Page 39 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“And what part of New York is that?”
“Lenox Hill. Named for the hill that stood at what became Seventieth and Park, which was located at right about the five-mile stone of Old New York.”
“And if there’s a home there in Lenox Hill . . . and you go up the stairs. That’s where you find something near and dear to . . .” He chuckles loudly, the kind of satisfied sound that means he figured out exactly where the letter points. Then, asking if he’s right, he whispers, “That’s where the clue leads us?”
Smiling, I tap his nose. “Bingo. It’s in Lenox Hill.”
“Is it open now?”
“No. And you have to make an appointment. I think that’s what the ‘research before you search’ means. I’ll call first thing in the morning. Actually,” I say, grabbing my phone, “let me shoot over an email tonight.”
He’s adamant when he says, “We’re going there before we go to the house again.”
“Obviously.” I laugh, rolling my eyes as I find a contact for the place we’d like to go then fire off a quick email, listing my credentials. I show him the note.
“If it were me, I’d let you in right now. But first,” he says, pointing to his burger, “this is a solid B-plus.”
I put my phone back in my purse. “Not an A?”
He shoots me a look. “Do you know how hard it is to earn an A in my food gradebook? It’s damn near impossible.”
“What about your shake though?” I lift mine and take a sip. “It’s sweet, cold, and chocolatey. What could be more deserving of top marks?”
He drinks from mine, humming his approval. “Now that’s an A. How about your salad? It’s a C, right?”
“Hey, don’t put down my greens.” I spear some lettuce with my fork and make an obscenely satisfied moan. “It’s an A-plus.”
Hunter laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that warms my heart. “We were excellent at grading meals.” He takes another bite of his burger. After he chews, he says, “We were excellent at a lot of things.”
My heart stutters, wanting to skip out of its cage and frolic on the path back to him. But this easy way we have with each other is too risky. We’re already slipping back into old habits, the good ones. The two of us could always talk about anything. Hopes. Dreams. Goals. Here we are, doing it again, all while grading a meal, when I need to be dissecting a letter, cataloging a house, and finding an idea for a proposal.
I can’t let one knee-weakening, toe-curling kiss distract me so much. I’m rebuilding my career. Hell, I’m trying to resuscitate it, and that kiss can’t be repeated.
That’s when I finally decide to open up to him. He’s been forthright with me tonight. I need to do the same.
When I finish the salad and fries, I set down my fork. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
“You’re secretly married, and he’s coming to pick you up in five minutes, so I should hide under the table?” His dimpled grin makes me want to grab his cheeks and kiss him hard.
That’s the problem.
“No. Also, under the table would be a poor hiding place. You should hide in the ladies’ room when this fictional husband arrives.” I set my hands in my lap, my mood sobering. “But seriously, I need you to know that this job and this project are incredibly important to me. I haven’t had quite the success that you’ve had, and this could be the key for me to reach the next level.”
His expression softens, not in sympathy, but with compassion. “You’re working at a great auction house. You have this terrific project in front of you. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“It’s kind of you to say that, but here’s the reality: you’ve sold millions of copies of your books; I’ve sold one hundred fifty-four copies of one book.”
He makes robot movements with his arms. “Does not compute.” He returns to his normal voice. “Who wouldn’t want to read your work? You’re brilliant.”
“And you’re sweet to say so,” I reply.
“It’s not being sweet. It’s being honest. You showed me all your articles when we were together. They were fantastic. You’re going to be a superstar. It will happen. Mark my words.”
My cheeks flame red from the compliment, from his enthusiasm, from how much I love his support. This man was always a champion of mine. That’s another thing that stung when we split—I lost the person who encouraged me the most. We did that for each other. I never tried to hold him back from his love of adventure. I didn’t ask him to stop climbing mountains or sailing icy seas. All I wanted was for him to come home to me.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t need to be a superstar author. The reason I first wanted to write a book was to grow my career as an art historian. If it could help do that, I’d be psyched.”
