Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

But it’s too late.

She’s popped the balloon of my reading pleasure.

At least she stops trying to fix the unfixable. I heave a sigh as the girl walks off. Why do I even bother to read here, in a place where people feel compelled to talk?

Oh, right. Because reading is one of the few things I unequivocally love.

Reading outside.

Reading inside.

Reading before work.

Reading after work.

One of the most solitary, simple joys is reading anywhere, and today, I need all the joyful I can get.

I finish my tea, pay and thank the waiter, then tuck the pointless book under my arm.

The captain’s wife. It figures.

I head along the pavement, making my way to the building where I work. Stepping into the lift, I wince. Sandy’s here.

And she’s grinning.

“It wasn’t her,” she says, backpedaling. “I was totally thinking of this Rhys Locke book, the one that came out last week. Where it turns out the jewels were in the hot-air balloon.”

Wait.

She backpedaled into another spoiler?

Stop. Just stop. I hold up a hand. “Want to let me know how the next season of You sorts out?” I hear my brother’s voice. Be nice every now and then. It wouldn’t hurt you. But his rebuke isn’t loud enough to stop me. “Maybe whether they killed off the latest doctor? Or could you perhaps just stop talking to me and cease ruining my day?”

Sandy’s lower lip trembles. “I’m sorry.”

Seconds later, tears well in her eyes.

My heart lurches. I’m such a sucker for tears.

Especially when I’ve been the arsehole who caused them.

But before I can reach into my pocket for a tissue, the lift stops on the sixth floor, the doors part, and she bolts like her feet are on fire.

I exit the lift more slowly, grumble a hello to the red-haired receptionist at HighSmith Associates, weave through the cubes to my office door. Inside, I sling my jacket on the chair, and roll up my sleeves as I reach my desk.

I toggle on the computer.

Despite my current mood, the phone meeting goes well, and I enjoy nine blessedly silent minutes while I review a report from the valuations department. Then, the goateed, bespectacled marketing manager pops in.

“Need any help with your reports, Heath?”

I don’t bother to take off my reading glasses. “Nope, Freddy. I’m all good.”

Freddy tugs at his bow tie, decorated with yellow ducks. “Well, then, want to help me brainstorm a marketing tagline for the new Expressionism collection? We could grab a pint after work at The Magpie and have a chat? My wife could join us when we’re done.”

Now I do remove the glasses, sensing this is leading somewhere.

Freddy clears his throat and goes on. “Millie has a lovely friend she wants to introduce to you. Name is Livvy, and she’s a teacher.”

Ah, the plot thickens—it’s a setup, and not even a veiled one at that.

A few years back, I would have said yes to this sort of thing.

I tried. Truly, I made the effort. I met the Livvys of the world, the friends of a friend, the cousins of a friend—even their tennis coaches.

Those blind dates never worked for . . . reasons.

There are some things in life where if at first you don’t succeed, you try, try again, but blind dating is not one of them.

I don’t need to explain to Freddy that I’ve been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt. It’s personal. Private. It’s not about art, or valuations, or collections, or any of the reasons why I sit at this desk each day. Neither do I need to remind me, yet again, of why I’m saying no.

Instead, I nod like I’m considering his offer. “Let me have a think on that.”

“Great. See you later, mate.”

No, you won’t.

Once he leaves, I call several clients, reviewing upcoming works, confirming details. As I hang up after the last one, Riya, one of the sales specialists, pops into the doorway, fidgeting with her chunky gold bracelet.

“Hi, Heath! I have to do a presentation for Emily tomorrow on how to best position emerging artists, and I would love some notes. Any chance you can feedback me as I practice?”

“Is feedback a verb now?” A rhetorical question—I’m fairly certain that’s not how grammar works.

“If not, it should be! I love being feedbacked. I can feedback you any time you want to collab.”

My stomach curdles at that truncated word. How much precious time does lopping off a few syllables save, really? Iterate, collab, feedback, deep dive—they’re all the worst.

How shall I dodge her request? I choose the speediest route. “Best way to position emerging artists is alongside established ones. That’ll help you reach new and seasoned collectors, Riya. So, pair them one for one.”

“Great! Yes, that’s brilliant. Cheers!” She ducks away, but rather than leaving, she pops in once more. “Do you like darts? Bunch of us here have a darts night at the pub around the corner, and some of my friends are coming too. If you want to join . . .”