Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

A tug. A pull.

Wrapping a hand around the back of his head, I drag his mouth to mine and kiss him ferociously as he takes me over the edge again.

Hands, nails, words, cries—and promises.

Promises to look out for each other. To love one another.

After, we lie together, wrapped up in the sheets. I don’t want this day to end. When it does, and morning comes, I’ll have to go back to work.

Work.

The thing that makes this . . . complicated.

As the sun starts to dip in the sky, I broach the subject. “What happens tomorrow when we go into the office? We’re still colleagues. We’re still competing for a job.”

“I don’t know, but we need to figure it out soon,” he says a little heavily.

Correction—a lot heavily.

“But what does that mean?” I ask. “How do we sort it out? You mean just living with whoever she chooses for the promotion?”

“I suppose.”

My shoulders sink as I voice the thing that worries me. Well, one of many things. “I don’t like competing with you, Heath.”

“I don’t love it either. But why do you dislike it?”

I prop my head in my hand. “I just want to be with you. I don’t want to have this thing between us. And I don’t want to feel like if you get the job, I’m second best. Or if I get it and you’re the one who feels bad, I don’t want it to create any weirdness between us. I almost wish I could just . . .” I trail off, unsure if I should say what’s truly on my mind.

Heath has always been good at reading me, though. “Just what? Just take your name out of the hat?”

That’s part of it, in a way. I had considered that recently. “Sort of, even though I don’t want to do that either.”

I must be confusing him. Hell, I’m confusing me. “I like competition. But I want to compete with other houses. I want to compete with other people in the field, who I should compete with. I don’t want to vie with you. That’s not my kink,” I say, pushing out a light laugh.

He laughs too. “Sure. It might work for others, but it’s not for you.”

“Or you?”

He shrugs. “I think you know me well enough to have figured out I simply prefer working alone.”

I press my forehead to his. “Tell me again why you don’t work in a library.”

“Libraries still have people,” he says drily. “Occupational hazard.”

“You need a den in a country home. With a window overlooking a pond. A pond that has ducks,” I say.

A soft chuckle falls from his lips. “Pretty sure I’d sign up right now for a life of happily feeding the ducks every morning.” Then his smile fades away. “But I know what you’re saying, Jo. You don’t want . . . complications.”

“Maybe that makes me selfish. Or foolish. I don’t know. I just want to do the job I love and be with the man I love.”

Whoa.

Holy big love confession.

I mean, sure, I told him already. But saying it in a conversation feels like leveling up. Did I just go too big?

But his strong hand stroking my hair tells me he’s all in too. “I want the same. And I wish I had an answer to the job issue, but I don’t.”

My brow knits as a thought springs out of nowhere. “Do we have to disclose that we’re involved? Is there a policy?”

He nods. “I believe so, but it wouldn’t change anything. Since we’re not direct reports, there’s no rule against it as co-workers. We won’t even be direct reports if one of us is VP because we all technically report to Emily.”

So why do I feel so unsettled, like I don’t quite fit in my skin? Maybe because work has always been my domain. My passion. I haven’t ever shared it with a man, haven’t needed to, and I don’t know how to navigate this new space.

“When do you want to tell her?” I ask, then I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t say tomorrow. While this burgeoning romance doesn’t feel fragile, it does feel like ours alone. I don’t want to bring it out in the open on Monday morning, especially during a high-pressure week as we prep for the auction. Before he can speak, I answer my own question. “How about next week, when the auction is over?”

“Perfect,” he says.

My forehead creases with another worry. “Until then—and honestly, after then, too—how do we act toward each other, Heath? Like we’re not . . .?”

“Like you’re not my girlfriend,” he says, teasing.

I roll my eyes. “You don’t seem like a boyfriend.”

“What am I? Your lover?” he says, all 70s porn star.

I slug his arm. “No. You just seem like mine, okay? Stop making fun of me.”

“I’m not poking fun at you.” He laughs, then his smile turns kind, and he kisses my head. “Okay, maybe I am a little bit. I told you I want to be yours. That’s all I want, Jo.” Then he taps his chin, humming. “Well, the other thing I want is to beat you at darts.”