Maybe like he has a secret.
I tilt my head. “What is up with you, my English hottie?” I ask.
Okay, maybe I’m a little buzzed.
He smiles, shaking his head. “I solved it. The riddle of you and me.”
I lift a questioning brow. “We’re a riddle?”
He tips his head in the direction of St James, where we work. “Yes, that whole . . . complication.”
Color me all shades of intrigued. “You did?”
“I believe I did,” he says, sounding deliciously pleased.
My eyes widen, demanding answers. “Don’t keep it all to yourself.”
With a soft laugh, he sweeps his lips across mine, lighting me up, making me melt. Somehow, impossibly, I’m even hungrier for him. But curiosity wins. I pull back, setting my hands on his shoulders. “What did you solve?”
“On Tuesday, after the bank holiday, I’m going to give my notice.”
23
HEATH
She blinks then shakes her head, but it’s not like she’s saying no. More like she thinks she didn’t hear me right.
“You’re . . . what? You’re doing what, Heath?”
This wasn’t an easy decision, but it wasn’t the hardest one either. I just hope I don’t seem like I’m overstepping, even though this choice solves so many of the questions I’ve had lately about what I want.
“I’m giving notice at HighSmith,” I say, so we’re clear on that point.
“But you love art,” she insists.
“Exactly. I love art, but I don’t love the job anymore. Not like you do. You love it like it’s a piece of your soul. Like you’d be devastated if you couldn’t plan and curate these incredible collections.”
Her brows knot in a frown. “It’s not that way for you?”
I think she already knows the answer. “No. I love it because I’m good at it. It’s been a salve while I’ve found my feet and my purpose. Now it’s part of my identity. But I’m not in love with it anymore. I’m in love with you.”
“I’m in love with you too. Obviously,” she says, but she still sounds shocked.
“And that’s another reason why I’m doing this. I don’t want to compete with you. You told me the other day that you don’t like it either. Neither of us cares for the complications,” I say, swallowing roughly, hoping I get the words out right. “I don’t want to presume, but I just want to make it easier to love you. And that’s really what I want most . . .” I pause, the whole city rushing by and everything I want right here in front of me. “It’s you.”
Her breath hitches. A tear rolls down one cheek, then the other. “You don’t have to do that,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “We can work together. We can figure this out.”
I shake my head. “I know I don’t have to quit. Trust me, I’ve thought about this a lot. I’ve thought about us, and you, and me. And what I want. And I’ve also thought about what’s right. And honestly, Jo, it’s you who deserves the post. You’re incandescent when you work. It’s a light shining inside you, and it’s beautiful to witness. You should have the post, and I believe from the bottom of my heart that you’ll get it. But I want to do this, anyway, because I don’t want to mix work and love anymore. And I don’t need the crutch of distraction anymore.”
She blows out a breath, taking a beat. “Because of . . .?”
She doesn’t finish, but she absently touches her throat as if to say because of me. But she’s not a replacement for work. She’s not a new balm. I love her for who she is, not because she soothes an ache inside me.
“No, it’s not because of you, Jo. At first, I poured everything into HighSmith because I was there, and I could do the job well. But I’ve had time to heal—by taking photos, reading, wandering the city, spending time with friends. And by living. Just . . . living life.”
“What will you do, though?” she asks and my darling woman sounds so distressed. That’s the last thing I want. I know I’ll be all right, and she doesn’t need to fret.
I run a hand down her arm. “I’ll figure that out. I’m not worried. I’ve got some ideas,” I say.
I’m not wealthy, but I’m wise. I’ve saved over the years, and I’ll be fine, for many months and longer. Time enough to find the thing that feeds my soul the way planning auctions and curating collections used to nourish me.
I tighten my arms around her. “Work has given me many things—a place and a purpose. But the job isn’t the same as the work of curating art. And the job itself doesn’t feed my soul like it did. Like it so clearly does yours.”
“I don’t want you to lose out on what you love.”
I shake my head. “I love many things. Art and books and London and my family. The theater and my brother. Curry and beer and discovering hidden gems. Taking photographs and telling stories through them. And you. Most of all, you.”