“Well, you’ve pretended to date women on stage and film,” I say, with an impish grin.

  He winks at me. “Many. So many. And I make all genders swoon.”

  “Yes, you do. So, since you have a curtain in the near future, maybe you could get on with dispensing the Jude Fox wisdom,” I say, using his stage name.

  His blue eyes shift from playful to serious. “You want to see her again. She made an impression on you. And you kind of hate all things modern dating. So, what would I do? Well, in the past, I’d have DM’d someone on Insta.”

  I shudder, horror movie style. “That sounds ghastly.”

  A small laugh falls from his lips as he heads to the costume rail, tugs clothes off hangers. “See? That’s my point. You hate that stuff. You dated in the Stone Age. The way I see it is you can either learn all sorts of modern lingo or you can just be you.”

  “Which means?” Asking for dating advice, even from my brother, is more uncomfortable than I’d anticipated, and I’d expected to feel twenty thousand leagues under a sea of discomfort.

  Jude makes a phone of his fingers, raises it to his ear, and speaks into his pinky. “Hi, there, hot American babe. This is your strapping English stud from last night. Want to—”

  I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Got it.”

  Jude drops his pretend phone. “It’s adorable that you know nothing about modern dating. But it’s okay. Just . . . lean into it, Heath.”

  “Lean into it,” I repeat. That makes sense. It’s all I can do.

  I gesture to the poster with his face on it next to the door. “Break a leg.”

  “I’ll break two,” he says.

  I repeat that new mantra the whole way home, then one more time—lean into it—before I pick up the phone.

  8

  Jo

  I brace myself for my father’s advice.

  Because he’s not calling to make small talk. He never does.

  “Are you ready for tomorrow, Josephine?” he asks, sounding exactly like the brilliant but distant professor that he is.

  “Of course,” I say, spine straight, shoulders back.

  “It’s a big change.”

  “Yes and no.” I stand, moving off the bed. I don’t want to talk to him in the same space where I was last night.

  He hums, a sound laced with doubt. “Seems foolish to try to spin it both ways, Josephine.”

  “Life isn’t always black and white, Arthur,” I say.

  He chuckles, which translates to, Are you still doing that? Calling me by my name?

  “In any case, I just wanted to wish you good luck tomorrow. London is a cutthroat world for art.”

  I sneer. This is a good luck call? Could have fooled me.

  “Thanks for the well wishes,” I say, trying to strip the sarcasm out of my tone.

  “I hope you’re not in over your head at HighSmith. I suspect you’ll have to work ten thousand times harder than you think.”

  “Thanks again.” I glance around the room, searching for a reason to end the call, and spot my suitcase. “I need to go prep for tomorrow.”

  I hang up after the barest of goodbyes then grit my teeth and close my eyes.

  I take a breath.

  I exhale.

  And I try to let go of him and his doubt.

  For my first day, I want to wow this Emily Hathaway. Show her what I’m made of. That I do work ten thousand times harder than anyone.

  And that I deserve a promotion to VP.

  I choose an outfit for tomorrow, lay it out on the desk chair, then answer my work emails. Maybe later I’ll be in the mood to try that phone call again.

  But I’m not now.

  I’m closing my suitcase when the phone rings a second time.

  With an annoyed sigh, I grab it, about to say What now, Arthur? But the name Heath flashes across my screen.

  All my senses light up. They bounce around in my body.

  Am I really this woman, the one so delighted by a man calling?

  I haven’t even answered, and yet, bubbles float inside me. I slide open the phone, my lips parting softly, wanting to say just the right words.

  Instead, a simple hi comes out.

  “Hello.”

  And the bubbles rise higher.

  “Hi,” I say, then realize I’m repeating myself. But he doesn’t seem to care.

  “I want you to know I tried—valiantly, I assure you—to find suitable literary pickup lines,” he says.

  I smile, too broad for my face, and flop onto the bed, settling into the pillows. “And you didn’t find any?”

  “Oh, I found far too many.”

  “Are you going to keep them all to yourself?”

  “I’m not sure I can bring myself to share them, Jo.”

  “So, you called to tell me you have a collection of cheesy pickup lines, and you’re just going to taunt me with them? Keep them all to yourself?”

  “I’m terrible, obviously,” he says, deadpan and so very British.

  “Just awful. But fair is fair. I gave you some top-tier cornball come-on lines last night. Serve up yours. C’mon. I’m waiting.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, he says, “This pains me. Truly, it does.”

  I shift to my side. A bed has never felt more comfortable, a little moment never more delightful. “You can do it. I have faith.”

  “Fine. I’ll try.” He clears his throat, then his voice goes all deep and almost dirty. “Let me show you the sound and the fury.”

  I purr. “Oh, more than just show, I think. You gave me the sound and the hot, hot fury! Okay, more, more.”

  I imagine him shaking his head as he paces about his flat, maybe goes to his window and gazes at the city, wherever he is in it. “Actually, I’m not much for pickup lines. I’d rather be direct. Would you like to have dinner with me this weekend?”

  “Oh.” I sit up, purse my lips, try to contain the hot-air balloon of excitement rising in me.

  He’s so . . . old-fashioned, and I love it. I love that he’s not playing the hey game, and the s’up game. He’s not doing the I’ll text her in forty-eight hours thing either. He’s both smooth and uncomfortable at the same time. It’s endearing.

  “Oh? Is that bad? Is that a no?” He sounds genuinely worried, and I don’t want that for a second.

  “It’s a big yes, actually.”

  “A big yes,” he echoes, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Then why don’t you tell me what kind of cuisine you like, and I’ll make a reservation for Friday night.”

  We spend the next fifteen minutes talking about food—our favorites, our likes and dislikes—and it’s so refreshing not to discuss work with this new man.

  It feels good to discuss . . . life. The little things that make it taste good.

  As I hang up the phone, I can’t help but think that maybe this is part of the reason London will be good for me. Because the city might hold painful memories, but it has this amazing new job, and now the potential for true romance too.

  The next morning, an email pops up on my phone from Andrea in New Haven.

  You will have a good day at your new job. I just know it!

  How, you may ask? Because my grandson took his first step this morning! It’s a good luck kind of day.

  I reply right away.

  I can’t wait! I hope it’ll be good. But I also miss New York desperately. Hope to see you soon! You, Central Park, The Met, the taco truck I love . . .

  I hit send, check at the front desk to make sure my luggage will be delivered to the flat, then head to the office, ready to tackle the day and determined to make my mark.

  It’s a good luck kind of day, after all.

  When I reach the reception on the sixth floor, a woman with a wide smile and bright red hair beams at me from behind the front desk.

  “Hello!”

  “Hi, I’m Josephine Brennan. I’m starting today.”

  “I know! I’ll get Emily. She’s excited to meet you.”

  “I’m thrilled to be here. And you’re . . .?” I ask as she pops up.

  “Claire Reynolds. I answer the phones,” she says.

  “So good to meet you, Claire.”

  She scurries down the hall and, less than a minute later, returns with the boss. Emily is elegant in gold-rimmed glasses but trendy in a leopard-print blouse.

  “You must be Josephine,” she says, extending a hand.

  “Yes, but I also answer to Jo and JoJo. Whatever works for you,” I say breezily.

  She smiles. “I already love your attitude.”

  With a laugh, I thank her. “I try to be easygoing.”

  Emily presses her hand to her heart. “That’s a breath of fresh air.” She gestures toward the hall. “Let me introduce you to the team.”

  The office’s aesthetic is both sleek and colorful, a mix of steel walls with rose gold and muted orange accents. The design is in sync with the approach of this house—strong, but trendy.

  I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder. “I’m so thrilled to be here and to get to know everyone.”

  “And I can’t wait to get to know you,” Emily says as we walk. Her kind eyes latch on mine. “Miranda told me you have your eye on the VP post we have open.”

  “I’m definitely working hard for that promotion. I think I can bring a lot to the table.”

  “It’s a plum position, and we want exactly the right person for it, so I held off on making any decision until you arrived. That way, we can get to know each other before I fill the role. I can’t wait to hear all about your vision,” she says, and I want to squee.

  I’m not a squee-er so I don’t, but I’m doing a fist pump inside. My dream is so close. Emily seems to like me already. Heck, she’s been waiting to fill the position until we met. That’s humbling and amazing, and I won’t disappoint her.

  “I look forward to sharing my thoughts, and also just to diving into, well, anything,” I say as she whisks me through the office.

  “Fantastic. Let me tell you a little more about how we like to operate here. We endeavor to make sure all members of the contemporary department at HighSmith work in tandem with others. Over the last week, I’ve been brainstorming the best pair-ups here at the house, and I’m going to put you on a handful of projects with one of our top art experts. He’s been here for nearly twenty years, has curated loads of collections, and has the respect of all his clients.”

  “He sounds great,” I say with a smile.

  “He’s brilliant. His knowledge and expertise are truly unparalleled.” She drops her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “He’s a little salty, but that’s why I thought you’d be a great pair.”

  Balance—that’s a smart strategy in this field. I like her style already. “I’m not afraid of salty. I’m from New York,” I say with a bob of my shoulder. “Salty is de rigueur there.”

  “Perfect. When Miranda told me about your energy and approach, I knew you’d be a brilliant addition, and I’m so glad you were willing to relocate straightaway.”

  She sails down the hallway, and . . . yes! Today is just . . . yes. A few minutes in and I’m already making a good impression. Surely the promotion will be mine—I can feel it.

  At an open door, Emily stops, turning to me with a smile. “And this will be your new team partner. Josephine Brennan, meet Heath Graham.”

  Nooooo! Denial slams into me like a bolt of electricity out of nowhere.

  Please, oh please, let the first name be a wild coincidence.

  But when I turn into the doorway, my Englishman is seated behind the desk, tapping on the keyboard, eyes on the screen.

  He looks up without taking off his glasses. His face goes blank for a beat, and I imagine his synapses struggling to process that, yes, he’s seeing me standing in his office doorway.

  His lips part as the reality hits, and I’m pretty sure he mutters something not safe for work.

  Yeah.

  Fuck me too.

  9

  Heath

  The first meeting between the hero and heroine of Pride and Prejudice might be the most disastrous first impression in literature, but at least Mr. Darcy knew Elizabeth Bennet’s last name.

  Jay Gatsby, for all his many flaws, realized that Daisy Buchanan was off-limits.

  But me? When I met Jo on Sunday night at Sticks and Stones, I avoided such practical things. Last night on the phone, too, I focused only on our chemistry. The fun we were having. The connection. Words and wordplay trumped worldly details.

  But even if at some point we’d touched on something as basic as, I don’t know, identity, would it have occurred to me to ask, Hey, wouldn’t it be a coincidence if we happened to work in the same field?

  Or, maybe, at the same damn company?

  True, her name might have triggered a query as to whether she could be our new director of contemporary European art—that is, if I’d known of Josephine Brennan’s hiring, but Emily circulated the news of the acquisition of Bancroft House only hours before we were due to welcome the import.

  Josephine Brennan will be starting tomorrow now that we’ve acquired Bancroft House. Big plans afoot!

  That was all her email said. Did I think twice about it? No. Because it seemed impossible that the incoming director could be the same as my Jo.

  But here she is, standing in my doorway. The lovely, captivating woman who I’m slated to have dinner with on Friday night is mere feet away, looking deliciously professional in a black dress with short sleeves and tiny white polka dots—it’s a little arty, fitting for our field, but businesslike too. A perfect mix of classy and pretty, which describes Jo perfectly.

  And she’s still utterly sexy to me.

  But she can’t be.

  She’s my co-worker. My new colleague.

  As I take off my glasses, Emily beams, gesturing to Jo like she’s a prize. “Jo has a master’s degree in art history. She worked at Christie’s in New York, then The Met, and she’s been curating the modern European art exhibits for Bancroft in New York for the last year,” Emily says. “And at the rate Bancroft has been building their client base and winning business away from the other houses, we just thought it better to buy the competition.”

  Jo laughs, but with a nervous edge. “I’m so glad HighSmith did.”

  She sounds upbeat like the woman I met but like a stranger too. It’s like Jo is playing the role of an enthusiastic new employee.

  The new employee who’s my partner . . .

  Oh, fuck.

  Is she gunning for the job opening too? She’s a director, same as I am. She sounds ridiculously qualified too.

  And I bet she doesn’t even care about the work-remotely part. She probably wants to work with people, and I suspect that gives her an advantage.

  Plus, she’s a firecracker. The mention of Bancroft House reminds me of a collection I was after several months ago, and the memory snaps into place.

  “Was it your firm that won the Abernathy collection of Twentieth Century Impressionist art over HighSmith?”

  “Yes, that was us.” She squares her shoulders proudly. And well she should. It was, indeed, a coup—ticked me off to no end but impressed me, nonetheless.

  “You have quite a reputation,” I say.

  Her brows arch as she meets my eye. “A reputation?” The question is a challenge, as if I insulted her, but that’s not how I meant it at all.

  I realize I’m still seated and remember my manners, standing as I try to correct this mess. “A reputation as—”

  “Yes, Jo has a reputation as being one of the best,” Emily says crisply. “She’s sharp, passionate, and experienced, with deep knowledge of the field.”

  “That’s what I was going to say,” I add, my jaw tight as I silently curse everything about this.

  I offer my hand to Jo to shake, and when she takes it, my brain inconveniently calls up the vivid memory of her nails raking down my back.

  She did leave marks. I spotted them in the mirror yesterday morning when I was shaving. I wanted more marks—wanted to feel her clawing at me madly, feverishly.

  I admit I had hopes of that on Friday night. Dinner, a talk, a walk, a coming together.

  Those ideas I push into a mental cupboard, slamming it closed so I can focus on the women here in my office.

  Emily flashes a practiced, lipsticked grin. “Jo’s also quite personable. And since you’re both contemporary experts, I’ve decided we’ll reorganize the department a bit, with you and Jo leading it together. Sort of like . . .” She stops, turns to Jo, a curious glint in her eyes. “What do they call it in America, Jo? When you have two leaders on a sporting field?”

  Jo gives a sweet smile that breaks my heart in a whole new way.

  I want that smile just for me, reserved for laughing over pickup lines and talking about the books she’s reading and asking her about the framed photos and learning all about Jo from America.

  My new . . . partner.

  All the I hate everything tchotchkes in Nigel’s shop aren’t enough to convey how that word curdles in my stomach.

  “Co-captains,” Jo answers, with a brightness that seems natural, like she’s thrilled about this.

  Which stings—that she’s happy we can’t go out now. I wish I could be light about this turn of fate.

  “Ah, yes,” Emily says, snapping her perfectly manicured fingers. “That’s it. Co-captains.”

  I swear she planned this. You were rude to my niece, so I’m going to find a thoughtful, delightful, fascinating American woman and throw her into your path. And you’ll never see it coming because you know nothing about dating. Because you didn’t think to ask pertinent questions. Instead, you got all caught up in romance, you silly fool.

  You silly old fool who knows so very little of this new world.

  The irony. I’ve got a brain full of insight about art from the 1900s to today, but I know so little about modern affairs.

  “We’re going to make HighSmith the best auction house in the world,” Emily promises us, beaming. “I’ve arranged a working lunch today, where you can collaborate with the liaisons in marketing and sales, who interface with your department.”