Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

Maybe it’s too soon. Too crazy. Too much.

But life doesn’t give you many second chances at love—let alone a great love. She feels like the next great love of my life.

“You can’t quit,” she says softly, her eyes shining with tears, but her voice is a feeble protest. Her lips seal to mine, and she kisses me like she’s saying thank you. “You just can’t,” she whispers, but she’s running out of steam to protest.

“But I want to,” I tell her. “And I think a change will do me good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I want to find work that gives me joy the way you give me joy. If it makes our work lives less complicated, that’s just the jam on the scone.”

“I love jam and scones. And you.” She grabs my face. “And when you say those things you make it impossible not to fall deeper into love with you.”

I laugh. “Then I’m brilliant.”

She grabs me harder, pulls me closer. Kisses me desperately.

It’s a kiss that leads straight to the bedroom.

Mine.

Once there, our clothes vanish. She’s on her back, naked and needy, pulling me close then wrapping her legs around my waist as I fill her.

I groan. She murmurs.

And I was right. This is the answer.

I hook her leg higher around my hips, thrust deeper, and give her what she wants. Already I’ve learned her needs, her wishes. She loves it deep and hard. She loves to be fucked with abandon. She wants me to take her.

I grab her wrists, lift them over her head to pin her in place as I swivel my hips. I sink deeper, pump harder, show her with my body how much I want all of her.

And I do.

I want all of her, separate from work.

Just her for me.

And like that, I bring her over the edge. Her lips part, and she calls out my name in a breathless, stuttering gasp. A gorgeous cry that rips my own climax right from me.

I join her on the other side of bliss. We pant and moan, coming down from the high together.

We spend the next day like that—together.

We wander around our London, taking photos of us kissing.

It lasts until Saturday night, when her phone pings at dinner. She grabs it, scans the message, and her face goes still.

“What is it?”

Looking up, she meets my gaze. Her irises are laced with both fear and rabid excitement. She swallows roughly. “It’s my mentor, Andrea. She said her friend at The Met has an opening for a curator. She’s recommending me.”

For a job in New York.

24

HEATH

Some job openings move slowly.

Some are rocket fast.

The Met is the opposite of HighSmith, it appears.

While Emily has kept the VP post unfilled for more than a month, The Met wants to hire stat.

The museum wants to fill the job before the summer begins in earnest, before crowds pick up. The Met is the most popular art museum in the United States. Jo worked there several years ago with Andrea, who’s now at a museum in New Haven but still advises The Met on personnel.

Jo tells me all this as I walk her to her flat after dinner.

“And then she said This is a huge opportunity for someone so young, and for a woman so young,” she says as we round the corner to her place.

Andrea isn’t wrong. The Met is an art pinnacle.

Jo holds my hand, squeezing it, a little too tightly.

That’s not like her to hold on as if she needs a mooring.

Oh bloody hell. She’s nervous about the interview.

I’ve got to try to soothe those worries. “Did you love it while you were there?”

“I did,” she says, reaching for keys in the side of her purse, then fumbling at the lock of her building. It takes her a few tries to get the door open. “The collections are incredible,” I say, and it’s not a chore to give her a pep talk as we head to the fourth floor. Not only does she need it, but it’s my turn. She said all the right things when I told her I was leaving HighSmith.

And, yes, a job in New York opens a box of new questions, but now hardly seems the time for a how will we do this relationship talk.

“Yes. They are. But, Heath…” She turns to me, worry in her eyes as she opens the door to her flat. “Should I go?”

There can only be one answer. “Yes. This is a tremendous opportunity. When do they want to see you?”

“As soon as possible. I don’t even know what to do next.”

Then I need to help her. “Let’s get you on a plane, woman.”

“Right. Right. Yes. A flight. Of course. I could get on a plane tomorrow morning and be in New York Sunday night, I guess.”

“You do the interview Monday morning when the office is closed here,” I say.