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

  42

  Hunter

  “Fancy meeting you here,” I say, wondering why the hell everyone is gathered around us looking like they just found million-dollar bills in their underwear.

  “You missed my speech.” Vikas frowns.

  “How was it? Did you wow them with your crazy tales?” I keep it cool while I gage what, exactly, is up.

  He smiles as he answers. “I did. They clapped and cheered and threw flowers and candy at me. And you? You were busy playing hooky?”

  “As a matter of fact, not only did I skip your speech, I snooped in your jacket.”

  “Find anything interesting?” The question comes from Corinne in her warm, smoky voice.

  Presley chimes in. “Actually, we found a compass. Funny thing, Corinne. You mentioned you were cleaning your collection when we spoke yesterday. Any idea about that?”

  The woman gives a cat ate the canary and a canary pie too grin. “I see you’re connecting the dots.”

  “Yeah, about that.” I point from Vikas to Corinne to my mom to Pat to the woman from the Exploration Society. “I get the distinct feeling you’re all in on this.”

  “Maybe you are smart after all,” Pat puts in, one gray eyebrow shooting up. “What gave it away? Was it, say, when I mentioned ‘the best ones’? Or was it when I disappeared ever so conveniently to let you read love letters in my shop?”

  Presley can’t stop grinning. “Just the fact that you sold us a moon-pie sign whose price turned out to be the address for this place.”

  “I did?” Pat says scrubbing his chin. “Hmm. Interesting.”

  “And you hinted at the brush,” I add pointedly, but I’m not mad anymore. What I am is downright curious, a dozen cats’ worth. “And the ‘folklore’ bit. Not to mention the sign on your store. Follow the path that leads to curiosity. You were talking about the compass with that sign, weren’t you? That sign was for us?”

  “Was I?” Pat acts shocked. “Was it for you?”

  “And the compass hint was too.” Presley turns to Corinne. “Is your brother in on this? Is Joseph going to join us?”

  Corinne waves a hand. “He’s in Prague, seeing Cirque du Soleil. He and his wife love to travel and go to shows. You can only imagine where that came from. But he said to send his regards. He was the one who suggested I mention, if you called, that I was cleaning the compasses.” A sly grin sneaks across her face.

  Presley grins too. “You were all guiding us, weren’t you?” Presley’s eyes roam from Corinne to the woman from the society, Melody. “That’s why you answered our email so quickly, Melody. You made sure we got in right away. You even said emails like mine were the”—Presley stops to sketch air quotes—“‘kind you live for.’ Why would an email like that excite you so much unless you were waiting for us?”

  “Waiting for you? What a concept,” my mom says, that knowing tone in her voice. “How would they know you’d find it? How would they know you’d be looking?”

  I heave a sigh and hold out my hands. “Obviously, you guys were all in on it.” I waggle my fingers. “Give me the goods.”

  Vikas steps forward, a twinkle in his eyes. “Remember that time you saved my life?”

  I roll my eyes. “I thought we were over that.”

  Vikas taps his sternum. “And yet, I can’t seem to get over the fact that I’m still here. And when you told me about Presley a few months ago after your parachute incident, when you told me how you couldn’t get her out of your head, it occurred to me that I could return the favor.”

  My brow furrows. “How so?”

  Vikas’s voice is warm and thoughtful as he gestures to the woman by my side then back to me. “It seemed you needed saving. From yourself. From your own ambitious, driven, incredible, but sometimes hardheaded self.”

  “So you repaid the life debt. You know you don’t owe me a life debt.”

  His eyes twinkle. “I wanted to do something for you. Something you needed desperately. You’ve accomplished so much, lived so hard, so well. But once you told me about Presley, it was clear what was missing. You were longing for her, Hunter,” he says, setting a hand on my shoulder. “You regretted leaving her. It seemed obvious to me you wanted a second chance, and you’re so damn pigheaded that God forbid anyone in your life suggest you actually pick up the phone and apologize.”

  “Hey!”

  Presley laughs, nudging me. “You are a little stubborn.”

  I shrug, conceding, “Fine. Maybe a little.”

  “So I thought perhaps there was a better way to show you. A way that would appeal to a man who loves adventures. And that’s why I felt you would be a most perfect candidate to receive a certain story that some of us here have been keeping to ourselves for this very reason: to bring two people together who needed a little nudge. Or a big one.”

  My gaze swings from him to my mom to Corinne. “This whole thing was orchestrated?”

  Vikas scrunches his nose. “Yes and no. The project was real.”

  “Yes, I absolutely wanted the home cataloged,” Corinne stresses. “But once the project was assigned . . .”

  Vikas picks up the baton again. “Then your involvement was orchestrated. But not guaranteed. You had to impress Daniel on your merits, though that wasn’t hard.”

  My mom raises her hand. “That was my job. Once I heard about the estate from Vikas, and the possibility of the letters, I passed your name to Daniel, since I know him and he’s a friend. I knew he’d want you for the project with your credentials. But that wasn’t my only role. Daniel knew nothing of the letters, so I made sure to mention secret compartments in old furniture several times, and he became quite fixated on those details, passing them on to Presley. So perhaps you had secret compartments in your head from the start.”

  “Subliminal messaging,” Presley muses.

  “In a way.” Corinne takes up the story. “But from the way they were set up, we were sure you’d find the first letters. And once you did, I played dumb when you asked about them. But I knew everything. And they wanted you to find them.” She gestures to Vikas.

  “Wait,” Presley cuts in with a hint of worry. “Was I hired just for this reason? So you could play matchmaker?”

  Corinne laughs, shaking her head. “No, darling. That was legitimate. We wanted Highsmith from the start. And once Highsmith was on board, and I happened to mention to my dear friend Vikas what we were working on, that brings us full circle to Vikas’s plan for Hunter. He suggested we find a way to get Hunter involved. He thought it would be the perfect opportunity to introduce him, and you, to a love story you needed to experience.”

  Vikas holds his hands out wide. “Welcome to the Secret Society of the Valentine’s Night Love Letters.”

  43

  Presley

  This I have to sit for. We head into the ballroom and grab an empty table in the back as guests mingle after the awards ceremony.

  “I want to know everything about this secret society. But first, I need to know this—are the letters fake?” I clench my fists, desperately praying they’ll say no. I need that no so damn badly that I’m holding my breath. Edward and Greta are thoroughly real to me, and I can’t bear to learn their love was a mirage. “Have we been chasing a make-believe love story as part of an elaborate matchmaking ruse?”

  “They’re real. Incredibly real,” Corinne offers, fingering a silver chain around her neck, tugging it from her cleavage. A locket hangs on the chain, and she clicks it open.

  I freeze.

  I’m back in time.

  I’ve traveled into their story.

  There in black-and-white is the couple whose images were in the Exploration Society.

  Whose images are in books.

  But not this image.

  This is from before they reinvented themselves. Pre–Folklore Ride.

  In it, a dark-haired man stands tall and proud, dressed in all black, his hand poised by his head, his fist tight.

  A beautiful blonde in a silver-seq
uined leotard stands against a wheel. Arms spread. Legs wide. A knife lodged through a ribbon in her hair.

  The knife he just threw at her.

  I. Have. Chills.

  Hunter shakes his head in disbelief. Or maybe in belief.

  Because holy hell. “That’s them,” I whisper to him.

  “The Silver Blade and His Pink Ribbon Girl,” Hunter says.

  “My grandparents,” Corinne says reverently. “If they hadn’t written those letters, if he hadn’t found his way back to her, I wouldn’t be here.”

  My throat tightens, clogging with emotion, flooding with the prospect of tears. I bite them back. “They’re beautiful.”

  Corinne shows us the other side of the locket, and it’s another photo of Edward and Greta, smiling and leaning against each other next to a big top.

  “The place where they met,” I say.

  “Their friend Beanie took these photos.”

  “Beanie,” I say in awe. “Even she seems real to me.”

  “They’re all real,” Corinne says with a happy sigh. “Including the letters to my parents—their children.”

  “Did they find them? Did they go on the last adventure Edward and Greta crafted for them?” I ask, hoping she says yes. “The story is too beautiful to be hidden.”

  Corinne nods proudly. “They did. They found all the letters.”

  I sigh with relief, surprisingly grateful that we weren’t the first to discover them. This story is meant to be told, meant to be shared.

  I press on. “And then what happened? How old were they?”

  “Teenagers, and they loved it. My grandparents loved treasure hunts, and so did my parents, who had a gas finding the letters. Back then, they couldn’t share their story with the world. They didn’t know what Baron might do to them or the others. So the letters became a game and my parents formed a secret society. They didn’t know how long the society would last.”

  “Or who’d be involved,” Pat puts in. “But sometimes a man needs a kick in the pants.”

  I raise a brow in question. “Did you? Did you need one?”

  He chuckles. “I wasn’t always this easygoing. I was stubborn as a mule back in the day. My dad tried to get me to see the light about my high school sweetheart, but I had blinders on. So he had me find the letters.”

  “And your mom, Claudia?” I ask eagerly.

  Pat scoffs. “Mom? Of course. She was a total romantic. She was as crazy about him as he was about her. God bless ’em. Glad they set me on the right path, and those letters were all I needed to get my head out of my rear end. I married my high school sweetheart, Janice.”

  "Is she here tonight?” I ask. “You said you had a date with her.”

  “She’s out there with Jesse. They’re having a grand old time chatting. We didn’t want to overwhelm you two with too many people. But to your point, after I married Janice, I became one of the keepers of the Valentine’s Night love letters. And I’ve known a few pigheaded turkeys over the years who needed reminding of the power of love. So we picked them to experience the letters.”

  Melody raises a hand. “I was a recipient.”

  “You were?”

  “About ten years ago. My husband and I hit a rough patch, and Pat wanted to help out. He and his wife arranged for us to find the letters. To experience the power of that kind of love again.”

  “Did it work? Please say yes,” I add with a hopeful smile.

  “Very much so. It strengthened our bond when we needed it.”

  Hunter clears his throat. “So all of you protect the letters now? Da Vinci Code–style or something?”

  Vikas laughs. “Exactly. We’re exactly like The Da Vinci Code.”

  “But what about you? How did you come into this?” I ask Vik.

  He taps his temple. “The same way I come into anything. Knowledge, learning, listening.”

  “You’re being evasive again,” Hunter chides.

  He looks at the man I love. “I was aware of the story through Corinne. But no, I was not a recipient. I am glad that Corinne and Pat thought you’d be a worthy candidate when I made my case for you.”

  Chuckling, Hunter swats him on the arm. “You love ribbing me.”

  “It is one of my greatest passions,” Vik says. “But was I right? It seems I was, but I don’t want to assume.”

  Hunter turns to me. “So right that I’ve already made plans to follow her around as she embarks on a whole new phase in her career.”

  My insides go warm at the echo of his promise. We’re finding our way again.

  His mother squeaks. “You’ll be closer, and you’ll be safer. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Glad you’re happy, Mom,” he says, then brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted too.”

  Shivers rush through me as he delivers a chaste kiss to my lips.

  “So, what’s next with this secret society?” Hunter asks the crew.

  “Do we take an oath?” I chime in. “Sign a pledge? Learn a secret handshake?”

  Vik chuckles. “No, but it would be an honor if you two would become a part of it now. And if you’d be willing to protect this love story until you encounter somebody who needs its power to realize what’s right in front of them.”

  I squeeze Hunter’s hand, speaking for both of us, since I know his heart on this matches mine. “We’d be honored.”

  “I have a question,” Hunter says. “Why is it still secret?”

  “Would it have changed your life if it were public knowledge? Something easily googled?” Vik asks.

  “No,” Hunter and I say together.

  “That’s why,” says Vik. “Some stories are better shared privately.”

  “And that’s why we didn’t want the letters to be filmed,” Corinne says. “You made that a bit complicated for us, dodging your request to film it.”

  “I understand completely. We’ll follow your lead,” I say, and Corinne reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. She’s wearing a silver bracelet, and I know it’s the one Greta went back for.

  It’s a precious artifact, something that tells the story of this family. “Your bracelet is beautiful. A true treasure.”

  “It is. Thank you for saying that.”

  “I have another question,” Hunter says. “How do we deal with The Folklore being shut down?”

  Pat shakes his head, sighing that whippersnapper sigh. “Improvise, kid. You use your head. That’s what we did. We sent you to a new place—a proxy for The Folklore. And we made sure the last letters wound up in your stinking hands.”

  “You don’t like me, do you?” Hunter says.

  Pat waves a hand. “I like you a helluva lot. You remind me of someone I like even better. Me. And we both needed a kick in the pants.”

  “You got yours. I’m getting mine. Can’t deny it worked,” Hunter says, with his cocky charm.

  I lean in and kiss his stubbled jaw. “It worked incredibly well.” Then I turn to Vikas, the man who whisked Hunter off to Antarctica all those years ago. I never thought I’d think this, let alone feel it, but I’m glad Vik hired him way back when.

  “Thank you for stealing this man away from me ten years ago. I don’t think we were truly ready for each other then. But we are now. So thank you for taking him. And for sending him back.”

  Vik dips his head. “You are most welcome.”

  Funny, how life has a way of offering all sorts of second chances.

  The trick is to look for what’s hidden in plain sight.

  Epilogue

  Presley

  * * *

  Eight months later

  * * *

  The kettle gleams in the morning sun streaming through the windows of the old farmhouse.

  Hunter shoots it a scathing look. “It’s a teapot.”

  I give a c’mon glance right back at him. “It’s not a teapot. Just like the xylophone wasn’t merely a xylophone.” I grab for the copper kettle.

 
; He holds the object above his head playfully. “Are you sure you want this little teapot?”

  “You know it’s not just a teapot. Admit it, Hunter Armstrong. Tell the truth.”

  Hunter turns to the camera—his phone—and sets it on a holder on the kitchen counter. “Fine, fine. She was right. The xylophone wasn’t just a xylophone. It was used in The Folklore Theater’s many musical productions.”

  “And those shows had rave reviews.”

  “So does this teapot have rave reviews?” he asks, winking at the camera.

  Hunter and I do a little web show now. It’s a fun every-now-and-then chronicle of our adventures together and we call it, appropriately, “Hunter and Presley’s Everyday Adventures.” He’s persuaded me to take on some of the crazier things he does. Note: rock climbing is hard as hell, but makes your arms ridiculously toned. I’ve also taken up hiking, mountain biking, and white-water rafting.

  “Taken up” is a phrase I use loosely. I do those activities as a novice with him. But that works for us because he does this with me. Sometimes he accompanies me on my work, going to homes where I catalog estates and items.

  Today, I’m sorting through a home in Chicago, owned by a famous chocolatier. I waggle the kettle. “This is a chocolate pot and it was used by one of the best-known chocolatiers in America.”

  He turns to the camera. “Do you think she’ll make me some chocolate?”

  “It’s an antique. I’m not making you chocolate in it.”

  He turns off the camera. “Do you think there’s a love letter hidden in the bottom somewhere?”

  The idea makes me a little wistful. “No such luck.”

  The xylophone, though, was used for more than musicals. It was played in the opening number for The Most Amazing Big Top under the Sun.

  We learned that little detail after we dove into some additional research for the auction of the items from the home. An auction that, incidentally, was heralded in the art world for its “clever, unique, and captivating” finds.