Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

“Definitely. And listen, about that feedback request the other week? I’d be happy to help anytime you’d like.” Happy is also a lie, but I don’t mind so much if it lets me avoid discussing dates, setups, or Project Widower.

Riya’s brown eyes sparkle. “That would be so great! Thank you.”

Jo returns shortly, and I spend the next fifteen minutes walking around the gallery with her, talking about art.

Just art, that’s all. And it’s the best part of the event, ocean on fire and all.

I don’t try to talk about the job we’re both vying for. Instead, we discuss what’s on the walls, and her company makes the rest of the event fly by.

Once we leave, I have a new dilemma. I’m reluctant for the night to end, but I don’t know how to steal Jo away.

I want to, though.

The four of us from HighSmith all fan out of Zora’s gallery and onto the busy pavement. Passersby light cigarettes, laugh with friends, tap away on their phones. It’s past eight at the end of the work week, when people naturally congregate—packs of women in jeans and slouchy tops, men in skinny trousers and trendy boots, and then, impossibly, the four of us milling about.

A gaggle of . . . co-workers.

It’s been ages since I’ve done something social like this. Truthfully, I’m not sure this counts. But this work function evokes nights, years ago, when Violet and I would grab dinner with friends from uni or see a play with Nigel and his wife.

I’m not entirely sure why it feels similar. It shouldn’t. Freddy and Riya aren’t a couple. Neither are Jo and I.

Perhaps the sense of déjà vu is why I don’t want the night to end.

A big, warm hand clamps down on my shoulder.

It’s Freddy. “I’m going to catch a Lyft back to the lovely Millie, but someone needs to see our new American friend home safely,” he says, gesturing to Jo.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine. I can see myself to Charing Cross, no prob. It’s only two miles, and I’m going to walk and enjoy the evening air. It’s springtime in London, and I barely need a jacket.”

Jo plucks at her burgundy sweater, one of those short numbers that makes my eyes stray to her chest. She’s more than simply sexy—she looks like an art expert, perfectly put together in slinky jeans, flats, and a yellow blouse.

Yellow seems to be her color. Fitting. The whole look works.

She’s artsy and trendy and pure sunshine.

And I have to stop staring at her.

Riya shakes her head and chimes in, “We’re not letting you wander home alone, Jo. But I’m taking the tube in the opposite direction, so Heath, can you make sure she gets back to her flat safely?”

“Of course,” I say evenly, giving nothing away.

But . . . bless them. Bless my co-workers for this brilliant collaboration. Best brainstorm ever—a chance to spend more time with Jo.

I should avoid temptation and put her in a cab. And yet, I know I won’t do that. When I’m near her, I’m not strong enough.

“You are a gentleman, after all,” Riya teases as she pokes me in the arm.

Okay, so that’s how we’re doing it. I won’t return the poke, but I file it away as another friendly gesture that eludes me.

Jo meets my gaze. “You don’t mind, Heath?”

I manage not to crack a huge grin that would betray how very much I don’t mind. “Not at all.”

I’m heading in the same direction. Covent Garden is close to her, but no one knows where I live. “Can’t let you wander through the London night all alone,” I say.

Jo makes an over-the-top shuddering gasp. “I wouldn’t want to run into a victim of Jack the Ripper. Ooh! Maybe we should go on a Jack the Ripper tour,” she says, then casts her gaze to Riya. “Are those terrible or fun?”

Riya laughs. “Looks like you think it would be fun. I can take you on one if you want. It’s not my cuppa, but I’m game for anything.”

“My kind of friend,” Jo says, then brings Riya in for a quick hug.

Four days on the job, and Jo already has friends. Not just co-workers, but friends. That’s not my style whatsoever. She’s a mystery in some ways, but one I want to unravel.

“I’ll find a Jack the Ripper tour and we’ll do it,” Riya says.

She and Freddy say their goodbyes and, at last, it’s just Jo and me outside an art gallery on a warm late spring evening, crowds bustling by.

“Do you have a thing for horror?” I ask the petite brunette.

“I have a thing for new things. And it just seems like one of those when in London deals,” she says. “Plus, my friends back home say I should try to like this city.”

I jerk my head back like she’s slapped me. “Wait. Hold on. Did you say you don’t like London?”