“I just sweat when I get nervous. And the first night of an auction in my new job is one helluva recipe for worry.” I gesture to my pink bra. “Which is why I haven’t put my blouse on yet. That’ll be a last-minute thing.”
“Ah, and this whole time I thought you were just trying to be sexy for moi,” she quips as she rounds the reservoir. “But seriously, it’s going to be great. I’m proud of you and your boss will love it. But . . .”
I return to the mascara, answering her. “But what?”
“Do you still want the promotion?”
As I apply the finishing touches, I answer her. It’s simple. I’ve thought about that question since Sunday—since I’ve been together with Heath. “I do. I wish I didn’t want it. I wish I had less . . . ambition. But I do want it.” I drop the mascara wand onto the vanity. “I love my job. The work here is energizing. I’m doing everything I’ve wanted, and I crave more. And that’s why this thing with Heath is so complicated. I want him, and I want work.”
“You’re a modern woman. You want it all,” she remarks.
“I do. Call me greedy.”
“Nothing wrong with being greedy. As long as you figure out how to deal with it.”
“And I will do that after tonight.”
“I support this plan,” she says.
I finish my makeup, head to the freezer with Emerson in my hand, and open the ice box for a minute.
“Sweat begone,” I say.
She laughs. “I miss you something fierce.”
My heart squeezes for her. “Miss you too.”
I end the call, grab a burgundy blouse, and button it up. As I leave, my phone pings, and Andrea’s name flashes across the screen.
Andrea: You’ve got this. Can’t wait to hear how fabulous tonight is.
Deep breath. Maybe I do have this. I reply with a thanks and a multitude of emoticons. As I head down the steps in my building, my phone goes off like a jackpot.
When I reach the street, I check it again. My texts are filled with notes from TJ, Easton, and Nolan wishing me well.
I fire off a text to Emerson.
Jo: Did you tell them all to text me with good luck?
Emerson: Nope. Your friends remember stuff :)
With a fresh dose of confidence, I head into HighSmith.
I’ve run countless auctions before. Chatted with clients, schmoozed collectors, and waxed on about the meaning of art.
That’s what I do during the cocktail reception, barely meeting Heath’s gaze at all. I say hi to nearly everyone, shaking hands and hearing tales of kids and puppies and other acquisitions in their collections.
In a few minutes, the auction will begin.
I rush to the ladies’ room to pee and fan my face.
But I’m not actually sweating.
And hey, that’s awesome. I feel . . . good. About all of this. The only issue is what’s next with the job and what that means for Heath and me.
I’ll figure that out later.
I leave, head into the HighSmith auction room, and take my post at the back by the wall so I can watch the action unfold.
As the auctioneer walks to the stage, a few last-minute stragglers rush in, including a woman I haven’t seen in ten years.
Poppy.
22
JO
I haven’t rehearsed a word.
Why would I?
I didn’t expect to see Poppy—or my father, for that matter. But here they are, mere feet away. This is the first time I’ve seen them together since that day in the park, when they were wrapped up in each other, leaving me reeling with the betrayal of a summer of lies.
That cruel hurt clung to me for months, and then for years after that, though in a faded form.
Now, I take a beat to catalogue my emotions. My pulse spikes a bit faster, but not too much. Beyond that I feel . . . little more than curiosity.
Is she here to apologize?
But as soon as the thought touches down, I dismiss it. I don’t want one. And what’s more, I don’t need one.
Time has done its trick. It’s washed away the pain, and I can navigate this moment without that bitter ache.
I flash her a professional grin, then him. “Hello, Poppy. Arthur. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Thank you. You have some great items in your collection. You’ve done some truly amazing work,” she says, and it sounds legit, her compliment.
“I hope you find something to your liking.”
She smiles, more warmly than I expected, then she steps toward me, sweeping her blonde hair off her shoulder, making like she’s going to hug me.
I’d rather not be hugged. The hurt may be over, but I don’t need to open my heart to her.
I step back.
She smooths her skirt instead. “I just wanted to be here for your first event in London.” Ever polished, she gestures to the room, buzzing with energy. “You should be proud of yourself.”