Page 61 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
I turn to Presley, shooting her a look that says Please help because I’m tumbling backward off a cliff here, ’kay, thanks.
She lifts her chin. “Sir, we’re researching the families, and we’d very much like to know if you have . . .”
He wraps his hand around the doorknob and waves, dismissing us without looking back. “I have a call to make. When you’re ready to buy, you let me know. I don’t have time for nonsense in my life. You ought to avoid nonsense too.”
The door snicks shut, and I turn to Presley, holding out my hands. “What the hell? I am not stupid.”
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“But what was the point of that?” I shove a hand through my hair, frustrated with the man and his seesaw attitude.
“He was trying to rile you up, and it worked.”
“But could he be any vaguer?” I ask as she peers at the shelves, studying the brushes. “Where are we even supposed to look? The letter doesn’t say what to do once we’re in here. The other letter did though. It said inside a home, up the stairs, and behind a place near and dear to your father. It was very specific. This one is basically tra la la la la.”
“Or maybe it’s not,” she offers with a delighted smile, the kind that spreads like the sunrise across her features as she looks up, meeting my gaze.
“What do you mean?”
With a glint in her eyes, she points subtly to the nearest shelves. “Maybe it’s as plainly spelled out as the other one. Maybe it’s right in front of us.” She taps the shelf.
“Spill, woman. And spill the beans now, because you’re killing me.”
She purses her lips, studying the row of hairbrushes, picking up the first one, then the next, then another. Like they’re a fan of brushes, she brandishes them in front of her chest. “Which one is the best one?”
“I have no idea,” I say, scratching my chin. “It’s a brush. I don’t even use a comb.” I waggle my fingers, showing her my homemade grooming tool.
Softly but with determination, she presses. “Look closer, Hunter. You want to find the best one.”
I peer, grinning when the weight of her words hits me. “Best one. Are you kidding me?”
“He kind of gave us the clue, didn’t he? The clue from the letter.” She’s Ponce de León, discovering the Fountain of Youth.
“What was it he said?” I snap my fingers, recalling the man’s words from moments ago as my brain buzzes with excitement. “‘We have all the best ones.’ Just like the letter. You know where all the best ones are in a particular district.”
“Exactly,” she says, laughing and grabbing my arm. “Exactly, Hunter. He gave us the clue. He’s read the letter from the Exploration Society.”
Her hand on my arm. Her eyes sparkling. Her nearness. I have no choice. I clasp her face in my palms and kiss her. She gasps, and then rises up on tiptoes, kissing me back with a tender fierceness that unravels me, that takes me apart. Hell, she takes me apart, with her lips and her breath and her teeth that nip at the corner of my mouth.
Her hand slides up my chest, then presses firmly on my sternum, gently pushing me away.
“Does this sort of treasure-hunting turn you on?” she whispers.
My eyes drift down, then back up to take her in. “Evidently, this whole skull and bug-in-amber shop does it for me. Who knew?” I ask wryly, then my eyes dart back and forth, scanning the brushes. “Which one do we pick?”
“I don’t think it matters. I doubt the skulls will shoot poisoned darts at us if we pick the wrong one. But I bet it’s one of these.” She runs her fingers across several brushes.
I catch sight of something familiar on one of the hairbrushes. At the end of a scalloped handle is a pink ribbon, enameled on the design.
I raise my hand and say, deadpan, “Or really, that’s the best one.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh my God. I didn’t even notice that.”
I close the distance, brush my fingertips against her cheek, then whisper, “Well, some things are hidden in plain sight. Like how I feel for you.”
“Hunter,” she whispers.
“You’re right. It’s not hidden. It’s pretty damn obvious.”
“Is it?”
“It better be,” I say, my eyes locked with hers. “Because last night was spectacular.” I’m emboldened by the hunt, driven by the need to share. “I want to tell you that now. I want to tell you before we find whatever comes next.” I run my thumb along her jaw. “Being with you again is like coming home.”
Her eyes flutter closed. “What are you doing to me?”
I skim my lips across her forehead. “Same thing you’re doing to me.”
She shivers, then opens her eyes, running her fingers across the back of the hairbrush. “Oh.”
