P.S. It’s Always Been You: A Second Chance Romance Read online

  “Let’s get moving,” Presley says, stepping out of the car, smiling and heading into the home like I didn’t just have my fingers inside her, making her see stars.

  Then again, I have to act that way too.

  And act I do, all day long, as we run a fine-tooth comb from room to room, sorting through furniture, antiques, and collectibles. I haven’t been able to grab a moment alone with her off camera to discuss what went down in the car, let alone the letter and where to chase our next lead.

  When the guys rewind to make sure they captured an expedition map, I snag a second to pull her aside, focusing on the letter as I whisper, “Where do you think the letter takes us next? The next part of the tale might require you to find a curiosity near the boards with the greatest of ease. You know where all the best ones are in a particular district.” I scrub a hand over my jaw, repeating those words in my head. “I keep thinking it’s referring to the theaters the Caribaldis and Valentinas own, ‘the boards’ being slang for a ‘stage,’ and the clue being ‘near the boards.’ But which one? The two families own a handful in the theater district. The Silverlight Theater, the Grand Fountain Theater, the Firelight PlayHouse, and so on. Do we just go to them all?”

  She sighs. “I don’t think so, because that’s the issue. It’s broad, rather than clear and specific. Which makes me wonder if it’s a decoy clue, pointing to something else. Something about ‘curiosity,’ like curiosity will take us to a certain district. A district in New York? In the city? Or is it supposed to be one of those hidden in plain sight clues?”

  “Like this is where we’re supposed to be? Right here? In this house? Because this house is full of curiosities?” I point to the floor. “Maybe they’re taking us back here. Because the first thing we found was under the boards. So maybe near the boards means the same place?”

  “But I doubt it’s near the same place. That’s too easy.”

  “We just have to keep working the clues. When the guys go to lunch, let’s put our heads together.”

  “Definitely.”

  But the crew skips lunch on account of the ticking timer of the bun in the oven. We move at a rapid but thorough pace, highlighting antiques we find upstairs, some maps at last, and a few journals from known expeditions. I tie that into some of the details from the Exploration Society, but as I do, I’m keenly aware that without the letters, I’m missing a part of the story I want to tell.

  There’s a nagging sense that I’m missing something else. Some detail that’ll be the key that turns the lock.

  And that something might be back at the Exploration Society. Near the end of the day, after we check the floorboards near the desk and come up short, I’m about to ask Presley if she wants to take a detour to the society when she looks at her watch and says, “I should close up shop soon. I’m meeting my friend Francesca at her event.”

  “What’s her event?”

  “An art exhibit. She curates at a cutting-edge gallery, and she’s showcasing some new wire sculptures as well as”—she stops, rolling her eyes as she slides a map into a tube—“single men.”

  I freeze. “Single men are on display?”

  “Well, not really. But she’s fixated on getting me to meet someone, so she claims a ton of hot single guys are coming tonight.” She laughs, then shrugs like this is not a big deal.

  But it is.

  It’s a huge deal.

  It’s furnace level.

  Because my skin is on fire with raging jealousy. “You’re not going for that reason, are you?”

  She looks up from the tube. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

  She’s so matter-of-fact. So cool about it, as if my hands weren’t in her pants earlier today. Hell, it feels like they weren’t. It feels like we’re ten thousand miles away.

  I part my lips to answer, You wouldn’t and shouldn’t, because of the car, because of what happened, because we have unfinished business, but Jared raps on the door.

  “Think we can get a stand-up of you right now?” he asks. “Maybe outside the house. A quick little tour of the grounds would be good. Probably be thirty to forty minutes. Cammi said the director wants some shots like that.”

  I suck back the sigh of frustration. “Sure, yeah.” I drag a hand through my hair and turn to Presley. Her expression is businesslike, professional, reminding me that we’re supposed to behave that way. I’m supposed to behave that way. There’s no room for misplaced envy.

  “You can take the car to get to your event,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “Are you sure? How will you get back?”

  I wave a hand. I’ll walk because I’m pissed and I need to burn off this anger. I have no right to stop her. No right to ask her not to go. “I’ll go see my mom,” I say.

  “That’s great. Thanks. We’ll talk later, okay? I’ll be thinking about the clues in the letter.”

  “Yeah, we have lots to figure out.”

  Why the hell am I pursuing a goddamn love letter? I’m a man of action. I’m an adventurer. I have a shoot in Utah and an expedition to plan for my next book. That’s what I do. I don’t track down silly love stories. Certainly not when the woman I want to chase them with is chasing other men.

  As I shoot my stand-up with the crew, my blood stays on boil, and I clench my jaw and tighten my fists.

  “This is great. You’re full of all sorts of coiled energy, like you want to pounce on the house,” Jared remarks.

  He’s wrong. I don’t want to pounce on a goddamn house.

  I want Presley, and as I head back to my mom’s place, all I can think of is about the guys Presley might meet tonight. Guys who are wrong for her, guys who will never understand her like I do. Dicks, dweebs, and pretentious prisses.

  And smarty-pants too.

  She’s too intelligent for her own good. She’s so damn book smart that she’ll lure that kind of guy. But she’s more than book smart. She’s streetwise, and she needs someone who’s seen the world, who shares the same love of it that she has.

  She needs me.

  And I need to impress her, so I call the Exploration Society and ask the sweet receptionist if she can let me in again.

  “We closed a few minutes ago at six, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

  “You’re a doll, Melody.”

  I tell my mom I’m working late and staying in the city, then I return to the house in Lenox Hill, studying the photo of the letter as I go.

  I keep circling back to the circus.

  The line the next part of the tale might require you to find a curiosity near the boards with the greatest of ease sticks out to me. “Greatest of ease” is a circus term; it’s in the song about the daring man on the flying trapeze. It’s become a slogan of many circuses, so that must be pointing to the Caribaldi connection. At the society, I read up on him, learning he came from a family of circus owners, that he bought the circus and later sold it at the height of its success, choosing to then invest the money in theaters in Manhattan alongside his good friend.

  Why the hell isn’t there a Caribaldi Theater? A Valentina Theater? That would be curious. That would make sense and would be a great spot to look for the next letter—near the boards.

  I look in other books, reading stories of other expeditions undertaken by other explorers, and something tickles the back of my brain. The seed of an idea.

  When I read about an explorer who finally found what he wanted when he looked in a different spot, it occurs to me that perhaps I’ve been looking in the wrong place.

  I’ve been looking in the past.

  What if I need to look in the present?

  It’s as simple as asking my phone.

  And when I see the results, I think I’ve got it.

  Excitement rips through me, and I call Presley, even though it’s well past nine. She doesn’t answer, and all I can think is one of those guys took her home.

  I burn and I seethe.

  And I move.

  I meet up with Josh, who’s at a d
ance club, of all places, since some of his NBA clients are here.

  “You look like you need a drink,” he says after a cursory glance at the set of my jaw, the hardness in my eyes.

  “That obvious?”

  “As obvious as lipstick on a collar.”

  I crack a smile. “Got lipstick on collars on your mind, cuz?”

  “If it’s Haven’s, I do. That’s the only lipstick that’ll ever be on my collar,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “Where is the lovely lady?”

  “Wheeling and dealing, like she usually is. She’s a tiger, and I love it.” We grab a spot at the bar. “But what about you? Do you need to tie one on since your woman is a no-go?”

  “That’s the thing,” I say as I order a shot of whiskey. “I’m not sure she is a no-go.”

  He arches a brow. “Did something change today?”

  “Let’s put it this way: things are becoming clear.”

  I tell him more, but then the deejay pumps up the music, and soon the noise drowns out any hope of conversation. After another drink, I can’t take the electronic music and the crowds and the citified vibe. Presley doesn’t respond, and I’m pissed, but I know she’ll want to know what I found.

  She’ll absolutely want to know.

  I say goodbye to my cousin, text my mother and ask her to hold on to that extra ticket, and then I do the only thing that makes sense.

  I head for Presley’s place.

  23

  Presley

  Francesca was right. The company at the exhibit is fascinating. I talk to a goateed man in a leather jacket who restores old motorcycles and turns them into sculptures. Bender is a former juvenile delinquent, but totally reformed now, thanks to the power of art. He’s passionate and eloquent.

  I chat with a woman in a dashiki who worked in Europe, and she’s intrigued by my research into art theft. We chat about the Antwerp diamond heist, amazed at how they pulled it off.

  She introduces me to a man who loves to buy and sell what he calls absurdist art, and I have to admit his outfit—a green suit with illustrated playing cards on it—is equally absurd, but he calls it art too.

  All of the men and women are interesting. All of them make for a fascinating night of cocktails and banter, of quintessential New York chatter among the art cognoscenti. But none of the men make my heart scurry or my skin heat up. No one even makes me want to go on a date for a cup of tea.

  I’m part of this world, but I’m also inexorably drawn to a man who’s not part of it at all.

  A man I can’t have.

  A man who’ll go far, far away.

  I wish I didn’t ache for him.

  Especially since he made me feel something both tender and intense this morning. Something passionate and beautiful. Something that felt like more.

  Snap out of it.

  He picked up the phone after he finger-banged you.

  Right. Exactly. Thank you, brain, for reminding me.

  I should know better. We’re not falling in love again; we’re falling into old patterns. Sex and lust. We were good at that, great at that, and I can’t let it fool me.

  When Francesca whirls by, I tap her arm and thank her for the invite. “My mind is officially twisted from the wire art.”

  “And will I be knocking on your wall tonight and cheering you on?”

  “Doubtful. But you gave it the old college try.”

  “Not even Bender, the motorcycle artist? He seemed perfect for you.”

  “He’s great. Truly, he is.”

  She arches an impeccably groomed eyebrow. “But he’s not the one who makes your heart want to fling itself into his arms?”

  I sigh and shake my head.

  She hugs me once more. “Thanks for coming.”

  Once I’m home, I kick off my high heels, slide into my jammies, pour a glass of wine, twist my hair in a bun, and spend some time online with Caribaldi, figuring the clue has to be connected to him. Digging deep into Google, I’ve come across some potential leads when my sister pings me on FaceTime.

  “I just returned from my shift at the hospital, and I’m full of energy! Can you help me now?”

  “Of course,” I say, then walk her through where to hang the pictures.

  This is my life. Friday night, and I’m a picture-hanging consultant, all because I didn’t connect with a dude in leather or a hipster in playing cards.

  When we’re done, Holly twirls a strand of her blonde hair. “What’s going on with you? Have you found some fabulous new art thief to fall for?”

  I laugh, thinking of Beatrice. “What’s with the art thief obsession? My agent said the same thing.”

  “They’re sexy. Like highwaymen. Like adventurers. They’re daring and dangerous. You do like adventurers. You were always saying you were going to marry a pirate.”

  “That worked out real well for me. I’m single and pirate free.”

  “How is it working with the adventuresome Hunter?” she asks.

  I could tell her it’s both amazing and terrible. I could say he’s wonderful and vexing. I could beckon her close to the screen and say he gave me one of the best orgasms of my life in a car earlier today and he kisses like he’s conducting the New York Philharmonic and it’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

  But I don’t understand what’s happening with him. I don’t have the emotional energy to excavate my day. “It’s fine. We get along fine.”

  “Are you still in love with him?”

  I scowl. “No. I haven’t been in years.”

  “If you say so . . .”

  My phone buzzes with an incoming call, and the screen displays Hunter’s name. It’s nearly midnight. “I need to go.”

  She waves goodbye and I click over, but before I can say anything, he says, “I’m downstairs. Can I come up?”

  “You’re here? You just showed up?” And maybe I’m still annoyed. Maybe I have a reason to be.

  “Yes. Can you please let me up?” His tone borders on desperate, but it’s intense too, like he needs this.

  I take a deep breath, considering the options. Turn him away and wonder. Let him up and find out what the hell is going through his mind.

  “Fine.” I buzz him in.

  I conduct a two-second scan of my place. I could change. I could do the mad dash around and slip on jeans and a sexy top. But who cares? If something more was going to happen with us, he wouldn’t have answered that call earlier.

  I figure he’s here because he cracked the clue, and sure enough, when I fling open the door, his eyes sparkle with the thrill of discovery.

  “You figured it out?” I ask.

  His eyes stroll up and down my body. They take their time, lingering, pausing, gawking. He scrubs his hand over his jaw. “Yeah. I figured out this.”

  24

  Presley

  He steps inside, shuts the door, and puts his hands on my face.

  My knees go weak. My stomach swoops.

  His voice is commanding as he asks, “Did you meet anyone tonight?”

  But I don’t let my body control me.

  I step back, shaking him off. “You can’t just walk in here and question me.”

  He soldiers on, determined. “Did you meet anyone?”

  I’m determined too. Determined not to melt. “I met a lot of people. What’s it to you?”

  “Anyone you like?”

  I cross my arms. “Maybe. Why does it matter? Do you want to know if someone finger-banged me in the car and then took a call?”

  He heaves a sigh and hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” I toss back, even though I can tell he is. But still, he could have said it earlier.

  Dragging a hand through his hair, he takes a big breath. “Look, that was stupid. Trevor was calling from overseas, and I was worried that he was hurt. You think I wouldn’t rather have been kissing you like I started to when I ignored his first call?”

  He has a fair point, but I
don’t want to read the tea leaves of men. “Hunter, I don’t know what you want.”

  “You don’t? You really don’t?” He sounds half pissed, half alpha, and it’s hella sexy, but I’m not giving in.

  I stand my ground. “No. Maybe you want to spell it out for me.”

  “Okay, I can do that,” he says, cool and matter-of-fact as he counts off on his fingers. “One, I don’t want you going home with anyone tonight. Two, I definitely don’t want anyone else touching you. Three, I want you to my-fucking-self. How’s that?”

  I smile inside, but only inside, as I make him work for me. “Your spelling isn’t bad.”

  He seems to rein in a grin. “So sassy, so fiery.”

  “Want to spell anything else out?” I ask, giving him the fire I feel, the fire he wants. “Like, say, why you’re here?”

  Because I know why he’s here.

  His tea leaves aren’t hard to read right now. He’s not here because of the letter. He’s here for me. His eyes blaze, and his want radiates off him, pulsing as if it has its own frequency.

  But he needs to say it.

  “I’m here for you.” The way he says “you” is coated in gravel, covered with need. It makes me shudder, against my better judgment.

  Or maybe my body is a good judge.

  Because my mind likes what he’s saying, and the order he said it in—first came the apology, then comes the want.

  “Is that the truth?” I ask.

  He steps closer and strokes his thumb along my jawline, eliciting a full-body shiver. “Yes. I’m here for you. Because you drive me crazy. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because the thought of you talking to other men makes me insane with jealousy.”

  I raise my chin. “Then I hope you haven’t gone mad. But I’ll have you know, no one interested me.”

  “Yeah, why’s that?”

  I shrug playfully. “I don’t know. Why do you think?”

  He slides a hand down my arm, around to my back. He travels farther, palming my ass, scooting me closer. I gasp as I press against the length of him in his jeans. “I think you want all the same things I want.”