Page 21 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
She opens one book, flipping to the section on the Valentina family. I slide into business mode, and we talk about their history with the Exploration Society and Edward’s partnership with Jack Caribaldi on their adventures.
“So, Miss Art Historian. Buried treasure. Yay or nay?”
She rolls those lovely blue eyes. “That’s just a rumor.”
“But it’d be pretty cool, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think for a second there is treasure hidden in a home in New York State.”
“But what if there is?”
“Then I’ll let you remind me of all the details you desperately wanted to remind me of a little while ago,” she says, a little coy, a little flirty.
“You do realize you’ve made me more determined than ever to find that buried treasure?”
She laughs, taps the book, and says, “Let’s get back to business.”
As we do, it feels like we’ve meandered into something strangely like normal, like the familiar banter we had. Only a little new, a little different.
That lasts for a while, thirty minutes maybe, and we exchange numbers so we can connect on the project. But soon enough, my curiosity rears its head again, and I want to talk about her, not a house. I gesture toward her chestnut locks. “I like what you did with your hair.”
She pats it. “It’s shorter.” Her tone is succinct, observational.
“I like it this length.”
A soft smile plays across her lips, seemingly against her better judgment. “Thank you.”
“Then again, I liked your long hair too.”
“Hunter.” It comes out like a warning.
“But that said, this new look is pretty much the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” I can’t help myself.
A small gasp seems to escape her lips. Then she purses them shut.
“Presley,” I say, my voice going low, raspy, the way she used to like it.
“Yes?” Hers seems to catch again.
“You look so . . .”
How do I even begin to fill in how she looks? More beautiful than I remember? Her eyes seem to be full of stories. Her lips look just as kissable as they used to, and the tiniest of crinkles around her eyes makes me want to know what she’s been up to for the last ten years.
“You look beautiful. I just wanted to say that.”
“Thank you.” She swallows, glances at me, then smirks. “I see the years have been hard on you.”
I act affronted, but this time I know she’s teasing. I recognize the tone. “Hey. What do you mean by that?”
“I just mean it seems like you’ve seen your share of adventures.”
I continue to pretend I’m indignant. “Are you trying to say I look old?”
“Well, you are thirty-seven.”
I shoot her a look. “Thirty-seven is not old.”
“Not that old,” she says, as if correcting me. “But if you’re, say, twenty-five, then thirty-seven is ancient.”
“You’re not twenty-five, woman. You’re two years younger than I am. That’s it. Two years.” Then something dawns on me. “Wait. Is that your way of saying you have a twenty-five-year-old boyfriend?”
Her smile widens with naughty delight. “You think that’s what I meant?”
“Well, yeah.”
She laughs. “You want to know if I have a boyfriend?”
I lean forward. “I’m dying to know.”
Her brow arches. “Are you sure you want to find out?”
“It’s all I want.”
“Like, it’s driving you wild with curiosity?”
“You know it is.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to take the fifth.”
“Presley.” There’s a note of desperation in my voice that surprises me. This fact feels vital. I must unearth it. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What if I have a husband?”
“Do you?” I won’t tango with a taken woman.
She fires back. “You don’t know?”
“I looked you up. I tried to find you. You don’t leave much of a trace on the internet.”
“And you wanted to find a trace of me?”
I didn’t for the longest time. I’d sliced her out of my life. That worked until I heard her name and saw her again. And just like that, now I need to know her status. “So, are you single?” I ask, trying again.
“I’m not married.”
This news thrills me more than I imagined it would. “Good. What about a boyfriend? Fiancé?”
“Why does it matter?” She’s making me work for it, and that’s hot. But as I hold her gaze, the flicker in her eyes tells me the past isn’t entirely in the past. It tells me she might like the present too.
“It matters because . . .” I lift my hand, moving a strand of hair from her shoulder.
She trembles, then smooths her hands over her jeans, stands, and gestures to the door. “I need to go. I have someplace to be later.”
I doubt that’s true, but I also don’t want to push her. “I’ll walk you out.”
Once outside, I wait as she hails a cab. “I’ll see you on-site. But don’t bring your boyfriend, okay?”
She shakes her head, amused. “You’re hilarious when you don’t get what you want.”
I make one last-ditch effort. I can’t help myself. “You could just tell me if you’re involved with someone, and then I’d know whether it’s safe to flirt.”
