“Glad to be working on it,” I say.
“Same here,” Jo says.
Sandy smiles, closing her notebook. “That was so much fun, running a meeting! But it must be awkward for you. You’re clearly such good mates, here in the same workplace,” she says. “Is it weird working together when this collection will count so heavily toward who gets the promotion?”
And yup.
There it is. Confirmation. This collection might as well be a fight to the finish.
I don’t even look at Jo when I answer. “No. It’s all good.”
Then I leave—because that’s a lie, and I hate lying to the woman I can’t seem to get off my mind.
“Knock, knock.”
It’s the end of the day, and I look up, both relieved and frustrated to see Jo.
Mostly relieved.
“May I come in?”
I gesture an invitation. “Always.”
She enters, tugging the door closed behind her. My skin prickles with anticipation. Is she going to kiss me again? Pretty sure I won’t stop her. And that closed door is quite a temptation.
“That was . . . annoying, earlier. The meeting,” she says, heavily, as she sinks down into the chair.
“Did I annoy you?”
“No. The situation. The whole this must be hard. Ugh. No kidding, universe, and fuck off.”
I laugh. “That ought to go on a pair of socks.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, slumping her shoulders. “So, I came to vent.”
“This is a vent-friendly zone, so vent away.”
“I hate feeling like I’m competing with you,” she seethes.
“So do I,” I admit.
“I wish . . .”
She doesn’t finish, and she doesn’t have to.
I know what she wishes. The same as I do—for things to be different. To not be pitted against each other this way.
I need this job because the work has been there for me when times have been tough—and I can’t risk losing it.
She needs it because she moved across an ocean for this chance.
To compete with her seems like a cruel twist of fate.
“I wish it could be different too,” I say.
“It’s like you can read my mind,” she says, with a gentle uptilt of her lips.
“Maybe because it’s in the same place as mine,” I say.
She nods, then slides her teeth along her lip like she’s thinking. “Do you want to go to the Tate tomorrow morning? It’s open early for members this Friday. Special deal, the website said. And we can see the Turners before it’s too crowded.”
My entire soul lights up at the invitation. The possibility. All of it. “You’re a member? Color me impressed.”
She leans forward in her chair, cups the side of her mouth, and whispers, “I nicked a card from a friend,” she says, in her imitation of a British accent.
A grin takes over my face. “I see you’re learning your way around my London.”
“Oh, are you a thief, too, Heath?”
“Perhaps I am. Let’s steal some time together tomorrow morning. Meet you at eight?” I tell her which entrance.
“I’ll see you on the steps,” Jo says.
Then she stands, locks eyes with me, and seems to think for a long time. I don’t move. I stay in my chair, waiting.
Hoping.
Being tempted.
My entire body buzzes with desire. With the wish that she’d come around and kiss me. My bones hum with longing. Throw yourself at me. Drag your hands through my hair. Cover my mouth with yours.
If she did, I’d lift her up on the desk, hike up her skirt, and sink inside. Fill her and fuck her and make love to her.
The fantasy is so potent, my mouth practically waters for her.
Kiss me, Jo.
If she did, I wouldn’t stop her.
I just don’t have it in me.
Instead, she sighs. “I still want to kiss you . . . my friend,” she says. Perhaps my face is an open book, with my lust written in my eyes.
I say nothing, offering one more silent plea that she will.
But she doesn’t, so I lay out the truth plainly. “I couldn’t stop you if you did.”
“I should go, then.” She walks to the door, opens it, and leaves.
I wake at four, wishing it were eight.
The same happens at five.
Then at six.
I throw off the covers, go for a run, then shower and get dressed. I’m still early, but I’m antsy, and I can’t wait for a morning museum date.
Or un-date.
I don’t even care what it’s called. I just want it.
I head to the museum I know better than the back of my hand and wait on the steps for Jo.
As the sun tugs itself higher on the horizon, the lovely American woman bounds up the concrete steps, her chestnut waves blowing in the morning breeze, a simple red dress hitting her knees and flats on her feet, as always.
I glance at her shoes. “New York taught you that, I suspect. To always wear flats?”
She smiles, as she stands on tiptoes and sweeps her lips over my cheek. “Yes, it did.”