PS It's Always Been You Page 5

  “I love the way furniture was built centuries ago with all sorts of hiding places.”

  “Indeed. It could be a treasure trove.” He leans back in his chair, a grin commanding his face. Daniel has only ever wanted this auction house to succeed again. I can tell that’s what he thinks he’s latched onto—the chance to put this company back on the map. “And I want you to lead the project.”

  I nearly bounce out of my chair. This is not a Chippendale dancer. This is the full package, the whole banana, and I want to sink my teeth into it right now. Digging through history is my great love. “I’d be honored.” I am honored and grateful and still wonder-struck by this tremendous opportunity.

  He slaps his desk enthusiastically. “Great. I knew you’d be game for it. I always appreciate your can-do spirit.”

  “That’s me. A can-do-er.” This is the polar opposite of Re: The Forgers News! This is the way I want all days to go.

  “Let me tell you more about the person I’ve enlisted to join you.”

  I beam. “I can’t wait to hear. I’m assuming you’re bringing on a bang-up junior specialist?” It’s only natural he’d include someone. Projects this big aren’t usually done solo. “Because I’m thinking Paige in the American Art department would be perfect. But Devon in antiques is good too. We have a deep bench. You can’t go wrong with either. Or both.”

  “That’s what I was thinking at first.”

  “Great.”

  “But then I had a better idea. Or, I should say, the idea had me. And I think you’ll get such a kick out of who I hired. But it’s not Devon or Paige.” He stage-whispers like the news is too delicious to deliver at a regular volume. “It’s someone from outside Highsmith.”

  Perhaps he’s contracting a colleague from the Exploration Society. Someone who worked with Hunter, maybe, and that’s why Hunter’s photo was on Daniel’s screen. “Is it someone from the society? They’re top-notch and would be great to work with.”

  “No . . .” Daniel rubs his hands like Santa Claus, jolly and brimming with good cheer. “Guess again.”

  “Maybe someone from the family?” The Valentinas were quite the storied clan. Perhaps one of Edward’s descendants, a brilliant type who knows their history inside and out.

  “Nope. Better. Even better. I can’t take the suspense anymore,” he says, even though he’s not the one in suspense. “I brought in Hunter Armstrong. The Hunter Armstrong. The TV star, adventurer, and survival expert. You’ve heard of him, I presume?”

  The room goes silent.

  My breath stops.

  I try to rewind.

  He can’t mean him. He can’t possibly have said that name.

  “Hunter . . . Armstrong?” I croak, as if I can get him to take it back.

  He shoots me a look like I’ve crawled out from under the bridge I’ve been living beneath for the last five years. “Yes, and he’s going to do a TV special on the Valentina home. Surely you’ve heard of him?”

  He doesn’t know we were involved. I don’t talk about him, or anyone I’ve dated, for that matter. Nor am I linkable by six or even one degree to the man who has dated models, actresses, and ballerinas.

  And dates them regularly.

  I’m simply a footnote in his past, the art historian he tangoed with more than a decade ago, making promises that fame and ambition wouldn’t let him keep.

  That he wouldn’t let himself keep.

  “Yes, I’m aware of the man,” I manage to say, my voice even and cool. But part of me, perhaps the self-preserving part, recovers quickly as soon as it hits me—Hunter would be terrible for this job.

  Cataloging a home requires precision, research, and stillness. The man is a tornado. How the hell is he going to be patient enough to work his way through a house properly? It’s not a freaking desert he has to trek across in three days or he’ll die. He’s motivated by the highest of stakes, not whether a vintage map might be worth something to a historical society.

  I inch a little closer, take a breath, then say, “Are you concerned at all that his show might be . . .” I shrug. “You know . . . exploitative?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “Some of his shows—aren’t they a bit low-class?”

  Daniel chuckles. “Well, he doesn’t drink urine from rattlesnake skin or eat deer droppings.”

  My stomach churns. “I hope no one does.”

  “Some of those other guys do.”

  “That’s just gross. But my point is, aren’t some of Hunter’s episodes staged? Didn’t he come under fire for staying in a motel one night rather than actually roughing it under the stars in the rain forest?”

  Daniel arches a brow. “Motels in the rain forest? That sounds more spurious than staging show elements.”

  My cheeks burn like I’m the one who messed up. “Maybe it was an island I was thinking of,” I say, a little thrown off. “The point being, I’ve read reports that not every detail is one hundred percent transparent, and we have to be one hundred percent transparent in our line of work, don’t we?”

  “And we will. That’s why I have you handling our side of things. You’re tops at research and details. He’s a pro at adventure, entertainment, and bringing in fans.”

  My heart droops at the reminder of “fans” and what fans equal—money. Millions of people watch his program, which means he brings a tailor-made audience to our auction house. That’s what Daniel needs, and honestly, that’s what I need too. I want this company to return to its glory days. It’s my only hope right now, given the sorry state of my publishing career.

  Which feels a lot more like an un-career these days.

  Daniel leans back in his chair, pleased. “Did you see the episode where he free-climbs a waterfall in Argentina? It’s brilliant. Such a daring adventurer.”

  “He sure is,” I say, plastering on a smile.

  “And he saved that man’s life years ago.” He shakes his head, perhaps in amazement. “Did you hear about the blizzard that almost killed Vikas Winters?"

  “I did.”

  Who hasn’t?

  “So incredibly heroic how Hunter carried him on his back to safety. I bet Vik leaves him his fortune in his will. Not that he needs it,” Daniel says, cracking himself up.

  “Nope. Doesn’t seem like he does,” I say.

  Daniel straightens and raps his knuckles on the desk. “One more thing. I’ve arranged for the three of us to have a drink after work today to go over logistics.”

  Thanks, universe. A little notice before I see the ex would have been nice.

  5

  Presley

  There are certain rules a woman must follow.

  Don’t bad-mouth other women.

  Don’t apologize if you haven’t done anything wrong.

  And definitely never show up to see the ex unless you can walk in like you own the place.

  That’s the crux of the girl code, a guideline that unites all women across all walks of life. No matter how far over him you are, thou shalt not look anything less than jaw-droppingly fabulous.

  Unfortunately, my boss has only given me a one-hour window to vault over that pommel horse of a rule, and my apartment is more than thirty minutes away in rush hour. But this is New York, and a gal’s got friends. Where there’s a will, there damn well is a way.

  I call in reinforcements, giving Truly her marching orders—bring me clothing options stat—then I hustle over to my nearby gym when the workday ends. After a power shower, I slide into my bra and skinny jeans again. The foundation elements remain the same. But otherwise, I transform, blow-drying my hair into lush waves. It’s shorter than when I knew him, because who has time for tramp stamp–length hair anymore?

  As I turn off the hair dryer, my friend arrives in the ladies’ locker room on time, like a good foot soldier. Canvas bags drape over her shoulders. “Fashion infantry is here and ready to serve.”

  I salute her. “You will be receiving a commendation for your s
peed and dedication to the cause, especially given your condition.”

  “Let’s make sure you like what I brought first.” She sets the bags down on the bench then rubs her expanding belly.

  I riffle through them, searching for the right top. “This is cute,” I say, grabbing a soft light-blue blouse. “He always did like it when I wore blue.”

  She whistles. “I like the way you think. Hit him in the longing-for-you spot.”

  “Not sure he has one.” I hunt more, snagging a black top that looks like it’ll slope down one shoulder. “This could be the perfect little peek at skin.”

  “Yes, skin he’ll never see again. Make him salivate and suffer.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t think the man who dates supermodels and has money spilling out his ears is suffering whatsoever.”

  “But when he sees you, he’ll die of regret. And it’ll be perfect. Mwah ha ha ha.” She tosses back her head and unleashes a full-throated witch’s cackle that makes me love her even more.

  “I’m keeping you around for moral support for . . . oh, say, forever, ’kay?”

  “Yeah. You’re stuck with me, Pres,” she says.

  As I unearth a pretty pink scoop neck shirt that’s delightfully feminine, Truly tilts her head to the side, curiosity etched in her gaze. “Wait. How do you know he dates supermodels? I thought you never googled him?”

  I narrow my eyes as I tug on the pink top, beginning a fashion show. “I’m human, okay? I cave now and then. I know a little bit about him.”

  She wipes a hand across her brow. “Whew. I thought you were Superwoman.”

  “Most of the time I possess a will of steel, but every now and then, it’s made of croissants. And when it’s soft and squishy, I google him.” I model the blue shirt next.

  “I like, but don’t love. So what else do you google about him?”

  I sigh. “It was many months ago the last time I looked him up. I don’t even remember why. I probably had two glasses of wine and was lonely after the pianist turned out to like peen.” Such a sad discovery, especially since I’d already been dating Mr. Speed Fingers for a few months.

  Truly nods sympathetically. “He had so much promise, all tall, dark, and broody.”

  “Tall, dark, broody, and preferring dick.”

  “He really should have put that on a T-shirt,” she says as I slip on the black top.

  She whistles, pointing at me as she nods appreciatively. “That’s your winner. Hunter will see you and be utterly flabbergasted.”

  “What more could I ask for? Oh, gee, just for him to be yanked off the project and tossed to the Yucatán. But if I can’t have that, I’ll go for the Great Flabbergasting of 2020.”

  “I want to hear that he was so bowled over by your beauty that his perfect, sculpted jaw fell off his face and hit the ground.”

  I wince, feeling a phantom pain and cupping my chin. “Ouch.”

  “Ouch indeed.”

  I adjust the top, then freshen up my makeup and add some mascara to make my eyes pop.

  “A little more mascara, please. Men have no clue of its power, but it works wonders.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Plus, bonus! Hunter was a sucker for my eyes,” I explain to Truly in the mirror.

  “Your baby blues are pretty fabulous.”

  I laugh. “He said I could get him to do anything if I just looked at him a certain way.” My eyes darken as I give the mirror my best smolder. “Like that.” In an instant, my chest aches with a realization. “I suppose I should have shown up at the airport and tried to use that trick on him before he left.”

  She squeezes my shoulder, her voice soft. “No, you should never trick someone into staying. Plus, your life worked out great without him.”

  I stare at her in the mirror. “Did it? Did it really? I’m the poster child for ‘down on her luck.’ Wikipedia the term and it’ll serve up a photo of me.”

  “Stop. This is a no-negativity zone. You have a solid job, a decent apartment, and a huge opportunity in front of you. Try to see the glass half full.”

  “Yes, but the other half of the glass tastes like flat, warm soda. I feel like the universe is tossing banana peels at me. I mean, seriously? Hunter?” I sigh forlornly. “Of all the people in my past. I’d rather be paired with . . .” I pause, casting about for names of memorable exes. “With Jonathan.”

  “Oh yes. Although how he’d find the time in between his visits to Quick and Speedy Hookers for Fast Blow Jobs, I don’t really know,” she deadpans, and I wince at the mention of my ex-fiancé.

  Jonathan really put the S in scumbag. Good thing I learned about his predilections for paying for extras when I needed to research an old bureau one night while at his apartment. Snagging his laptop, I started the search for “bureau” when Google helpfully suggested “bury my dick in . . .”

  “Fine. I might have a bit of a bad track record when it comes to men. Maybe my past is strewn with relationship wreckage.”

  “Yeah, the kind you hide in a storage unit that you hope burns down.”

  “I never said I knew how to pick ’em. It does seem like I dodged a bullet with my un-engagement.”

  “Um, yeah. And want to know how to dodge the current ex bullet?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  She spins me around and gives me her tough-girl stare. “Don’t let him throw you off. Whatever it takes. Exes don’t deserve to have power over us. And do you know what power is?”

  “Sex appeal?” I ask, a little confused.

  She shakes her head. “Information.”

  “Information is power with men?” I raise a hand, like I’m in class. “I’m still a little lost.”

  “Then let me help you find your power.” Her smile is devilishly delightful. “If he starts to dig into what you’re up to, if you have a boyfriend, if you’re involved, keep that close to the vest. He doesn’t need to know that. Not tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s yours. That’s your story. He needs to earn it. And you, my friend, need to come out of this first meeting feeling like a million bucks. You do that by keeping the power.”

  I raise my eyebrows, impressed. “Damn, woman. How did you learn that?”

  She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Being a bartender, you learn a thing or two about human nature. I observe. And when women hold back info, they keep the upper hand. Right now, I can tell you need the upper hand. That’s how you keep it with Hunter. Got it?”

  “Got it. You’re like the infantry and the general and my chief strategist.”

  “You know it. Now, just remember . . .” She mimes zipping her lips.

  Thirty minutes later at Bryant Park, when I walk up to the man I once was wild for—the man who, surprise, is even sexier than he was before—his eyes say it all.

  They pop.

  Then, the most excellent thing happens. It’s barely perceptible, but I still see it when he mouths, Wow.

  Yes, eat your heart out, Hunter Armstrong. You don’t get to ever have me again.

  6

  Hunter

  There are survival guides on pretty much everything. How to outlast a zombie apocalypse. How to make it out of a plane crash alive. How to handle a snake bite.

  But where the hell is the survival guide on seeing your ex for the first time in more than a decade? For all my instincts on avoiding a bear attack in the tundra, I’m at an unexpected loss when Presley Turner comes into my line of sight.

  That’s my own damn fault. I thought this would be easier. I believed I’d strut into Bryant Park, shoot her my trademark TV grin, and add in a friendly How the hell have you been, Pres?

  Great, Hunter. How are you?

  Oh, I can’t complain.

  I can’t either.

  We’d grab a brew, have a laugh, and then devise a plan for the Valentina estate. I’d figure out why the hell she’s been popping into the front of my mind lately.

  Instead, I just mouth Wow the second I see her.
<
br />   Because . . . wow.

  That hair, those eyes, those lips.

  Her legs.

  She’s stunning, and even though she’s walking in with Daniel Highsmith, I barely notice the man. Somehow, she’s prettier than before, sexier, and, dare I say . . . more confident? She strides up to me, extends a hand, and says in a warm but polite tone, “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Hunter. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  So that’s how we’re going to play it.

  The I don’t know you game.

  I blink but recover quickly.

  I don’t know why I didn’t see that one coming, but of course it’s obvious. She wouldn’t want to let on that we’ve seen each other naked.

  And that’s not helpful at all, since I definitely shouldn’t be picturing stripping her to nothing as I shake her hand with her boss right next to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Presley.” I turn to Daniel, focusing on him, who I’m definitely not thinking of sans clothes. “And it’s great to meet you in person, Daniel,” I say to the man I spoke with on the phone then passed along to my agent, who sealed the deal.

  The older man pumps my hand. “This is great. So looking forward to this. And you two are the perfect match for this project.”

  I turn to the woman I’ve kissed senseless. Damn, that’s not useful either. What the hell is wrong with my brain, bringing up persistent reminders of my history with her?

  I clear my throat like I can sweep away the out-of-nowhere dirty thoughts. “I’ve heard great things about you, Presley.”

  She gives me a sweet smile. “Oh, you’re kind to say that. But you’re the one who does great things. You’ve accomplished so much. When Daniel told me he’d hired you, I thought, ‘This is going to make for the best project ever.’”

  She smiles at her boss, who chuckles, clearly delighted with his own ability to pick people. “Like I said, the two of you are a fantastic pair. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go grab a club soda. Can I interest either of you in a beverage?”