Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

“Bye, friend,” I say.

“Goodnight, friend,” he echoes.

I run from temptation, up the stairs to my flat and inside. There, I go to the window, throw it open, and peer down to the busy street.

He’s there, phone camera at eye level, snapping a shot of me four stories above, a little caught up in him.

Or maybe a lot, especially when he texts me the photo he took with the caption.

My London.

13

HEATH

Hey there, Jo. So, just wanted you to know I was married once and my wife died. But I’m good, all stitched up and ready for romance again!

By the way, um, I’ve been meaning to mention I was married for twelve years to my college sweetheart.

Oh, while we’re getting to know each other, as friends and all that, been meaning to mention, I’m a widower. And here’s a fantastic pub. Let’s have a drink, shall we?

Shaving the next morning before meeting Jo, I slide the blade along my jaw and practice what I’m going to say. Because it would be weird if I waited any longer.

It already feels weird, this awareness that I should say something. That she shared with me, and I ought to share with her.

I want to. It’s not a secret, just not casual conversation. Though, if I’m honest, I haven’t minded that it hasn’t come up.

Still, the longer I wait, the stranger it’ll be to drop that intel.

Rinsing off the shaving cream in the sink, I return to the rote task. A few minutes later, I pat my face dry, then splash on a hint of aftershave.

Will Jo like this rainfall scent?

It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point of today. The point is . . . friendship.

And I’ll take that. I definitely want it.

I grab my camera and a book, then bound down the steps of my flat. On the street in front, I spot a familiar couple out walking—my friend Griffin and his wife, Joy. They’re munching on pastries and drinking tea.

“Ah, it’s a rare sighting. What brings you back to the homeland?” I ask Griffin as I give him a quick hug and Joy a kiss on each cheek.

“My lovely bride had a meeting yesterday for her new perfume line, and I thought why be in Paris alone when I can be in London with her?”

Joy squeezes his arm. “That, and the company paid for his ticket and comped our hotel.”

I laugh. “But of course. Griffin is always looking for a deal.”

“I am. I won’t even pretend I’m not. Thanks again for those pics last weekend. I’m definitely going to add the apothecary garden to the tours here.” Griffin recently expanded his tour business from Paris to London, so he’s on the lookout for interesting places to show off.

“I’m off to The Rookery today, so if you want any—”

“Photos? Yes, yes, and more yes. Especially since it’s far away, and some customers like that.”

“Some people do too.”

He gives a knowing wink. “That they do.”

“It’s a plan.”

I say goodbye and walk to the train station near Jo. Since I’m early, I wait on the corner, crack open the mystery Nigel gave me, and pick up where I left off late last night, racing through what I suspect is the first red herring about the jewel heist.

“The butler did it.”

Startled, I jerk my gaze up from the pages. Jo looks entirely impish.

“You better not spoil this,” I say, flipping it closed, giving her a stern warning just in case.

She gasps indignantly. “Who do you take me for?”

“Not a spoiler person, that’s for sure.”

“Good. Because I’m not. I have no clue who murdered the dowager, or lifted the diamonds, or stole the art.” She waves a hand at the book. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Even if I begged?”

“I swear. I would never tell you. If you want proof, just ask my friend Emerson. She was dying to know what happened to Han Solo in the new Star Wars.” Jo mimes zipping her lips.

I gesture to the station entrance, and we head down the steps. “You kept it quiet that he fell in love with Jabba the Hutt’s long-lost sister and retired to make babies on Tatooine?”

Her blue eyes go wide. “You know Star Wars?”

“Why are you shocked? And yes, obviously, I know what happened to Han, and it wasn’t a marriage to Jabba’s relative.”

“I didn’t expect you to keep up with the latest.”

“Jo, I’m only forty. I’m not from the Stone Age.”

She hums, low in her throat. “Someone just dropped his age, all casual.”

Seems I did. Maybe I’m giving sharing a trial run. Dropping facts like name, rank, and serial number and then working up to the full carousel of emotional baggage. “Should I have held it back?” I ask. “Made you play Twenty Questions?”

She smiles my way as we pass through the barriers, then shakes her head. “No. I like this whole upfront-and-open thing we have going on.”