Page 24 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
Francesca gags. “I can’t tolerate grotesque displays of happiness.”
“Because you’re a malcontent.”
“And happy to be one. Also, come by Friday night. Surely your disgustingly delightful sister won’t require you to Skype her on a Friday night. Have I mentioned there will be interesting single men at the exhibit?”
I flash her a smile. “Now who’s evil with her enticements? And thanks for making time for me, Miss Malcontent. I owe you wine.”
“I will always cash in on that kind of IOU.”
She returns to her wine and I return to my tiny abode, shutting the door, locking it, and breathing a sigh of relief.
It worked. I barely thought of . . .
Wait.
Single men.
Is Hunter even single?
With all his rapid-fire questions about my relationship status, I didn’t glean even a hint about his.
He’s probably involved.
He probably has a girlfriend.
He probably wanted to know if I was with someone just for his own amusement.
Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I turn off the “do not disturb” setting and immediately see his name on my screen.
Willpower, I tell myself.
Also, who cares if he’s involved? You’re not getting involved with him, so it doesn’t matter.
For a full hour, I pretend his name isn’t on my phone as I research ideas for Beatrice, combing through articles on less-frequented sites of art whodunits, hunting out new theories.
But heists don’t interest me right now. Nor do Francesca’s single men. Oddly enough, my mind wanders to Corey Kruger. Did he mean what he said in his letters to Lily? Did he want her back at the time?
What does he want now?
And more importantly, what do I want?
I close the laptop, head to my bed, open my nightstand drawer, and find a well-worn envelope. I slide my finger inside, taking out a flimsy sheet of lined paper.
* * *
I’m sure when I’m halfway around the world, waking up in that in-between state where I don’t yet remember where I am, I’ll imagine I’m still with you. I’ll blink, rub my eyes, and my heart will fall when I recall how very far from you I am. But for a few delirious seconds, I’ll be lost in time and space. How long will that last, I wonder?
* * *
I don’t think it’ll end.
* * *
He slipped this into my purse one morning after he spent the night, leaving a kiss on my forehead and saying, It’s not for now. It’s for later. And know this—I’ll see you tonight. We still have another night.
I close my eyes, wishing all his words, both the spoken and the written, didn’t kick off a huge swell of emotions, didn’t make my throat hurt.
But they do.
And that’s why I can’t lose myself to the ridiculous notion of unfinished business.
Hunter Armstrong is the past.
The only part of him I can allow into my present is the professional side.
I need to write a fabulous proposal and do a stellar job cataloging the estate. Maybe something from Valentina’s collection will inspire me with something more marketable than a deep dive into art heists. That’s what my focus will be.
That’s all that matters—not fruitlessly pondering the wants of a man who was barely ever mine.
Because I want nothing from him.
Even when I finally open that text.
For a moment, I’m taken aback.
I was expecting a simple You’re welcome.
Instead, it’s an offer. A work offer, but an offer nonetheless.
The proposition is so different from what I’m used to. I don’t want to be intrigued, not by this or anything connected to Hunter. But I have to admit . . . I am.
9
Hunter
A few days later, Josh shoots me an amused glare as he dribbles a basketball. “So the project starts today and you think working with your ex will be as easy as . . . hmm . . . what’s easy for you?” My cousin spins the ball on his finger for a few seconds. “Ah, I’ve got it. Climbing Kilimanjaro?”
Laughing, I answer him. “I can do that one blindfolded. That’s the easiest summit. It’s child’s play.”
He shoots, and the ball drops through the basket with a soft whoosh.
“Nice. You’ll be repping yourself soon,” I say, since he’s a premier sports agent, handling world-class athletes. I had a business dinner in the city last night and stayed in a hotel in Midtown so it was easy to meet him here in the park before the workday begins.
Nabbing the ball, I dribble then toss it into the net. “And to answer your question, yes, I think working with her will be Kilimanjaro-level fine,” I say, since I have to believe that.
He laughs incredulously. “It’s never easy working with someone you used to sleep with.”
“And why’s that?”
He grabs the ball on the rebound. “Because of that—because you used to sleep with her.” He makes a killer jump shot, sending the ball soaring through the net.
