Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

“And that means what?”

“Need I refer to exhibit A—you, last night in the bar, admitting you have no game.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

He grins and slugs my arm. “But apparently you do. You have so much game. I’m fucking proud of you.” He shoots me a salacious grin. “Did it make your toast better? Like I predicted?”

I stare him down; he’s asking for it. “Best toast I’ve ever had.”

“Told you so.”

“Thanks. Now, tell me what to do.”

“Because you want great toast again? With jam on it?” he teases.

“I want the toast, the jam, and the company. So . . . how in the bloody hell does this work?”

“Well, last time I dated a woman was . . .” Jude stares at the ceiling of his dressing room. “Hmm. Let’s see. Never.”

“Piss off. People are the same.”

He shrugs. “Sort of.”

“Well, you’ve pretended to date women on stage and film,” I say, with an impish grin.

He winks at me. “Many. So many. And I make all genders swoon.”

“Yes, you do. So, since you have a curtain in the near future, maybe you could get on with dispensing the Jude Fox wisdom,” I say, using his stage name.

His blue eyes shift from playful to serious. “You want to see her again. She made an impression on you. And you kind of hate all things modern dating. So, what would I do? Well, in the past, I’d have DM’d someone on Insta.”

I shudder, horror movie style. “That sounds ghastly.”

A small laugh falls from his lips as he heads to the costume rail, tugs clothes off hangers. “See? That’s my point. You hate that stuff. You dated in the Stone Age. The way I see it is you can either learn all sorts of modern lingo or you can just be you.”

“Which means?” Asking for dating advice, even from my brother, is more uncomfortable than I’d anticipated, and I’d expected to feel twenty thousand leagues under a sea of discomfort.

Jude makes a phone of his fingers, raises it to his ear, and speaks into his pinky. “Hi, there, hot American babe. This is your strapping English stud from last night. Want to—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Got it.”

Jude drops his pretend phone. “It’s adorable that you know nothing about modern dating. But it’s okay. Just . . . lean into it, Heath.”

“Lean into it,” I repeat. That makes sense. It’s all I can do.

I gesture to the poster with his face on it next to the door. “Break a leg.”

“I’ll break two,” he says.

I repeat that new mantra the whole way home, then one more time—lean into it—before I pick up the phone.

8

JO

I brace myself for my father’s advice.

Because he’s not calling to make small talk. He never does.

“Are you ready for tomorrow, Josephine?” he asks, sounding exactly like the brilliant but distant professor that he is.

“Of course,” I say, spine straight, shoulders back.

“It’s a big change.”

“Yes and no.” I stand, moving off the bed. I don’t want to talk to him in the same space where I was last night.

He hums, a sound laced with doubt. “Seems foolish to try to spin it both ways, Josephine.”

“Life isn’t always black and white, Arthur,” I say.

He chuckles, which translates to, Are you still doing that? Calling me by my name?

“In any case, I just wanted to wish you good luck tomorrow. London is a cutthroat world for art.”

I sneer. This is a good luck call? Could have fooled me.

“Thanks for the well wishes,” I say, trying to strip the sarcasm out of my tone.

“I hope you’re not in over your head at HighSmith. I suspect you’ll have to work ten thousand times harder than you think.”

“Thanks again.” I glance around the room, searching for a reason to end the call, and spot my suitcase. “I need to go prep for tomorrow.”

I hang up after the barest of goodbyes then grit my teeth and close my eyes.

I take a breath.

I exhale.

And I try to let go of him and his doubt.

For my first day, I want to wow this Emily Hathaway. Show her what I’m made of. That I do work ten thousand times harder than anyone.

And that I deserve a promotion to VP.

I choose an outfit for tomorrow, lay it out on the desk chair, then answer my work emails. Maybe later I’ll be in the mood to try that phone call again.

But I’m not now.

I’m closing my suitcase when the phone rings a second time.

With an annoyed sigh, I grab it, about to say What now, Arthur? But the name Heath flashes across my screen.

All my senses light up. They bounce around in my body.

Am I really this woman, the one so delighted by a man calling?

I haven’t even answered, and yet, bubbles float inside me. I slide open the phone, my lips parting softly, wanting to say just the right words.