Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

She gives an impish grin. “It’s like a relationship status update on Facebook. London and me . . . well, let’s just say, it’s complicated.”

I narrow my eyes. “This is serious, Jo. We need to dissect this. Get to the bottom of this anti-London affliction of yours.”

“You’ve got two miles, then,” she says, pointing the other way. “I’m leasing a flat in Charing Cross.”

“Then that’s the way we shall go.”

We start along the street, and I’m eager to dive into this blasphemy about the place I adore, but first, there’s still this elephant between us.

I clear my throat. “So, you’re interested in the VP post?”

She bounces excitedly in her silver flats as we weave through the crowds around a dance club with a line snaking down the block. “I applied at Bancroft in New York before Miranda sold the house to HighSmith. Or rather, before she announced the sale. Making VP is kind of everything I’ve ever wanted—a chance to really prove myself.”

As she talks, she brims with enthusiasm that I haven’t felt in some time—at least, not this genuinely. Not in this way that seems to come from the center of her soul.

“You’re quite good at what you do,” I say. “You bring a certain energy to the group.”

“So do you,” she says, nudging my arm with her elbow.

I roll my eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Jo Brennan.”

She fixes me with a curious look, her tone downright insistent. “I mean it. You do have a certain energy, Heath.”

“Energy is not the word people use to describe me where work is concerned,” I say sternly. “More like distant. Abstruse. Cold.”

“Also, never likes to go out. That’s another.”

“That goes along with doesn’t play well with others,” I offer. “Bet that’s up there too.”

“I don’t know if that’s true. You played well with me.” Her eyes twinkle as she casts a fluttering, doe-eyed gaze my way, flirty with exaggerated innocence.

I can’t be bothered to fight off a grin. It simply takes over as I return her flirting with my own. “You’re an exception,” I tell her. She is, in every sense of the word.

Her smile burns off, replaced with a softness, a vulnerability. “You’re very good at distracting me,” she says, then schools her expression. “And we were talking about you.”

“Maybe that’s why I wanted to distract you.”

“I am undeterred. And as I was saying, you do bring an energy. It’s a you energy—intense. You’re quiet for a bit, but when you speak, your words are powerful. Well-thought-out. Articulate. Your insight is sharp. It makes others want to work harder. That’s how I feel around you in the office, and it’s a compliment, so take it,” she says, ending with mock petulance.

I mime grabbing something out of thin air and putting it in my pocket. “There. I took it.”

She pats my arm. “Good. And I think you’d nail any promotion you applied for too.” Then, she gasps, her eyes popping to cartoon character size. “Oh, crap. You’re applying too?”

The question hangs in the air between us.

Fuck this shit, indeed.

“Yes. I threw my hat into the ring a couple weeks ago,” I say darkly.

Jo stops, grabs my arm, then groans. “TJ would love that.”

“Who’s that? Brother? Friend?”

“One of my good friends in New York. He writes romance novels. You’ll meet him someday.” She catches herself and blinks in startled confusion. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Maybe it feels like I will?” I latch onto that notion. Meeting her friends sounds so dangerous, but so . . . delightful. It sounds like a new way of living. A terrifying but wonderful one.

“Maybe it does,” she says. “I can see it.”

“And why would he love that we’re going after the same post?”

“He’d get a kick out of all the obstacles in our way. Since that’s, well, that’s his job. To put obstacles in the way of his characters.”

It sure feels like someone is masterminding this chess game of my life. Wish I knew the moves to make, but I don’t even know the setup of the board. “His wasn’t the book you had when I met you?” I ask.

“No. I’ve read all his books. I’m waiting eagerly for his next one.” She drops her voice to a racy whisper, fanning her face. “They’re swoony and quite sexy.”

“They sound delicious,” I remark as we cross the street, sidestepping a crew of young men in leather jackets.

Her eyes sparkle like I said just the right thing, and I’m glad I could make her happy.

“They are tasty. Anyway, so you and I are co-workers and rivals now, in a way.” She gives me a playful stare. “Which means . . . we’re just going to have to be friends. I insist on it. You told me your darts secret, and you’re walking me home, and we’re not having that date. Therefore, we must be friends.”