There’s no moment on the tube ride to the gallery to casually mention the job situation with Jo. Plus, Riya and Freddy are conversational chefs, and they pepper Jo with questions as the train weaves underground.

  Have you been to the Tower of London?

  Ooh, you must get a curry at The Jewel.

  The best shopping is just off Notting Hill.

  I bite my tongue, even though those sites are nothing like the ones I would choose if I were introducing her to London.

  Once we reach the gallery, throngs of colleagues and clients surround us, and I have to say hello, even though I’m desperate to grab a second alone with her.

  The four of us make small talk about the paintings and sculptures with collectors, buyers, and other gallerists and art world colleagues. There’s barely a second free between the mingling.

  But around seven, it’s somehow, mercifully, just the two of us standing in front of a painting of the ocean on fire, so I decide to go for it.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask—”

  “—Now that’s haunting,” she says at the same time as she points at the image. Then she laughs. “Sorry, you were saying?”

  Maybe now’s not the time. I nod at the painting. “Yes, it’s a little terrifying.”

  “Reminds me of a Turner,” she says, and here we go again, slipping into these moments of connectedness.

  We chat a little more about the art, and surely this is when I can return once more to the work issue.

  So, I hear we’re chasing the same prize . . .

  “So, as I was saying,” I begin.

  A familiar man slides up to my side, waving grandly, all gray eyes and big beard. “Heath! Good to see you again. Have you checked out the Rothkos at the Tate?” he asks, then his eyes swing to Jo. “Oh, hello there.”

  I introduce Jo to the collector and vice versa. “Richard, this is Jo. She’s a firecracker from New York. Brilliant and bursting with ideas. She’s working with me at HighSmith.”

  “How wonderful. Bet you make a great team,” he says.

  Jo pats my shoulder in a collegial sort of way. “Yes, and Heath has fantastic ideas too. I love working with him.”

  Is the same true for me? Do I love working with her? Not entirely, but it’s not her fault.

  It’s fate’s fault, since work has gotten in the way of dating her.

  We chat with Richard for another minute, and as that wraps up, I vow to try once more to broach the job topic. Then Zora taps Jo’s shoulder to get her attention.

  “I’ve been dying to meet you,” says the gallery owner to the woman by my side.

  “And I, you,” Jo says, and the tattooed and nose-ringed woman promptly steals her away.

  And here I am.

  Alone.

  But alone is fine. I can commune with the art.

  I wind through the gallery once again, studying the prints and lithographs as well as a few small sculptures, when I hear my name in an unmistakable voice.

  “Heath Graham! It’s been too bloody long.”

  I wince, then clear my expression before I turn toward the speaker. Victoria Cavanaugh is a dealer who reps some artists in a collection I handled last year. She waves with her fingers, all covered in skull rings. “You! I’ve been meaning to talk to you about someone,” she says, and my blind-date radar starts beeping.

  “Eager to talk about the new Rothko exhibit over at the Tate?” I quip, as if that will deflect the request incoming in three . . . two . . . one . . .

  “Ha, ha. You’re adorable. But no.” She steps closer, getting in my space, smashing through personal boundaries as she wraps a hand over my shoulder. “My sister’s next-door neighbor is a bookseller. She has this adorable children’s bookshop in Cecil Court.”

  My God, that was fast, even for Victoria.

  “How wonderful for people looking for books,” I say.

  She raises a finger and bops me on the nose. I don’t even know what that means, but it’s going on my list of things to avoid at all costs.

  “Wonderful for you too, Heath. Lily is cute. She wears these pink polka dot glasses and has a white stripe in her hair. Very manic pixie dream girl.”

  “Perfect for a children’s bookseller,” I answer. I spot Riya going by, stalking a canape from a caterer’s tray, and I try to catch her eye for a distraction. But she just gives me a wise smile that either means, “Hang in there,” or, “Resistance is futile.”

  “Or a date . . .” Victoria says, squeezing my shoulder in . . . encouragement?

  I swallow, hunting for an out. I’m so tempted to say I’m seeing someone, but that’s a lie, and I won’t do that. Especially not when Jo is so close.

  I wish she were here beside me. But if she were, she’d learn my romantic history secondhand, and I want to be the one to tell her.

  When the time is right, that is.

  Not now.

  Instead, I lean on a half-truth with Victoria. “How about I keep your bookseller in mind for when I’m ready?”

  Victoria’s lips droop, sad sympathy descending onto her face. “Take your time, love. I understand.”

  Then she pats my shoulder and heads to chat with someone else.

  I’ve escaped relatively unscathed, so I take a few steps away from Victoria to study a painting of astronauts.

  Riya comes up to me, shooting me a soft smile. “Are you doing okay with all this?” She waves a hand at the crowds.

  I assume she means the setups, since she must have heard Victoria, and I’m not sure I want to get into the details. I pick the fastest way out I can devise.

  “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?”

  She gives an impish grin. “It’s like a relationship status update on Facebook. London and me . . . well, let’s just say, it’s complicated.”

  I narrow my eyes. “This is serious, Jo. We need to dissect this. Get to the bottom of this anti-London affliction of yours.”

  “You’ve got two miles, then,” she says, pointing the other way. “I’m leasing a flat in Charing Cross.”

  “Then that’s the way we shall go.”

  We start along the street, and I’m eager to dive into this blasphemy about the place I adore, but first, there’s still this elephant between us.

  I clear my throat. “So, you’re interested in the VP post?”

  She bounces excitedly in her silver flats as we weave through the crowds around a dance club with a line snaking down the block. “I applied at Bancroft in New York before Miranda sold the house to HighSmith. Or rather, before she announced the sale. Making VP is kind of everything I’ve ever wanted—a chance to really prove myself.”

  As she talks, she brims with enthusiasm that I haven’t felt in some time—at least, not this genuinely. Not in this way that seems to come from the center of her soul.

  “You’re quite good at what you do,” I say. “You bring a certain energy to the group.”

  “So do you,” she says, nudging my arm with her elbow.

  I roll my eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, Jo Brennan.”

  She fixes me with a curious look, her tone downright insistent. “I mean it. You do have a certain energy, Heath.”

  “Energy is not the word people use to describe me where work is concerned,” I say sternly. “More like distant. Abstruse. Cold.”

  “Also, never likes to go out. That’s another.”

  “That goes along with doesn’t play well with others,” I offer. “Bet that’s up there too.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true. You played well with me.” Her eyes twinkle as she casts a fluttering, doe-eyed gaze my way, flirty with exaggerated innocence.

  I can’t be bothered to fight off a grin. It simply takes over as I return her flirting with my own. “You’re an exception,” I tell her. She is, in every sense of the word.

  Her smile burns off, replaced with a softness, a vulnerability. “You’re very good at distracting me,” she says, then schools her expression. “And we were talking about you.”

  “Maybe that’s why I wanted to distract you.”

  “I am undeterred. And as I was saying, you do bring an energy. It’s a you energy—intense. You’re quiet for a bit, but when you speak, your words are powerful. Well-thought-out. Articulate. Your insight is sharp. It makes others want to work harder. That’s how I feel around you in the office, and it’s a compliment, so take it,” she says, ending with mock petulance.

  I mime grabbing something out of thin air and putting it in my pocket. “There. I took it.”

  She pats my arm. “Good. And I think you’d nail any promotion you applied for too.” Then, she gasps, her eyes popping to cartoon character size. “Oh, crap. You’re applying too?”

  The question hangs in the air between us.

  Fuck this shit, indeed.

  “Yes. I threw my hat into the ring a couple weeks ago,” I say darkly.

  Jo stops, grabs my arm, then groans. “TJ would love that.”

  “Who’s that? Brother? Friend?”

  “One of my good friends in New York. He writes romance novels. You’ll meet him someday.” She catches herself and blinks in startled confusion. “I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Maybe it feels like I will?” I latch onto that notion. Meeting her friends sounds so dangerous, but so . . . delightful. It sounds like a new way of living. A terrifying but wonderful one.

  “Maybe it does,” she says. “I can see it.”

  “And why would he love that we’re going after the same post?”

  “He’d get a kick out of all the obstacles in our way. Since that’s, well, that’s his job. To put obstacles in the way of his characters.”

  It sure feels like someone is masterminding this chess game of my life. Wish I knew the moves to make, but I don’t even know the setup of the board. “His wasn’t the book you had when I met you?” I ask.

  “No. I’ve read all his books. I’m waiting eagerly for his next one.” She drops her voice to a racy whisper, fanning her face. “They’re swoony and quite sexy.”

  “They sound delicious,” I remark as we cross the street, sidestepping a crew of young men in leather jackets.

  Her eyes sparkle like I said just the right thing, and I’m glad I could make her happy.

  “They are tasty. Anyway, so you and I are co-workers and rivals now, in a way.” She gives me a playful stare. “Which means . . . we’re just going to have to be friends. I insist on it. You told me your darts secret, and you’re walking me home, and we’re not having that date. Therefore, we must be friends.”

  I want to groan and scoff.

  I want to print that dreadful word on a sock with the caption This just-friends stuff is utter bullshit.

  I don’t want to be just friends with her, whatsoever. Yet I also know we can’t be anything more.

  You don’t romance your rival.

  But I don’t scoff, groan, or mock her. She makes too good of a case for friendship. I want to see her outside of work. I want to find a way to have her in my days. If friendship is the container for that, so be it.

  “I accept your friendship offer,” I say.

  “Good. Now, let’s talk about something besides work,” she says. “As friends do.”

  Well, since this is the new us, I’ll begin again.

  “How about . . . London?” I sweep an arm toward a double-decker bus trundling along, encompassing the red phone booth up ahead and the silhouette of The Savoy Hotel in the distance. “Why on earth don’t you love the best city in the world? We have great art. Wonderful shops. Diverse culture. Theatre, museums, music, history, and all of Europe just across the Channel. And yes, the food gets a bad rap, but that’s only if you don’t know where to go. London actually has fantastic cuisine.” We cross the street, nearing a nouveau Middle Eastern restaurant. “Take that spot. When my friend Griffin was here a few months ago, we had the best lentil and falafel dishes there, as well as braised asparagus and olives that were simply divine.”

  Jo presses a hand to her stomach. “Mmm. Don’t say such tempting things.”

  I sense an opportunity I don’t want to miss. Nodding to the restaurant, I ask, “Do you want to get a bite?”

  Her lips curve up. “The thing we weren’t going to do on a Friday night?”

  The plans we cancelled because it was such a bad idea to do otherwise. But if you’re both hungry at the same time and there’s a restaurant right there? That sounds more like serendipity.

  “Friends have dinner, Jo.”

  “Well, that is true, Heath.”

  “And you can just think of it like . . . we’re just happening upon the café. It’s not planned like a date would be,” I say with a bit of cheek.

  “Ohhh. Just, say, coincidental dining?” Her grin says she likes this loophole. A friendship exemption.

  “Exactly. That’s all it is between friends,” I say, ever so casual.

  “Between friends,” she says, wholly flirty.

  I set a hand on her back. “Then let me take you to some coincidental eating. May I?”

  She raises her chin to meet my eyes.

  Hers glimmer with yes, and my chest . . . flips.

  That’s something I haven’t felt in ages.

  Or maybe since Sunday night.

  I want that feeling again and again. That heady buzz like she and I are the only two people in a city of millions.

  Perhaps that’s the déjà vu tonight—these feelings I’d almost forgotten . . . until her.

  “You may,” she says.

  I guide her into the restaurant and ask for a table for two.