Page 45 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
I tuck the camera away when we reach the second floor, where we’re greeted by a massive mahogany desk in front of an unlit fireplace. Red leather chairs face the desk, and an old-fashioned green-shaded lamp with a chain sits on the wood surface.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling next to the desk. Everything about this place screams Home to the Rich Old Boys Club of Manhattan, with its high-backed chairs and everything-must-be-leather look.
But that’s what many private clubs started a century ago are.
“It sort of makes sense that he would send his kids here in the letter,” I say softly as we wait for the receptionist to return. “Since he founded this place.”
“It’s quite fitting. It all adds up.”
When the receptionist returns, her blue-gray eyes peer at us over horn-rimmed glasses. “Good morning. Welcome to the Exploration Society. I’m Melody Warner.”
Presley extends a hand. “Good morning, Melody. I’m Presley Turner. Highsmith Auction House. We emailed last night. Thank you for the quick response.”
Melody’s face lights up, and her gaze flicks from Presley to me. “But of course. As soon as I heard who you were working with . . .” Her voice trails off as she turns to me, covering her mouth briefly as she giggles, then clasping her hands to her chest. “Mr. Armstrong, I am such a fan of your show. I’ve seen every episode. Including the one where you slept under the stars in the rain forest.”
“We actually went to a motel that time,” I admit.
She waves a hand. “You did not. You’d never do that.”
I nod. “We did. There was a dangerous storm warning, so it was safer that way.”
“I refuse to believe it,” she says, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice Presley’s jaw is tight, and I know what she’s thinking—her impressive credentials didn’t get us in so easily. This woman’s fangirling did.
“Presley and I appreciate you making the time for us, and for our Valentina project,” I say, emphasizing that I’m here with a companion.
“We were excited to hear from you. Emails like that—well, they’re the kind you live for in my position,” she says, still fawning, and I bet Presley is fighting every instinct to roll her eyes. “And you can shoot anything you want.” Melody ushers us back to the stairs. “The Valentina collection you want is on the third floor. Just head up the stairs.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, and Presley adds her thanks as well.
Once we’re on the stairs and out of sight, I touch her arm. She turns around, her expression unreadable.
“Hey,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“They let us in.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m not stupid. They let you in. I’m also not upset. Not really. I wanted in. We got in.”
“Are you sure? You seemed annoyed.”
She sighs. “Maybe a little, but there’s no point. You’re a star. Might as well use your star power to lubricate the path.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Talk to me more about lubrication.”
She rolls her eyes. “There you go again, making it impossible to stay mad.”
“Do you want to stay mad?”
“Actually, I don’t. I like this.” She gestures from me to her. “Being friends. It feels right.”
I’d like to be more than friends.
But she doesn’t.
I should respect that.
I really should.
But the trouble is, I think, as we reach the landing, I’m also a man on a mission. As much as I know I’m not catching anything in this kettle of fish, I still want to toss out the line.
When you realize you regret letting someone go, you want a second chance like crazy.
I reach for her arm, clasping it now. “You look incredible today,” I tell her, my eyes roaming up and down, taking in the black pants, the pink shirt, the thick chestnut hair.
She stops. “You’re not too shabby yourself. But don’t try to distract me again.”
“I would never do that,” I say in a flirty, dirty whisper.
“You’re already trying to do it.”
“Is it working?”
“Hunter,” she chides.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I step a little bit closer, moving into her space on the landing, getting so goddamn near to her that I’m nearly drunk off her fresh ivory-girl scent. “I’m not going to kiss you. I just wanted to say something.” I move in closer, tucking a strand of hair over her ear, so I can whisper, “This is one hell of an adventure, and I’m glad I’m exploring with you.”
She turns her face, her cheek touching mine, and whispers, “Me too.”
The closeness to her, the contact, makes me groan.
That sound seems to be all she needs. In less than a second, her hands are on my face, and she kisses me.
It’s not the same kind of ferocious, fierce kiss that we had yesterday. It’s not a kiss that says Why did we ever stop this? It’s a kiss that says I want to find new ways of kissing you.
