare at the phone like a dog waiting for supper, just hoping and praying Davis Milo will call to cast me in his next Oscar-nommed film.”
I roll my eyes. “Dramatic much?”
“Dramatic always, I should hope,” he says.
“And I’ve no doubt Milo will offer you the lead in his next big film.” I do believe that from the bottom of my heart.
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Jude says.
“Also, need I remind you of the film buzz you’re getting for If Found Please Return, and oh, gee, the play you just opened here?”
“You don’t have to remind me, but I love it when you do.”
“I know, Jude. I know.” I pat his shoulder. He likes praise, and it’s easy to give it to him, so I don’t mind.
I settle in at the bar, order a gin from the bartender, then turn to my brother again. He gives me an expectant look and a keep it rolling gesture. “So, they forced you to work with other people. Was it as horrific as you expected?”
I think back on the work week and shudder. Meetings, teamwork sessions, talking. “The thing is,” I say, “it’s not so much the brainstorming that I object to.”
Jude tilts his head, curious. “Wait. I thought that was exactly what you objected to.”
“No. It’s all the small talk. Do you have any idea what sort of small talk people make with a widower?”
Jude, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, has never been married. He shakes his head. “I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?” he asks earnestly.
But grief is no one’s favorite subject. It’s been four years since Violet died and my heart doesn’t ache anymore. I count that as a good thing. Yes, a part of me will probably always miss her, but I’ve healed. I’ve moved on because life goes on. Still, I don’t want to be a project. “You know how it’s been. Everyone’s been wanting to set me up since a few months after she died. My co-workers are still determined to do so. Every brainstorming session at work is basically one long prelude to So, would you like to meet Louise? She’s a librarian. Can I introduce you to Olivia? She lost her husband to a stroke too. How about Penny? She’s dating again after a divorce.”
As the bartender brings my gin, Jude smiles sympathetically.
I thank the bartender, then lift my glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” he says, tipping his glass to mine. But he doesn’t take a drink. “Is that such a bad thing, though?”
I knock back a swallow as I consider his question. I’m not interested in chasing love around. I tried a few of those setups a couple years ago. I was always that widower, that man, that are-you-doing-okay-now guy. Sympathy is lovely and all, but wrap it up with dating, and I felt like a fool. Like I was trying to live someone else’s life, seeking out romance after I’d had a big one. At age forty, is that who I should be? A man about town? It doesn’t feel like me.
I don’t know how to be that guy. And I certainly don’t want to be that man at work. There, my identity isn’t tied to my love life, or lack thereof, and that’s how it ought to be. I don’t want to mingle my professional and personal lives.
Besides, I’ve grown accustomed to my widower ways. To work and more work. To the salve of keeping busy with books and photos and planning the best auctions and private sales the London art world has ever seen.
That should be enough.
Jude’s question’s a good one, though, and he deserves an answer, especially since he’s the only one I discuss all this, well, feelings stuff with.
“The thought of being dependent on someone else is a little horrifying,” I say plainly.
“I can understand that.” That’s Jude’s specialty—he’s deeply empathetic. Great skill, being an actor. “But you don’t have to be dependent. You could just date. Screw the work setups, though. You don’t need your colleagues to be your matchmaker. The internet is a fantastic one. You could finally try online dating. That’s how a lot of people meet these days. Even people your age.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“I mean it,” he insists.
“Yes, that’s clear.” I sigh heavily. “Apps just seem . . .”
He picks up the thread. “They aren’t your style. You’re too old-fashioned?”
“Yes.” If the shoe fits.
But that’s not the only reason I haven’t downloaded Tinder or Fender or BubbleWinder or what-have-you. Do I dare to voice it, though?
Jude takes a long pull of his beer, sets it down, runs his thumb along the rim. “Do you actually want to date again?”
That’s the real question. One I’m not sure I have the answer to. But I know this much. “I enjoy companionship of the female variety.”
“Yes, I know. Curves and whatnot are your thing.”
I place my palms together in prayer. “Bless curves. Bless them all night long.” I stare at the shelf of liquor behind the bar, my vision going a little blurry, but not from sadness over the past. More from sadness over the future. Does it even hold anything more in the romance realm for me? Or have I used up my allotment of love? “Sometimes I wonder if maybe you only have one great love in your life,” I say. “Would it be so bad if that was all that happened to me?”
His blue eyes go thoughtful. “Do you truly believe that?” Then he adopts a devilish look. “I mean, I’ve been in love fifty thousand times.”
I laugh lightly. “Yes, I know.”
“But at the moment, I’m avoiding it like I avoid googling myself.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You, though? Different story. You should at least think about it again. Getting out there.”
“Should I? Dating has changed. Or so I imagine. I was twenty-two when I met Violet. That was eighteen years ago.” I’m not whining—simply stating facts. The world only turns forward. And I haven’t spun the dating wheel in nearly two decades.
He nods, acknowledging that point. “True. But you know what hasn’t changed, Heath?”
“What’s that?” I ask, though, from the way he talks, I’m pretty sure I’m walking right into a verbal trap.
He wiggles a brow. “Sex. Sex hasn’t changed. And you, Heath . . . you just really sound like you need to get laid.”
I laugh. He’s not far off. I do miss that. A lot. “Yes, that would be nice too.”
“Why don’t we focus on that? Get you back in action. Tonight. Do it. Do it. Do it.” Ending his chant, Jude shoots me a steely stare, the smolder that works on men and women alike when he flashes it on screen or stage.
I shake my head, amused at his antics. “But of course. I’ll just go have a shag right the fuck now.”
He smacks his palm on the wood of the bar. “That’s what I’m talking about.” Jude glances around, draws a deep breath, studies the scene. “All right. I’m devising a plan.”
“Wait. You’re serious?”
“Uh, yes. Of course I’m serious.” He taps his temple. “And as I said, I have a plan already. I’m that good. That sharp. Do you know that saying, ‘You catch more flies with honey than vinegar’?”
“Of course.”
“Tonight, you’re going to be honey, Heath. You’re going to laugh. You’re going to smile. You’re going to be engaging, if you can indeed do that.”
“I know how to be engaging, thank you very much.”
“You do. But you disengage that gear most of the time. So maybe, turn that frown upside down and let’s see if we can get you a little something with some honey.”
“You want me to act . . . nice . . . and get laid,” I say, part teasing, as if the concept is that hard to get my head around.
“Yes. Who knows? It might improve your mood, which will make work more enjoyable—even that office collaboration bit. Hell, getting laid will make your fucking toast tomorrow more enjoyable. Sex makes literally everything more fun.”
I arch a brow. “Literally everything? Dental appointments? Dreadful meetings that should have been an email? Riding the tube at rush hour?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Every single thing,” he says, emphatic to the core. “Clinical studies have shown that getting laid is directly related to happiness.”
“I doubt there are studies on that topic.”
He stares down his nose at me. “That’s exactly the kind of shit scientists love to study.”
Come to think of it, he’s probably not wrong. Nor are the scientists. Sex does boost your mood. Endorphins, orgasms, all that.
Maybe I’ve been overcomplicating this whole dating thing. Perhaps I should have been thinking of it more simply—as sex. I like sex. Lots of women like sex too. What’s good for the goose should be good for the gander.
For anyone who’s having consensual sex, really. To each their own.
Besides, it isn’t sex I’ve wanted to avoid, but the setups.
“Fine,” I huff, conceding.
He pumps a fist. “Yes. Heath is getting laid tonight.”
“You’re assuming we’ll find somebody who wants to hook up with me.”
“Piece of cake. You’re half as good looking as I am, which is plenty to do the trick for you. And I’ve seen you turn on the charm before. Maybe a century ago, but still.” He rubs his palms together. “Let’s do it.” He says it like he’s my swim coach and he’s about to send me into the deep end.
Laughing, I ask, “And how would you propose I find this woman for one night?”
“People still meet at bars.” He waves a hand grandly to indicate the crowd around us. Sure, there are some ladies here. “What’s your type? You always liked the pretty ones.”
“The pretty ones with brains,” I correct.
“Pretty and witty. Got it. We’re going to find someone right here. How about the next clever beauty who walks through the door?”
“What if she’s married?” I throw out. “What if I’m not attracted to her? How do I know if she’s smart?”
He rolls his eyes. “You have so many rules and requirements. No wonder you’re hard up.”
“Fuck off,” I say, but I’m laughing.
For the next hour he watches the door, muttering assessments like an Olympic judge.
That one will be too shrill in bed.
That one hasn’t read enough Shakespeare for you.
That one thinks Rembrandt is only a toothpaste brand.
By the time the clock strikes nine-thirty, I doubt I’ll meet anyone interesting enough, but at least I’ve had a lark with my brother and I haven’t hurt the feelings of any co-workers’ friend or cousin or tennis coach. I haven’t had to wiggle out of darts, artfully or un-artfully, or evade an offer from Freddy’s wife.
Sure, Jude is kind of doing what I loathe—setting me up. But I’m not his project.
He doesn’t feel sorry for me.
And there’s no workplace fallout if I don’t like the woman he picks for me. Jude will go on his way, and we’ll have a drink again next Sunday, and the next until he returns to New York when his limited-run play ends in a few more weeks.
“Well, never a dull moment with you,” I tell him.That, too, is always the same.
He doffs an imaginary hat. “Ditto, Heath. Thanks for giving me inspiration for when I need to play a grump.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, that’s what I’m here for. And I suppose I should be on my way,” I say, about to push back from the stool.
Then, she walks in.
The brunette is dressed in a pale-yellow blouse unbuttoned to reveal just a hint of flesh. Her lips are full, pouty. Her hips are made for holding.
And yet, even from a distance, it’s her soulful blue eyes that capture me.
They’re full of . . . stories. Longing. Like she’s missing something too. Maybe not even a someone, but the idea of a someone.
Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but I’ll run with it, especially as she scans the establishment then locks eyes on me.
Jude whistles low in my ear. “Target acquired. And your wingman exits, stage left.”
In a heartbeat, he’s gone. The dark-haired beauty heads straight for the counter, sets down a red paperback next to me. She parts her lips, the briefest hesitation matching the flicker of nerves in her blue eyes. “Hey, there,” she says.
Her American accent is terrifically fetching. “Hi, to you,” I say. I have my own case of nerves as I cycle through conversation to make.
Banter.
Wit.
Charm.
Those brain cells haven’t died from disuse, have they?
She drums her fingernails on the bar. “So . . .” She lets out a long breath, nibbles on the corner of her lips, then blurts, “I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”
There’s a silent, awkward beat, and then she breaks into laughter—launches into peals and peals of it. I laugh, too, because the sound of hers is so infectious and now here we are, both cracking up.
This is not what I expected tonight. But here it is for the taking.
And I take.
As the laughter fades, I pivot, flipping the dreadful line back on her. “I don’t mind at all, but I should warn you—you’ll have to check me out overnight.”
We both laugh again.
She holds up a hand as she attempts to rein in her humor. “Confession: I googled pickup lines, and I can’t think how you could say any of them without sounding absolutely ridiculous.”
“I rather liked it. But then, I like libraries. I appreciate research, too, so that’s doubly impressive.”
“It’s true. I have no idea how people meet in bars or what they say. So, I asked the internet. I have more where those came from.”
I don’t even have to fake being a sunshiny guy. I can be that man in this moment. “Are you looking to test them on someone?”
She smiles, and it’s such a sweet, pretty grin that my chest warms. “Are you interested in being a test subject?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
4
JO
This is both harder and easier than I’d thought.
This is nothing like swiping left or right on an app. Nothing like matching up with someone online.
This is so old-fashioned that it’s odd.
But it’s kind of working, especially since this guy has that young Harrison Ford vibe about him—circa Raiders of the Lost Ark—but with a London accent.
Translation? Scorching.
I straighten my shoulders, preening a bit as I try out another pickup line. “Well, I’m here. What are your two other wishes?”
The handsome man grins, all crooked and just shy of cocky. He runs his thumb lazily along the edge of his glass. “At the moment, I can only wish for better music and to get you a drink.”
Ohh. He is good. The bar’s speakers are piping something soft and jazzy. “What type of music?” I ask.
“I’m omnivorous, but jazz bores me. I’d wish for Boléro by Ravel, or anything by Queen or Roxy Music.”
I offer a hand to high-five. He gives it a curious look—fine, maybe high fives aren’t an English thing—but goes with it, and we smack palms.
“That was for the dislike of jazz,” I explain. “I’m with you there, but otherwise, I’m Rodgers and Hammerstein all the way.”
The bartender swings by and asks if I’d like a drink. I choose a lemon drop, then return to my . . . target.
This must be what fishing is like.
I’ve never gone fishing, so I’m guessing, but holy hell—I feel like I just got a bite. A big bite from a handsome . . . fish.
Wait.
I can’t think of this man as a fish.
But he is a catch.
“Okay, so I’ve got my second wish,” he says. “Getting you a drink. My music dreams will remain unfulfilled, but feel free to enchant me with more pickup lines.”
I gear up for the next one, adopting my best sex-drenched voice. “Baby, if you were words on a page, you’d be fine print.”
