Kismet (Happy Endings 3)

My dad chimes in a little awkwardly with, “I . . . we wanted to show our support.”

That’s all he says, but from him, it’s high praise. Did Poppy put him up to this? Tell him to change his ways? Who knows? I’m not sure I ever will, or if it matters. But those few words are so much better than his usual backhanded compliments.

“I appreciate you saying that,” I tell him. We all sound stilted and uncomfortable, but that’s to be expected. I turn to the woman I used to think of as a sister, and I try to show some grace. “And how is everything with you?”

“The gallery is fabulous. Life is good,” she says, taking my father’s hand once more. “I’m happy. Are you?”

The answer is easy. I glance around at the auction room, teeming with people—my new co-workers, and the ones who have become my friends, like Riya. There’s the man who’s become my person, and beyond these four walls, there’s a city I’m learning to enjoy.

I don’t love London yet.

It’s not quite home yet.

But I’m getting there.

“Yes. Very much so.” Then I take a breath, dig down deep, and say, “And I’m glad you two are happy together.” That’s hard to say without gritting my teeth. I don’t feel happy for them. Truthfully, I’m not sure I’ll ever be pleased with my one-time best friend shacking up with my father. I definitely don’t condone their lies. But I also don’t have to keep poking that bruise to see if it still hurts.

I’m done with this part of the past. I’m not saying I’m happy for you for Poppy or for my father. I’m saying it so that I can finish a race I barely realized I was running till now.

The letting go.

And speaking those words aloud gives me something I suppose I’ve been quietly searching for all along.

The last kernel of pettiness, the crumb I’ve held onto for a decade, falls away.

I’m free of them.

And that is why I’m truly content.

“We are happy,” my dad says, answering an unasked question.

Poppy gazes at him with an adoring smile, echoing, “We are.”

Perhaps, in some way, I understand her as well as I can. Love can’t often be stopped. “That’s good,” I say softly, then gesture to a pair of empty seats.

They head down the aisle, and the auction begins.

It’s a record turnout, with record sales. I’m proud of my team’s hard work, beyond pleased with the success of the night, aglow with satisfaction. Proud of our leadership.

I do love my job so. I love it with my whole heart. That’s a gift—getting to do what you love, and I want to always treasure that.

I lift the champagne glass high, clinking once again with Heath. I swallow some bubbly then set down the flute to wrap an arm around his waist and jerk him against me. “Hey, lover.”

“Hey, girlfriend,” he teases, looping his arm around me. We’re at Sticks and Stones later that night, celebrating the auction at the place we met.

But I also want this little fête to end so we can celebrate in other ways. He sets down his glass, then I bring my lips to his, whispering, “Let’s celebrate naked.”

He glances around. “Right here?”

I tug his collar. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Fine, fine. We’ll go to the loo and have a shag there.”

I laugh, delighted, utterly giddy. “God, you’re so British it’s sexy.”

“So, my nationality turns you on?”

I put on a lascivious grin. “Yes, yes it does. Does that bother you?”

He pretends to consider that for a second, then shakes his head. “No, I’m not bothered at all. But one suggestion? Let’s do the turning on in private,” he says, then presses a hot kiss to my neck, brushing his stubble-lined jaw against me, planting greedy, possessive kisses along my throat, up to my ear, then whispering, “I want to take you home. Eat you, fuck you, make love to you. Congratulate you properly in bed.”

His words ignite ten thousand fires inside me, and I ache for him to put out all of them.

And soon.

A few minutes later, we stumble out of the bar, but we’re not drunk. We’re tipsy on this night, on success, on the high of the auction, and on each other.

On falling in love.

On letting the past go.

There’s only one thing standing in our way now, and we’ll figure the work thing out this weekend. We kiss on the street as midnight nears and cars and cabs race by, as passersby chat and laugh, reveling in the late spring night. Heath drapes an arm around me, and we walk like that, me and my Englishman, along a busy street, surrounded by Londoners, and Europeans, and tourists, and everyone.

I feel a lot like champagne, especially when Heath stops me on a side road, under a faintly glowing streetlamp. He tugs me close, and I’m filled with bubbles, half expecting another kiss when he cups my cheeks, but he doesn’t drop his lips to mine. He just gazes at me, serenely.