Page 17 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
That’s my own damn fault. I thought this would be easier. I believed I’d strut into Bryant Park, shoot her my trademark TV grin, and add in a friendly How the hell have you been, Pres?
Great, Hunter. How are you?
Oh, I can’t complain.
I can’t either.
We’d grab a brew, have a laugh, and then devise a plan for the Valentina estate. I’d figure out why the hell she’s been popping into the front of my mind lately.
Instead, I just mouth Wow the second I see her.
Because . . . wow.
That hair, those eyes, those lips.
Her legs.
She’s stunning, and even though she’s walking in with Daniel Highsmith, I barely notice the man. Somehow, she’s prettier than before, sexier, and, dare I say . . . more confident? She strides up to me, extends a hand, and says in a warm but polite tone, “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Hunter. I’ve heard so much about you.”
So that’s how we’re going to play it.
The I don’t know you game.
I blink but recover quickly.
I don’t know why I didn’t see that one coming, but of course it’s obvious. She wouldn’t want to let on that we’ve seen each other naked.
And that’s not helpful at all, since I definitely shouldn’t be picturing stripping her to nothing as I shake her hand with her boss right next to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Presley.” I turn to Daniel, focusing on him, who I’m definitely not thinking of sans clothes. “And it’s great to meet you in person, Daniel,” I say to the man I spoke with on the phone then passed along to my agent, who sealed the deal.
The older man pumps my hand. “This is great. So looking forward to this. And you two are the perfect match for this project.”
I turn to the woman I’ve kissed senseless. Damn, that’s not useful either. What the hell is wrong with my brain, bringing up persistent reminders of my history with her?
I clear my throat like I can sweep away the out-of-nowhere dirty thoughts. “I’ve heard great things about you, Presley.”
She gives me a sweet smile. “Oh, you’re kind to say that. But you’re the one who does great things. You’ve accomplished so much. When Daniel told me he’d hired you, I thought, ‘This is going to make for the best project ever.’”
She smiles at her boss, who chuckles, clearly delighted with his own ability to pick people. “Like I said, the two of you are a fantastic pair. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go grab a club soda. Can I interest either of you in a beverage?”
Presley tells him she’ll have an iced tea and I say the same, then we sit at a small iron table in the middle of the park as her boss trundles off to the beverage cart.
Silence hovers between us as I look at her and she looks at me, and years seem to weigh between us.
Where to start?
What to say?
Surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m sitting across from the woman I once thought I’d . . .
I erase the thought. That was the past. In my line of work, you learn from the past, but you don’t let it trip you up again. Say you were nearly dismantled by an ice block the size of a Subaru on the Khumbu Icefall. You evaluate, study, and practice more for your next trip up the mountain. What if your rickety raft capsizes in crocodile-infested jungle waters? Scramble to the shore and be glad the water wasn’t full of sharks.
Learn from the situation and move on to the next challenge.
But hell, moving on feels like escaping quicksand. I’m stuck in the past. I’m that twenty-seven-year-old guy again, completely taken with a woman, like I was when I met Presley one random Sunday at the American Museum of Natural History when we were both checking out the Cosmic Pathway, an exhibit that laid out the thirteen-billion-year history of the universe. I’d made a joke about how the Big Bang had the best name ever for a theory. She’d laughed then made a comment about how the evolution portion of the exhibit moved sooooo slowly. Soon we’d wandered together through the mammal halls, then out to a nearby coffee shop, and into each other’s hearts and minds for six too-short months.
That was more than ten years ago, and I don’t know why I keep thinking of her when I’m scaling sheer rock walls and navigating icebergs, but I know this—now I can’t stop staring at her. Those waves of chestnut hair, those brilliant blue eyes, and those freckles that send a shock of pleasure down my spine. Dear God, her freckles always did me in—they’re the sweetness to her side of sexy.
Her lips are shiny and glossy, and I’m tempted to run my finger across her bottom lip, see if her breath hitches, if goosebumps rise on her skin. Does she react the way she did before?
