PS It's Always Been You Read online

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Presley.” He seems firm, resolved.

  “What are you saying?”

  He lifts a hand, like he’s going to cup my cheek. But he simply takes a deep breath, sets his hands in his lap, and quietly says, “Will you forgive me?”

  The earnestness in his eyes breaks apart the remnants of my anger, turning them to dust. “We’re here now. Let’s enjoy it. Let’s put the past behind us.”

  “The present. Let’s focus on it,” he repeats. “And maybe we can be friends in the present.”

  “Maybe we can.” I inject more hope into my voice than I feel. We won’t become friends, but acting like friends is better than being enemies, and we have to work together after all.

  I pour my tea and take a sip, and we spend the rest of the drive planning.

  Not once does he flirt, or say I’m pretty, or try to touch my hair.

  I hate that I miss all those things.

  Once we arrive at the gorgeous home, I stop thinking about Hunter, because the house commands all my attention.

  White and stately, with a tall door and classic lines, it speaks of wealth. But the sheer number of windows and the wraparound porch tell me this is a house that must have felt like home to those who lived here.

  A caretaker lets us in, with Hunter’s camera crew right behind us.

  The home is everything I could want it to be, and I’m sure this project will be the key to turning my career around.

  “Let’s start.”

  That’s when Hunter starts turning up the charm once again, making me wonder if the charm was ever real to begin with.

  11

  Hunter

  That day, we unearth a whole lot of nothing downstairs, and the crew shoots our finds.

  Okay, I might be exaggerating.

  It’s not nothing per se.

  It’s just not my kind of thing. And I don’t think it’ll make for good TV, which is a wee bit of a problem.

  But Presley seems delighted, and I don’t want to rain on her parade, so I do my best to cheerlead.

  She catalogs items, including an art nouveau–style bureau, a gilded mirror that looks like it belongs in Jay Gatsby’s home, and a miniature monkey drummer.

  “Ooh, that might lure toy collectors,” she says, like she has indeed found gold.

  “People collect ancient toys?” I ask, picking up the metal monkey as the crew takes a lunch break. Inspecting it, I find the monkey’s tiny shoe is a perfect circle and inlaid with some sort of raised ribbon etching. I tap it with my fingernail to see what it’s made of. Metal.

  “Definitely. There is a fascinating market for antique toys, and I’ve seen crazy bids.”

  “Learn something new every day. I had no idea there was demand for metal monkeys.”

  “There’s a market for everything,” she says with a smile.

  “Now that—that is indeed true. What’s it worth?” I gently hand her the toy. She sets it back on the desk where she found it.

  “It depends if we find more like it. It’s possible that Greta and Edward were avid toy collectors. That would be cool if we learned that. I’m going to add some notes on the monkey.”

  She returns to her iPad, tapping in the details. I spot her reading app in the corner of the screen.

  “What have you been reading these days?”

  “A fascinating book on the history of perfume. The author does an incredible job describing scents, which is no small feat.”

  She sounds so animated, so utterly delighted, as she often is when talking about books.

  “Want me to read you a passage?” I offer, a little flirty.

  She glances over and flashes a quick smile, then shakes her head. “I fear that would be a little too dangerous.”

  “Ah, so then I really should try to hijack your perfume book and whisper in your ear about tantalizing scents that seduce you?”

  She shoots me a dirty look. “You will do nothing of the sort.”

  “And why is that? Too tempting?”

  “Are you trying to distract me from the job?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Yes. Now let me focus.”

  “Fine,” I say with an over-the-top huff. “Just answer one question. Do you have The Highwayman on there still? Under Dirty Favorites?” I can’t resist, because flirting with her is way more fun than playing with toy monkeys.

  Though admittedly the monkey was kind of cool. Her reaction to it was even better though.

  “No, it’s listed under”—she lets her lips curve up into an I’ve got a secret grin—“DNF.”

  I scoff. “Oh, there was nothing DNF about that. That story had multiple finishes.”

  “Did it? I can’t seem to recall a thing about it.” She taps her finger to her tongue and touches the air, making a sizzling sound, and holy shit, I like this new side of Presley. I like the naughty flirt in her.

  “Well played,” I say as she crosses the room to the bureau, presumably to record some details on it.

  And, since I know she does need to focus on work, I return there too, asking, “If the monkey is worth a grand, how much is the bureau?”

  “It looks to be authentic. Same as the mirror from earlier. They should do decently at auction.”

  She places emphasis on “decently,” but it comes with a smile, so I guess that means it’ll do well enough.

  “That’s good, then,” I say, because I do want her to benefit from this project, but decently is bad for TV.

  Because . . . bureaus? Mirrors? Toy monkeys? It’s a one-way ticket to Snoozeville.

  As much as I like flirting with her, I have a job too. I gesture to the stairs. “Why don’t I conduct some recon and see what’s upstairs? You can keep rooting around down here.”

  “I need to enter some details on that couch in the living room. Want to wait for me, and I can go with you?”

  “Think of me like an advance scout.” I give her a smile that says Hey, it’s all good. “I’ll make sure there are no ghosts, goblins, or monsters upstairs.”

  “Thank God. I was hoping you’d do goblin patrol.”

  “And you thought I was just a pretty face.”

  “Behave, pretty boy. Don’t break anything.” She returns her focus to her tablet.

  “I’ll be a good pretty boy. I promise.”

  But behaving is hard when I find a few old instruments on a bench at the top of the staircase. A trombone, a tambourine, and a xylophone. Gathering them up, I take them to Presley, setting them on the landing where she inspects them closely, gasping at the last one.

  “What did you find? Gold? Silver? Rubies?”

  “No, this xylophone is from the late 1800s. There’s an inscription on it with the date,” she says in that same tone as before, the one that’s full of wonder and excitement.

  “What do you think it’s worth?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but five figures potentially. I’ll have to do a little research,” she says, practically squealing. Research is her jam.

  The front door swings open, and Jared returns from lunch, his camera bag on his shoulder. “Find anything good, Hunt? Because this morning’s take was boring AF,” Jared remarks, scratching his bearded jaw.

  His derisive comment jolts me. It’s the kick in the pants that reminds me to dial up the entertainment factor. And I have an idea.

  “As a matter of fact, get ready. Because I have unearthed a fascinating find.”

  “Excellent,” he says, removing the camera from his bag and turning it on.

  “What did you find that you didn’t tell me about?” Presley whispers out of the side of her mouth.

  “You’ll see.”

  Jared mics me up, and the sound guy joins us when Jared gives him the good-to-go sign.

  I begin.

  “And here’s the famed vintage xylophone,” I intone in an overdramatic whisper to the camera. “I’ve heard tales of this xylophone. Stories about what it might hold clues to.” I turn to Pres
ley. “Might there be buried treasure in the xylophone itself? Let’s find out.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’re not actually going to rip the keys off it, are you?”

  “As if I’d hurt a vintage xylophone from 1898. But that was the year that many expeditions set off for South America. Perhaps this inscription is a clue pointing us to a treasure map. Let’s take a closer look,” I say, gesturing for Jared to zoom in.

  I tap the back of the xylophone, knocking on it in case . . . “Maybe, just maybe, there is a secret compartment in the back of this special instrument.”

  But the back is solid and sturdy.

  When Jared returns the focus to my face, I focus on the positive. “We’ll soldier on. See if we can unearth any secrets inside here or elsewhere. After all, our famed adventurer was quite a patron of the arts. The man seems to have had a passion for music. And this xylophone itself might be worth a fortune. But will it lead us to buried treasure? Stay tuned.”

  Jared rolls his eyes as he lowers the camera. “Let’s hope you find something good tomorrow, man. Because that xylophone bit didn’t fool me.”

  Well, shit.

  When Jared and the crew take off at the end of the day, I find Presley sifting through a desk in the far corner of the living room.

  “Maybe there’s a secret compartment in the desk,” I suggest as I join her, because if my crew is ragging on me, then I’m going to need to turn over everything twice.

  “I’ve already checked. No such luck.”

  “Do those really exist?”

  “Secret compartments? Yes, they were quite popular in American furniture. A number of highboys, secretaries, and desks often had false bottoms, extra drawers, or hidden compartments. Not this one though.”

  “Damn. A treasure cache in a desk would have been fun.”

  “And unlikely,” she adds, continuing her search through the papers.

  I survey the desk, which is pushed against a wall next to the window. Above it is a mirror with a vintage elephant design etched in metal along the top.

  “That elephant matches the monkey,” I remark, studying it. “It’s the same style.”

  “You’re right. It does,” she says, briefly glancing at the elephant before she returns to her work. “That might make the collection more valuable. But what would be truly valuable are maps.” Determined, she riffles through more papers. “I bet Edward had maps of his expeditions besides the ones at the Exploration Society. It would be an incredible find if we uncovered additional maps, or maps of the Lost City of the Sun,” she says, head down, on the hunt.

  “Now that would be a treasure of sorts,” I say, taking a moment to look at her, glad I said my piece in the car this morning. Hell, I tied off that knot of regret with one firm tug. Look how well it worked. We’ve gotten along great today. Like buds.

  So why, when I gaze at her, do I still feel a warm pull in my chest? Why do I want to spend the day asking her questions about more than antiques, talking to her, understanding what motivates her?

  That’s what I was trying to stop. I was trying to eject her from my brain.

  Focus on the job, not the woman.

  She turns her gaze to me, her expression soft. “Listen, I know you’re frustrated that we haven’t found anything exciting for TV yet. I know you want this buried treasure, but this whole house is full of potential treasure. Don’t you see?”

  “Maybe, but I still need to make it exciting for TV.”

  “It’s history. It’s not adventure,” she says matter-of-factly. “You can’t just invent stuff. We’re not going to find buried treasure in a xylophone.”

  “No kidding. But I do need to find ways to make this project more fascinating. Like a map.” I sigh longingly. “I would kill to find a map.”

  She shoots me a sympathetic smile. “I know. But we’ve only just begun. Besides, the bureau and the mirror look to be true antiques, and I’ve been working hard to put together a great collection for Highsmith. I promise I will do everything I can to research every fact and detail that might be interesting for viewers. I need to know this estate inside and out. This is important to me and could draw a lot of business to the auction house.”

  This is the first time she’s remotely opened up about work, and I want to know more. “Why is it so important to you?”

  She looks away. “It just is. I need this to go well.”

  And I’ve been stonewalled. I try another angle.

  “I want it to go well too.” She’s not the only one with something at stake. I have a show, a publisher, and a team of employees, not to mention Trevor. They have work because I have work. “This matters to me just like it does to you.”

  She looks at me again, appearing curious. “Why does this matter to you so much?” She stands, focused and incisive. “Why do you care about this house? Your brand is jumping across bridges and wrestling anacondas, so why are you here in a home? Just for Edward Valentina? It doesn’t make sense.” Her eyes pin me, and when I don’t answer right away, she fires off one more question. “Why did you take this job?”

  The question of the hour.

  The question of the week.

  I could give her the easy answer—the man, the history, the legend.

  Or I could say I’m here for my mother, at her insistence, and because of the fact that I do sometimes want to be closer to my family, to look out for my mom.

  But there’s more to it than those reasons.

  There’s the regret.

  After talking to Josh this morning, I was sure I’d figured out why I was driven to reconnect with her—to apologize. So I did it. I owned up.

  But now, after another day with her, I’m not so sure if that was my big regret. Because saying sorry hasn’t freed me from this obsession.

  I’m still thinking of her, and it’s not simply because we’re working together.

  I want to get to know her again.

  And right now, I want to get to know her kiss again.

  I’m a man of action, so I cross the room, closing the distance. “Saying I’m sorry wasn’t enough.”

  “What?” She sounds thoroughly confused.

  I look into her eyes. “There’s more.”

  “What do you want to say?” she asks softly.

  “This is why I said yes to the job.”

  I cup her cheek and bring my mouth to hers.

  12

  Presley

  It happens so quickly that I’m not sure who does the next thing.

  All I know is we lunge.

  He hauls me into his arms as I loop my hands around his neck.

  We are back in time.

  Kissing like mad.

  Like no time has passed and like all the time has passed. Like time will pass us by if we don’t grab this moment.

  As he seals his mouth to mine, my skin sizzles. I heat up from the sound he makes. It’s a cross between a groan and a growl, full of gratitude and longing. It’s hungry and needy, and I can taste his want as he brushes his lips over mine.

  “You,” he whispers roughly.

  Me, I think. Me.

  He’s kissing me and I’m kissing him, and I still don’t know exactly why he said yes to the job, but this—this is what great kisses are made of.

  His kisses make me weak in the knees. They make my heart race. I want to melt in his arms, liquified by the utter intensity of this contact.

  He kisses me like I imagine he’d climb a mountain—with passion and complete devotion to the task. His lips slide over mine and he explores my mouth, devouring me like I’m a treasure.

  Forget lost cities in the Amazon. This is the kind of kiss people cross oceans and deserts to discover. This is the kiss all lovers yearn for.

  His hands tangle in my hair, cupping the back of my head, and for one dirty moment, I imagine him picking me up, carrying me upstairs, and having his way with me.

  Take me, I’d say.

  I shouldn’t want him, shouldn’t let him, shouldn’t give in, but I’
m not in charge. My body is, and my body wants him—here, there, and anywhere.

  But as he moves me back toward the wall by the desk, the floor creaks.

  Then it groans.

  Hunter stumbles to the right, losing his footing on . . . a wobbly floorboard?

  I break the kiss. He untangles his arms from me. We step away.

  “What was that?” I ask, still breathless.

  “My foot.” He frowns at the floor, where he’s pressing the toe of his boot against a floorboard. “It’s loose or something.”

  He presses again, tapping. The wood creaks, but it’s a mechanical sound.

  “That doesn’t sound like a loose board,” I say.

  Our eyes meet, his glinting. “No. It sounds purposeful.”

  Another tap, another press, and the board rises.

  He’s quiet at first, his lips parting, his eyes full of surprise.

  “The floorboard is the secret compartment.” His voice is still gravelly with lust. Getting on his hands and knees, he peers into the opening. The floorboard stands upright, like an open trapdoor.

  When he turns the slightest bit to face me, his smile is wild. Like a treasure hunter, he reaches into the space below the floor. “Maybe this is what we’ve been searching for.”

  13

  Hunter

  Pretty much everyone knows that the Amazon is Earth’s largest rain forest.

  With more than 2.7 million square miles, it is roughly the size of the continental United States, home to an astonishing array of wildlife, and renowned for its biodiversity.

  But far fewer know this: The Amazon wasn’t always so wild. It wasn’t always untouched.