Jo grins. “I’m looking forward to meeting everybody on the team.”

  My God, it sounds like she means it—like she enjoys all this newfangled workplace jargon, interfacing and liaising and whatnot.

  “We thrive on teamwork. It’s our way of working,” Emily chirps, looking at me so pointedly that her eyes could be lasers. “Isn’t it, Heath?”

  I just want to work. That’s what has gotten me through loss, helped me stay sane. It’s what made me feel alive again.

  Maybe even happy.

  Surely, this is happiness that I feel at work.

  Work keeps my days from being lonely. Its projects, catalogues, and collections.

  It’s the chance to lose myself in matters of the mind, not in teamwork, collabs, or interactions.

  The world spins forward.

  And as it does, I’m pretty sure the budding romance is over before it could begin. I don’t have to ask the internet to know that dating your new co-captain is a bad idea. Perhaps even more foolish than failing to ask a woman you like what she does for a living.

  There are so many reasons I cannot date someone in the office. What if it doesn’t work out? Then I’d have to see her every single day, make awkward conversation over tea in the kitchen. That would be the end of my safe place at work.

  It was silly to think that my first foray into dating after a four-year hiatus would end in a happily ever after.

  “Teamwork is brilliant,” I say unconvincingly. But it doesn’t matter because Emily is ushering Jo from the office with a hand on her shoulder.

  On the way out, Jo casts a look my way, her eyes big and imploring, her smile sad and wistful as she mouths, I’m sorry.

  My heart winces again as I mouth back, Me too.

  Once she’s out of view, I fall into my chair, groaning in abject frustration.

  Typical.

  No wonder there’s a huge market for hating shit. Because horrid shit happens.

  I drop my head into my hands.

  But there’s no time to wallow. There’s a meeting to prep for.

  And, maybe, a job to research.

  I straighten and turn to my laptop, then click on the job opening I applied for here at HighSmith, the one for which I wrote a smashing letter. The one where I can work remotely.

  Yes, please.

  A note on my employee portal says I’m still under consideration.

  That’s good.

  Remote work was appealing already, but I’ve a sinking feeling the tension will ratchet up from here.

  The tension of wanting what I can’t have.

  I dive into meeting prep, blotting out the rest of this place as best I can until there’s a knock on my ajar door.

  I glance up, and my lips twitch in an unbidden smile. Jo stands in the doorway, tucks a strand of chestnut hair behind her right ear, a faraway look in her pretty blue eyes.

  Is it regret?

  “Hi,” I say hoarsely, unable to think of anything else. I take off my reading glasses and set them on my desk.

  “How are you?” Jo asks, kind and inviting, but still unreadable.

  I’m unsure how to proceed, but I choose quickly. I opt for honesty. “I’ve been better.”

  She lets out a breath, perhaps of relief. “Same. Same here.” She swings her gaze behind her then back to me. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  She steps inside, presses a hand to the door, and shuts it.

  Oh, how I wish I could close the distance and kiss her properly, like I planned to do Friday night.

  Instead, I stay in my chair, maybe so I don’t take her into my arms.

  “So, yeah. Fate’s a bitch,” she says, pushing out a laugh as she tucks her hair behind her other ear.

  “Put that on a plaque and sell it,” I quip.

  “Yeah,” she says, clasping her hands, twisting her fingers nervously. Her lips curve into a rueful smile. “It never occurred to me that we might . . . work together.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I mean, you seemed like . . .” She laughs softly, perhaps abashed. “I had this whole idea in my head that you were a librarian.”

  I chuckle, leaning back in my chair. “Did you now?”

  She rolls her eyes, then lowers her voice. “You were my sexy librarian.”

  A dangerous rumble works its way up my chest. I like those words far too much. “I like that you thought of me that way. I like to think I would make quite a dashing one,” I tease. It’s so tempting to slip back into flirtation with her.

  Perhaps it’s tempting for her too?

  “Yes. The glasses really do it for me.” She leans against the wall by the door. “I’d have shown up every day, checking out books from you.”

  “Asking for recommendations?” I ask, my tone as light as I felt Sunday night.

  “Yes. I’d have been all, Do you have the newest Sophie Kinsella or Jane Green?” she asks, all pouty.

  “I’d have personally escorted you to the stacks,” I say. “Good choices, by the way.”

  “As long as they’re not drawn from social media feeds,” she says, a teasing callback to our first encounter.

  “That’s my only hard limit,” I say.

  “Good to know about hard limits.” Her eyes spark with gratitude, then naughtiness. “Hopefully, there are some dark corners in this imaginary library of yours.”

  My chest heats. My pulse spikes as we fall into a tantalizing game of make-believe. “My imaginary library has many dark corners perfect for deep and heady kisses,” I say in a low voice.

  A voice I shouldn’t use at work.

  One I definitely shouldn’t use with her.

  But instead of stopping, I stand. Walk around the corner of my desk. Take a step closer to Josephine Brennan.

  We’re mere feet away. “Do you have librarian fantasies, Jo?”

  She tilts her head, shrugs lightly. “Apparently, I do. I suppose it usually goes the other way. Sexy women librarians with glasses, hair in a bun until we let it loose. But I pictured you that way—minus the updo. Then, when I saw you with those reading glasses, it kind of fried all my circuits.”

  “Mmm. ‘Fried circuits’ is my new favorite saying,” I murmur, my body alive, my bones humming.

  “I had this whole image of you, all studious and learned, talking books with me, showing me your favorites.”

  I hate that I love her image of me so much. I love it so much it unlocks a confession that surprises me. “I really wanted to see you on Friday, Jo. Take you to dinner. Show you around London if you wanted.” I glance at the clock. Her eyes stray there too. Our meeting is soon, but she makes no move to leave. “Have you been here before? To London?” I ask.

  She hesitates. Her eyes flicker with something like sadness, or maybe anger. Perhaps a mix of both. I’m hanging on the edge of the moment, waiting for her answer.

  “I have. I was here for a few months for grad school,” she says tightly, as if the words pain her.

  I want to know what’s beneath that tension, but now isn’t the time.

  It’s also not my turn. She asks, “Are you from here?”

  “Born and raised.”

  “Have you ever lived anyplace else?”

  I shake my head. “No. London is just . . . home.”

  “New York is that way for me,” she says, and I can hear the wistfulness.

  “You miss it.” It’s not a question.

  Her eyes shine. “I do. So much. I miss my friends terribly. I miss the madness of New York. All its New Yorkness.”

  Her answer tugs on a part of me that’s been dormant for a long time. “I half wanted to ask you if you’d seen the Tate or The National Gallery, or if you wanted to. The other night, that is.”

  “At the bar?” she asks, curious.

  I shake my head. “No. In your room. When you were . . .” An image of her, soft and naked, flashes before my eyes. “In bed. After.”

  She trembles. “After,” she says dreamily. “I felt pretty good after.”

  I can’t stop a low groan from escaping. “Good. I’m glad you felt that way. I felt it too.”

  “Apparently, the way you felt made you want to take me to a museum,” she says with a laugh.

  I grin. “Well, the cat is out of the bag. Art turns me on.”

  “Same here.” She takes a beat. “So, you wanted to take me there? To the Tate?”

  At the time, I mostly wanted to know what she was doing in London. But I also wanted to take her there, to show her my favorites. “Yes, I suppose I did. To show you the J.M.W. Turners and the Monets. It’s madness, though. Too many crowds, too many tourists—”

  “But worth it,” she says quickly, excited by the idea.

  “Yes. So worth it.”

  The strange thing is, this moment feels worth it, too, even though it’s going nowhere.

  “I love all the Turners,” she says, bringing her hand to her heart, like she’s holding that love for the art. “I can stare at them for hours, trying to figure them out.”

  “Me too. His seascapes are so atmospheric. So moody.” That’s why I like them so much. His paintings brood. They gaze. And they make me think.

  She leans a tad closer like she’s going to share a secret. “Sometimes, I think they’re like puzzles.”

  “And you want to solve the mystery of what he’s saying about light, or fire, or rain,” I say.

  Her smile is dazzling. “I’m convinced there’s something there I haven’t quite gotten yet, so I keep looking.”

  “I’m always hunting for the answer. I haven’t found it yet either,” I say, wishing more than ever I could take her there, unlock the mystery with her.

  We’re both quiet for a moment, eyes locked, mouths still.

  “Heath?”

  “Yes?” My reply sounds desperate even to my own ears.

  “I don’t miss New York right this second. And I didn’t miss it on Sunday night,” she whispers.

  There’s nothing better she could have said, nothing that could make me want her any more. All I can do is gaze at her with longing that will go unfulfilled. “I wish I could make you not miss New York again and again.”

  Her breath catches.

  Then she glances at the clock. “I should go,” she says, and with a speed that surprises me, she grabs the open collar of my button-down shirt and tugs me close, brings her lips near mine. Her breath is soft and enticing. “I wanted to see you again so badly, Heath.”

  I shudder.

  Then, she brushes her soft mouth against mine, and sparks flare across my skin.

  From a secret, poignant kiss in my office.

  One that lasts mere seconds, then ends when she turns to leave.

  10

  Jo

  Talk about awkward.

  I’m in a conference room, planning an upcoming collection with three other people, including a man I saw naked.

  A man I want to see naked again.

  Heath’s across the table from me, wearing his serious face, and damn, that intensity looks good on him. He’s Professor Indiana Jones now, all intelligence and wit in the classroom as he says, “We’d like this to be the type of auction that draws a wide range of collectors, but especially the newer ones.”

  I couldn’t agree more, and I want to say as much. My desire to see him naked is frazzling my brain. I also just want to see him, even more than I did when he called last night.

  So much more.

  That sharp wit, that gentle soul. The things he said to me in his office an hour ago. Take me to the Turners, please. Show me the gallery. Talk to me about art. We’ll solve the puzzle together.

  My stomach has hitched a ride on a roller coaster, rising up, flying down.

  Loop de loop.

  Between the naked thoughts and the swoony thoughts, my brain hasn’t left much room for the work stuff.

  That’s not helpful, as I try to share my own vision for the upcoming collection. “And to do that, um, I think we should, um, try to procure some of Benedict Winslow’s paintings.”

  The words all come out staccato as I mention a London collector, but Riya doesn’t seem to care that I sound like a bumbling frog.

  She simply smiles, her big brown eyes kind. “I was nervous on my first day here too,” she says, reaching across the table to pat my hand, her gold bracelets jangling. “Don’t worry about the collection. We’ll get it all sorted. And it’ll be excellent.”

  I duck my head, embarrassed. If she only knew why I’m a mess. “Thank you. I think I might still be jet-lagged,” I say, trying to erase the moment.

  Way to make a great first impression on your new team, Jo.

  Don’t think about the dinner you’re not going to have with Heath at some adorable trendy restaurant with clever new menu items to delight in together.

  Don’t picture the bookshops you aren’t popping into when the meal is through, or the museums you’re not visiting the next day.

  And definitely don’t think about the sex you’re not having with him after dinner. After bookshops. After museums.

  All that toe-tingling sex.

  Must stop now.

  Getting involved with a colleague in a new country, in a new office, in a new job is the definition of a no-no.

  I’m sure the company has a policy on dating a co-worker. And even if HighSmith doesn’t, what if things ended poorly between us? I’ve lost my home in New York. I don’t have a job to return to either.

  It’s this job here, this life in London . . . or nothing.

  I must treat it seriously because it’s all I have.

  I do my best to recalibrate, bringing my usual energy to the planning. I reroute my attention to my job, which I do damn well.

  “I’ve got some great ideas on how to reach a new sector of collectors,” I say.

  Exclusive video tours of artist studios. A percentage of proceeds to some of the artists’ favorite charities. A centerpiece work that we can market online, in our newsletters, and to our regular customers.

  We toss these ideas about over sandwiches and sushi, and devise a plan to make our auctions innovative and fresh for the new collectors, as well as exclusive and bougie for the traditional ones. Freddy and Riya both have terrific ideas, and they’re unafraid to throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks.

  Some of it does, thankfully.

  Heath is quieter, but when he talks, his ideas are fully formed and right on the money.

  When we’re done, I close my laptop and smile. “Thank you. All of you are making my first day at work in a new country terrific.”

  Even if one of you made it hard for me to focus at first.

  Ginger-haired Freddy tugs on his bright red bow tie then raises a hand, like he’s asking a question in class. “Total sidebar. One of my favorite galleries is having an opening for Petra Lorraine on Friday night. She’s a rising star here, and some pop stars have even licensed her art on T-shirt designs,” he says. “Might be a great chance to check out some cutting-edge works. Do you think?”

  I tense for a second, since that sounds right up Poppy’s alley, but I can breathe again when he names the Zora Gallery.

  It’s not hers.

  That’s a huge relief.

  “I think that’s a fantastic idea,” I say, glancing around. “I’m in. Who wants to go?”

  “I’m there,” Riya says, enthused.

  We all turn to Heath for his answer.

  His brown eyes are hard, edged with something like frustration, but after a beat, he mutters, “Sure.”

  Excitement pings in me. A gallery outing with the team isn’t at all a date. But it is a chance to grab a little hit of Heath outside of the office.

  “Yay! It’ll be smashing,” Riya says, then swivels around to face me again. “Speaking of team stuff, do you play darts, Jo?”

  I scoff, rolling my eyes. “What do you take me for? Someone who doesn’t know how to hit a target?”

  Riya’s eyes shine with excitement. “Want to go with us after work today?”

  An invite to hang out with my co-workers? Way to make my first day even better. I’m giddy. “I’d love to.”

  Riya squeezes my shoulder. “You’re on my team, and you better not be pulling my leg.”

  Freddy chuckles. “Spoiler alert, Jo. Riya’s total rubbish at darts.”

  “Am not,” Riya says, playfully stomping her foot. “I’m a dart goddess.”

  I glance over at Heath. His face is stony. “Do you play?” I ask evenly, like I’m not dying to know every detail about him.

  “No, thank you,” he says, but that’s not an answer.

  I’m not going to press for one, though, especially since he practically vaults out of the room.

  Riya smiles after him, then shrugs. “He hardly ever goes to group things.”

  Freddy snorts. “Hardly? I’d say never, Riya.”

  My lips part, and I start to ask why, but then I reel the word back in. It’s not my place to pry.

  I simply smile, instead, and leave the conference room, grateful to have plans for tonight.

  I am a social beast, after all.

  When the workday ends, I’m tempted to stop by Heath’s office again, but that would be a bad idea. Except his office is on the way out. As I sling my purse onto my shoulder and walk down the hallway, I pass his door.

  He pecks away on his computer, dark glasses on.

  “Good night, Heath. It was great meeting you.”

  He turns to me, a secret grin lighting his handsome face. “And you as well, Jo. Have fun playing darts.”

  “Have fun . . . reading?”

  He removes the glasses, and his brown eyes twinkle. “Excellent guess. But I might also play some chess.”

  Alone or with someone, I want to ask. But the more I ask, the more I’ll linger, and the harder it’ll be to walk away next time.

  “Good luck,” I say, then I go.

  I join my co-workers at a nearby pub. They’re a motley crew, and I love the mix of people and backgrounds. We order pints and exchange bios at a crowded table near the bar. I learn that Riya, who’s Indian, met her boyfriend, who’s French, while geocaching, and they now compete once a month against other couples in the treasure hunt hobby. Freddy grew up in Leeds, and met his wife, Millie, at a knitting class. Together, they run a knitting-for-beginners class every Sunday. I also learn Millie has seen Wicked ten times, and I practically vibrate with excitement.