“You win. But I have seen it eight,” I confess.

  She smacks palms with me. “I go once a year with my friends. We call ourselves the Galindas and the Elphabas, and we go in full makeup,” she says, then pats her cheek, her Black skin luminous. “And I do look good in green.”

  “I bet you look fantastic,” I tell her.

  “I can also tell you which actress playing Elphaba has the best belt.”

  I sweep out a hand. “Dish. Now. I must know everything.”

  “Really?” Millie asks with an arch of her brow.

  “Of course. Musicals are my religion. I worship at the altar of theater.”

  “You’re funny,” she says with a laugh.

  “Which makes me wonder . . .” Riya begins, tapping her chin.

  Millie gives her a knowing look. “Oh, I can tell where you’re going.”

  Riya smiles, all sweet innocence. “Of course you do, Mill. I’m wondering if she would be a good one for Harry?”

  Now I, too, know where this is headed. I love it when friends try to set up the new peeps. It’s totally endearing, and I’ve done it myself. I’m not sure I want to be matched, but I’m pleased they’re thinking of me that way.

  Freddy rolls his eyes. “Riya. Millie. I swear. We need to give Jo some breathing room. She just started today.”

  “All the better to grab her for one of our mates before she finds someone on her own,” Riya teases.

  Millie gives me an expectant look. “Are you single, or is there a man, or a woman, waiting for you in New York?”

  “I’m very single,” I say, wishing it weren’t true. Wishing I were dating the guy I’m working with. “But I’m not actually interested in dating any men just now. Honestly, I want to focus on work.”

  That’s true, at least. Completely true.

  Riya pouts, and Millie pretends to sneer. Then we circle to other topics, and somehow, an hour has passed while we chat about everything and nothing.

  Then, it’s time for darts. As the game begins, Riya tugs me to her side. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s nice to go out with friends from work.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Riya drops her voice to a whisper. “Heath never goes, but we always try to get him to come with us.”

  Why is she telling me this? But maybe it’s simply to try to explain his absence. “You mentioned that,” I say casually, doing my best not to give away my interest in the man who isn’t here.

  “I mean, he has his reasons and all, I suppose. But still, we don’t bite. We’re all nice.”

  Reasons? What are his reasons?

  I’m dying to know, but asking would be prying, and I won’t do that.

  Instead, I pick up a dart and fling it at the board.

  Bull’s-eye.

  The game heats up and conversation swings away from Heath.

  As it should.

  That night, after I flop, exhausted, into bed, I grab my phone and text my New York friends a photo of a cute hat shop I passed on the way home.

  * * *

  Jo: This is a spot from the book you gave me! I plan on working my way through every Instagrammable location in London.

  * * *

  TJ is the first to reply.

  * * *

  TJ: We knew it would motivate you. I bet it’s your new challenge—visiting all the places in the book.

  * * *

  Jo: Oh my God, you gave it to me as a test?

  * * *

  Easton: And it’s working. You’re already checking off items, you list-maker. You item-checker-offer.

  * * *

  Jo: Yes, I am. So there.

  * * *

  TJ: Called it.

  * * *

  Emerson jumps in next.

  * * *

  Emerson: So, does this mean you’ve fallen in love with London?

  * * *

  Jo: I’m not that easy.

  * * *

  Emerson: How was your first day at work? I miss you terribly and I’m pretending you’re in your cute apartment on West 73rd.

  * * *

  Jo: I’m pretending I’m there too. Hey, let’s go meet for a lemon drop at The Lucky Spot!

  * * *

  Emerson: Be there in fifteen. Le sigh. Anyway, you’ll like London eventually. Tell me about work.

  * * *

  I jump to a thread directly with her, since it’s time for girl talk, not group talk with the guys.

  * * *

  Jo: Ah, there is so much to tell. For starters, you won’t believe who Heath is.

  * * *

  I send all the details on the just my luck one-night stand. She replies with shocked face gifs and then a note.

  * * *

  Emerson: That’s like fate slapping you with a salami. Ouch.

  * * *

  I crack up. I love her weirdo analogies.

  * * *

  Jo: I hate salami.

  * * *

  Emerson: So, the metaphor worked. What about the date Friday night??

  * * *

  Jo: We nixed it, obviously.

  * * *

  Emerson: Right. Of course. Dating a co-worker is a recipe for trouble.

  * * *

  Jo: Exactly. And it was just a date.

  * * *

  Only, my plan to see Heath felt like more than a date. It felt like the start of something, beyond just testing to see if we liked each other. We know we do. Friday would have been the first of more dates. I’m sure of it.

  Especially when my phone lights up with an incoming call from the man I’m thinking of.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hello. Did you win at darts?”

  I swear, I could be curling my fingers around the coily cord of some fancy Breakfast at Tiffany’s phone, the way I feel chatting with him. “I’m a mistress of the dartboard.”

  He laughs softly, knowingly. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Why is that?” I ask, my pulse beating a little faster just from hearing his voice. This is ridiculous, my reaction to this man.

  “You seem . . . very good at very many things.”

  I clutch the phone closer, my skin warming from the compliment. “And you? Did you win at chess?”

  “Alas, I was checkmated by Griffin in a game in Battersea Park,” he says on a wistful note. “So it goes.”

  “You played chess in Battersea Park? That’s so very British.”

  “And you played darts at a pub. Same to you.”

  “You have me there,” I say.

  He’s quiet at first, maybe measuring his words. Then he answers, “I wish I did.”

  My chest flutters. It’s going to be impossible to resist flirting with him. But I try. “Do you play darts? I noticed you never answered when I asked.”

  “Observant. And yes, I play. Quite well. But I didn’t want to let on because it’d make it harder to avoid the dart outings at the office.”

  I snap back to Riya’s words. He has his reasons. Sometime, maybe soon, he’ll tell me why. “Then I shall keep your dart prowess a secret.”

  “I appreciate that.” Like last night, neither of us seems in a rush to get off the phone. I know he didn’t call just to inquire about the final score at darts.

  He confirms that when he asks about my flat and if I like it.

  “It’s everything I could ever want. A room with a view,” I say.

  He laughs, and I don’t know why I should be surprised he caught the E.M. Forster reference.

  “Not much better than that—a good view. Except maybe a room of one’s own.”

  I chuckle at him one-upping me with Virginia Woolf. “Aren’t we a pair?”

  “We are indeed.”

  “So where do you live?” I ask.

  “Covent Garden. I always liked it when I was younger. Had my sights set on living here ever since my parents would take my brother and me into the city. They live just outside the city still, Mum and Dad.”

  Those details, freely shared, warm my heart. I didn’t ask for them; he offered, and that matters to me. It’s like him sharing the secret of his dart prowess.

  Before long, the conversation winds down, and he clears his throat. “Well, I just wanted to check in, I suppose. See how your night was. How you’re getting on.”

  He sounds like he needs an excuse for talking to me.

  And I get it. I like that he called, but I also know it’s risky to chat this intimately. Maybe an excuse will make us both feel better about this late-night call.

  “Thank you for checking in,” I say.

  “See you tomorrow. And good night, Jo. My American . . . co-captain.”

  There’s a hint of sad sarcasm in his voice, of course. I feel it too.

  “Good night to you, too, my British . . . partner.”

  I end the call, then text goodnight to Emerson and the rest of the group, missing all of them. Missing my friends in New York and missing this chance here in London.

  After work the next evening, I go for a run along the Thames, blasting Rent as I peel off a few miles while the sun sets. I’ve made it to “One Song Glory” when my father calls. I hit ignore and focus on Roger and Mark and the New York crew of artists. The phone transcribes my dad’s message, and I catch the words this weekend before I shut the notification.

  It will wait. He’s not going to ruin my running mojo.

  Later, back in my flat, I reply to his request, saying Sunday is fine for a talk.

  No one else calls me to “just check in,” and that’s fine.

  Of course it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?

  The rest of the work week flies by, filling with meetings and phone calls and prep for the upcoming collection. And Heath. My week is filled with Heath as we work together. As I learn things like the way he signs off his emails (“With thanks”—formal, but not too cold) and the way he taps his chin when he thinks, staring off to the right as if the answer to a question might be right there if only he could reach it.

  Working with him is hard—but I’m strong. I’m here for that promotion. I left New York for that promotion. And I will not be distracted by anyone. And so, I work, and in the evenings I keep myself busy by strolling to spots from the book my friends gave me.

  Since I am, indeed, a checker-offer, I snap pics of all the places, like the very pink Peggy Porschen café and the very crowded Tower Bridge. I send them to the crew and tap out replies to their texts.

  So far, it seems Easton was right. You keep in touch with the people you want to keep in touch with.

  I still don’t love London, but the pictures and the texting feed my lonely soul, which craves connection. But I don’t want this week to be a honeymoon period. I want us to stay close. I hope we can.

  Sometimes, I’m tempted to text Heath, but I haven’t yet. Not at all.

  He doesn’t seem like a texter, and I’m not sure if I should keep stoking the flames between us with a call.

  He doesn’t call either.

  When Friday rolls around, my chest aches with the wish I could see my friends over the weekend. Spend it traipsing around Manhattan. Visiting a new food truck with Emerson. Playing pinball with TJ. Running errands with Easton as he preps for a party.

  But I’ve got to put that energy into London, instead.

  And into the gallery opening this evening, where I’ll see Heath.

  Maybe this is why I haven’t called—because I’ve been waiting for tonight.

  11

  Heath

  During my lunch break on Friday, I make my way to Nigel’s shop in search of an escape, or at least the possibility of one in the form of a book to curl up with. Ideally one that’s five thousand pages long and will carry me through the weekend.

  When I go in, Nigel is laughing with a customer while he rings up a candle. “Those are hilarious. Great gift,” he says to the curly-haired woman at the register.

  “It’s for my sister, but I’m going to snap a picture of it too. Send it to all my friends,” the customer says. “They’ll get a kick out of it.”

  I arch a brow, reading the tag on the candle. Fuck this shit.

  When the customer leaves, I tip my forehead in her direction. “Does anyone even care if it smells good?”

  Nigel rolls his dark eyes. “Not a damn soul. That’s not why they buy ’em. But it smells like rosemary, oranges, honey, and cedar.”

  My nose crinkles at the mismatched quartet of scents. “Or perhaps, it smells like an indecisive candlemaker.”

  “I like to think it smells like a money tree, since I’m making green hand over fist.” From a nearby rack, he grabs a pair of socks with a unicorn saying This meeting is fucking bullshit. “By the way, these are perfect for you.”

  The last week has only underlined the unicorn’s words of wisdom. Meetings are the worst. “My life’s motto,” I say.

  “But wait. This is even better.” Nigel stretches out an arm and grabs a pair of blue socks. A woman lolls on a bench, her nose in a book. The caption says, Fuck off, I’m reading.

  I grin. “Brilliant.”

  “And speaking of reading . . .” He proceeds to tell me about a mystery he tracked down for me, a series that’s becoming popular in America. Then he reaches below the counter, pulls out the book, and slaps it down on the wood. “Just for you.” Before I can reach for it, Nigel snatches the novel back and clutches it to his chest. “But only if you say something nice about me.”

  I glare at him. “Why do you make this so bloody difficult?”

  “It’s like a game. When I lose interest in Sudoku, I can wind you up for amusement.”

  “Glad to be of service.” Then I gird myself, taking a deep, fueling breath. “You’re the . . . best?” I venture, my brow knit, hoping that hit the mark.

  Nigel smacks a palm on the counter. “That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Like pulling teeth.” I wince. “Or like finding out the woman you want is your new co-worker.”

  “Ouch. That’s terrible. But office romance is a thing, isn’t it?”

  “For people who don’t give a fuck about their jobs,” I reply. That’s why I haven’t called Jo since Tuesday night. It felt too natural, too easy to talk to her after work. I can’t let her become a habit when there’s so much at stake.

  My job—the thing I need most for sanity.

  “Fair point,” Nigel says with a nod. “Best not to mess around where you work.”

  “Exactly.”

  I buy the book and return to the office.

  As the day winds down, I check the clock more frequently. The time for the gallery event is drawing closer. I pop into the men’s room, brush my teeth, adjust my shirt, run my fingers through my hair.

  It’s important to look good for work events. And fresh breath is critical for all occasions.

  I return to my office, stealing another glance at the time. Fifteen more minutes, and we’ll all be leaving. I have half a mind to text Jude and ask if it’s normal to be so wound up about an evening out with your co-workers.

  But I don’t need to ask anyone, really. I know this feeling. I’ve felt it before, ages ago—the thrill of anticipation.

  I tell my feet to stay firmly planted. There’s nothing to anticipate. Tonight isn’t the start of a new romance.

  Still, my pulse beats faster.

  Then, I come back to reality without a bit of effort when Emily pops her head around the door, rapping her knuckles on it. “Knock, knock.”

  “Come in, of course,” I say.

  Be cheery. Be upbeat.

  I flash her a grin, then I do something I never pictured at all. I ask a question that has no bearing on the workplace. “Any plans this weekend?”

  Her gray eyes twinkle. Emily seems to crave this kind of interaction, I’m learning.

  “Yes, my wife and I are going to a crafts fair on Saturday near Leadenhall Market. Should be fun. I’ll see if I can restrain her from buying every trendy necklace she sees.”

  “Good luck with that.” I think that’s the sort of thing one says. Maybe I should find a book on small talk in the workplace. I can post reminders of what to ask co-workers.

  “And thank you for asking,” Emily says, and I mentally pat myself on the back. “How’s everything with Josephine this week?”

  Would be better if she didn’t work with me. So much better, because then I could take her out like I want to. Take her on a tour of literary London. Show her Keats House and the Globe Theatre, for starters.

  “Fantastic,” I say. It’s both a lie and the truth.

  Yes, Jo is bright and energetic and bursting with ideas.

  And she’s also temptation made flesh.

  “She’s great, isn’t she? I just don’t know how I’m going to pick between the two of you for the VP post.” Emily gives a breezy shrug. “But I like difficult choices. Keeps me on my toes.”

  Then she sails away, and I stand there, sucker-punched.

  Great. Fucking great.

  Jo and I are co-captains, and now we’re chasing the same job.

  The indecisive candlemaker got one thing right.

  Fuck this shit.