“Mmm. ‘Fried circuits’ is my new favorite saying,” I murmur, my body alive, my bones humming.
“I had this whole image of you, all studious and learned, talking books with me, showing me your favorites.”
I hate that I love her image of me so much. I love it so much it unlocks a confession that surprises me. “I really wanted to see you on Friday, Jo. Take you to dinner. Show you around London if you wanted.” I glance at the clock. Her eyes stray there too. Our meeting is soon, but she makes no move to leave. “Have you been here before? To London?” I ask.
She hesitates. Her eyes flicker with something like sadness, or maybe anger. Perhaps a mix of both. I’m hanging on the edge of the moment, waiting for her answer.
“I have. I was here for a few months for grad school,” she says tightly, as if the words pain her.
I want to know what’s beneath that tension, but now isn’t the time.
It’s also not my turn. She asks, “Are you from here?”
“Born and raised.”
“Have you ever lived anyplace else?”
I shake my head. “No. London is just . . . home.”
“New York is that way for me,” she says, and I can hear the wistfulness.
“You miss it.” It’s not a question.
Her eyes shine. “I do. So much. I miss my friends terribly. I miss the madness of New York. All its New Yorkness.”
Her answer tugs on a part of me that’s been dormant for a long time. “I half wanted to ask you if you’d seen the Tate or The National Gallery, or if you wanted to. The other night, that is.”
“At the bar?” she asks, curious.
I shake my head. “No. In your room. When you were . . .” An image of her, soft and naked, flashes before my eyes. “In bed. After.”
She trembles. “After,” she says dreamily. “I felt pretty good after.”
I can’t stop a low groan from escaping. “Good. I’m glad you felt that way. I felt it too.”
“Apparently, the way you felt made you want to take me to a museum,” she says with a laugh.
I grin. “Well, the cat is out of the bag. Art turns me on.”
“Same here.” She takes a beat. “So, you wanted to take me there? To the Tate?”
At the time, I mostly wanted to know what she was doing in London. But I also wanted to take her there, to show her my favorites. “Yes, I suppose I did. To show you the J.M.W. Turners and the Monets. It’s madness, though. Too many crowds, too many tourists—”
“But worth it,” she says quickly, excited by the idea.
“Yes. So worth it.”
The strange thing is, this moment feels worth it, too, even though it’s going nowhere.
“I love all the Turners,” she says, bringing her hand to her heart, like she’s holding that love for the art. “I can stare at them for hours, trying to figure them out.”
“Me too. His seascapes are so atmospheric. So moody.” That’s why I like them so much. His paintings brood. They gaze. And they make me think.
She leans a tad closer like she’s going to share a secret. “Sometimes, I think they’re like puzzles.”
“And you want to solve the mystery of what he’s saying about light, or fire, or rain,” I say.
Her smile is dazzling. “I’m convinced there’s something there I haven’t quite gotten yet, so I keep looking.”
“I’m always hunting for the answer. I haven’t found it yet either,” I say, wishing more than ever I could take her there, unlock the mystery with her.
We’re both quiet for a moment, eyes locked, mouths still.
“Heath?”
“Yes?” My reply sounds desperate even to my own ears.
“I don’t miss New York right this second. And I didn’t miss it on Sunday night,” she whispers.
There’s nothing better she could have said, nothing that could make me want her any more. All I can do is gaze at her with longing that will go unfulfilled. “I wish I could make you not miss New York again and again.”
Her breath catches.
Then she glances at the clock. “I should go,” she says, and with a speed that surprises me, she grabs the open collar of my button-down shirt and tugs me close, brings her lips near mine. Her breath is soft and enticing. “I wanted to see you again so badly, Heath.”
I shudder.
Then, she brushes her soft mouth against mine, and sparks flare across my skin.
From a secret, poignant kiss in my office.
One that lasts mere seconds, then ends when she turns to leave.
10
JO
Talk about awkward.
I’m in a conference room, planning an upcoming collection with three other people, including a man I saw naked.
A man I want to see naked again.
Heath’s across the table from me, wearing his serious face, and damn, that intensity looks good on him. He’s Professor Indiana Jones now, all intelligence and wit in the classroom as he says, “We’d like this to be the type of auction that draws a wide range of collectors, but especially the newer ones.”