Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

“Yes, do let Google know,” he says.

The bartender swings by with my lemon drop. “Here you go,” she says. I reach for my purse, but the British Indiana Jones sets a hand next to mine and asks, maybe a touch tentative, “May I?”

The question sends a cascade of tingles down my spine—that he asked, but also, how he asked.

“You may,” I say softly, sounding more demure than I intended. I’m not a demure person, but something about his offer brings that out in me.

He places a bill on the counter then lifts his glass and offers it in a toast. “To chance encounters. I’m Heath.”

That name. It’s so Emily Brontë and windswept moors. “That’s very literary, Heathcliff,” I say, clinking back. “And I’m Jo.”

“You’re one to talk about literary names, Jo,” he says, then whispers, “March as in Little Women.”

I try not to smile too wide. That’s exactly the fictional Jo I’d want to be.

He takes a drink, then sets down his glass. “So, these pickup lines—do you like them? Would they work on you?”

“They’re silly.” I shrug lightly. “There’s a time and a place for silly, but they aren’t my speed.”

“And what is?”

His question that made me shiver—that’s my speed. “If a man says, May I? when he asks to pay for your drink.”

Heath dips his handsome face with a gentle laugh and a smile that reads more genuinely than the cocky Harrison Ford grin from before. It’s a good look on him.

But then, a lot of things look good on him. His face, for instance. He’s ridiculously handsome in a way that should be illegal. It’s not fair that anybody could be this handsome, with his close-cropped brown hair, his striking, slightly stubbled jawline, and yup, he has a tiny scar on his chin.

Indiana Jones, indeed.

A few crinkles touch the corners of his eyes. They are what engage me most. They’re rich with stories, with tales of loves lost and won, secrets uncovered, passions shared.

This is a man who’s lived. I bet he doesn’t have Snapchat either.

Heath clears his throat. “Now, I have to ask: since you researched pickup lines, does that mean you came in here in hopes of picking someone up? Also, is that what they even call it anymore? I have to be honest—I’m a little rusty.”

That’s so damn endearing, honesty and all. “I’m kind of rusty too. I’m new to town and, confession, my friends from New York challenged me to go out and meet someone tonight.”

His lips twitch. “Wouldn’t you know? My brother from here challenged me to do the same.”

“Maybe it’s kismet,” I say with a laugh.

“Do you believe in kismet?” he asks, seeming more curious than judgmental. “In fate?”

“I’d like to.” I sip my drink and set it down. “But right now, I’d like to believe that my terrible pickup lines might actually be working.” I watch his reaction, feeling bold, feeling daring. Feeling like maybe he was everything my friends had in mind for me.

Heath leans a little closer, lowers his voice. “Your pickup lines are definitely working.”

A pause follows, a little awkward, maybe because neither one of us knows exactly how serious we are about our plans for the night.

In that space, I calculate.

Am I really doing this?

Is he asking himself the same?

He draws a breath like it fuels him. “So, what brings you to town?” Then he holds up a hand and shakes his head. “That was actually a terrible line in general, so let’s pretend I didn’t ask.”

I touch my fingers to my temples, shut my eyes, then open them again. “Erased.”

“I’ll start over.” He gestures to my Hazel Valentine book. “Speaking of libraries and things to check out, are you enjoying your book?”

My face heats slightly, and I hesitate. When you tell a person what you read, sometimes their reaction reveals who they are. Some judge, and some don’t. I prefer the latter. “It’s a love story,” I say, lifting my chin.

His expression goes serious. “Is it an escape?”

“You’re not going to tease me about reading romance novels?” I ask.

His brow knits in confusion. “Is that a thing people do?”

So much. Too often. I’ve been ridiculed for my taste in books, my love of musicals, my affection for pop songs. “Some people think you should only read serious literature or important non-fiction.”

Heath’s expression is comically astonished. “People mock reading? Make fun of books? Well, besides silly quote books culled from social media feeds.”

“Social media is fair game for mockery. And yes, some people mock reading, and certain types of stories,” I say with a laugh.

“People,” he mutters, like he disapproves of them in general.

“I like people, generally. But now that I’ve said it, that does sound unbelievably petty of them.”

He taps the back cover of my book gently. “How does the book make you feel?”

The question makes me dig into my emotions about the story, examine them, and I like that. I flip to the back cover, featuring a couple kissing on the streets of New York, and my heart glows a little. “Possible,” I say. “It makes me feel . . . possible.”