PS It's Always Been You

by Lauren Blakely

  That’s all that matters—not fruitlessly pondering the wants of a man who was barely ever mine.

  Because I want nothing from him.

  Even when I finally open that text.

  For a moment, I’m taken aback.

  I was expecting a simple You’re welcome.

  Instead, it’s an offer. A work offer, but an offer nonetheless.

  The proposition is so different from what I’m used to. I don’t want to be intrigued, not by this or anything connected to Hunter. But I have to admit . . . I am.

  9

  Hunter

  A few days later, Josh shoots me an amused glare as he dribbles a basketball. “So the project starts today and you think working with your ex will be as easy as . . . hmm . . . what’s easy for you?” My cousin spins the ball on his finger for a few seconds. “Ah, I’ve got it. Climbing Kilimanjaro?”

  Laughing, I answer him. “I can do that one blindfolded. That’s the easiest summit. It’s child’s play.”

  He shoots, and the ball drops through the basket with a soft whoosh.

  “Nice. You’ll be repping yourself soon,” I say, since he’s a premier sports agent, handling world-class athletes. I had a business dinner in the city last night and stayed in a hotel in Midtown so it was easy to meet him here in the park before the workday begins.

  Nabbing the ball, I dribble then toss it into the net. “And to answer your question, yes, I think working with her will be Kilimanjaro-level fine,” I say, since I have to believe that.

  He laughs incredulously. “It’s never easy working with someone you used to sleep with.”

  “And why’s that?”

  He grabs the ball on the rebound. “Because of that—because you used to sleep with her.” He makes a killer jump shot, sending the ball soaring through the net.

  “We were only together for—”

  “Half a year. I remember.”

  “Keeping a record of all my past women?”

  “Yeah, it’s about a football field long.”

  “That was a good football game,” I joke, then make my way down the court with the ball and swivel to answer him, grateful that I can play easily. For a few weeks there after the chute malfunction, my knee complained through every pickup game. Now it’s pain-free. “Look. It’ll be fine. So what if we were once together? She presumably moved on; so did I. We’re simply reuniting for a job.”

  That’s mostly true.

  It’s the not quite true part that’s bugging me.

  It’s been nagging at me for three months, starting with a routine jump that didn’t go my way.

  Ninety-two days ago, my parachute didn’t deploy until I was a few hundred feet from the ground. The whole time as I was careening like a bullet train to earth, I should have been thinking about seeing my father again, since I was surely heading to the same end. I should have been prepping to meet my Maker or sending last words, so to speak, to my mom, my family, my friends.

  Instead, my only thought was of her. An out-of-nowhere image of Presley slammed into the windshield of my mind as I raced toward the end of my life.

  When the chute miraculously opened, impact was a son of a bitch, full of searing pain. My knee screamed at the sheer concrete force of the near-death collision with the ground.

  My brain wasn’t quiet either, saying Presley, Presley, Presley over and over again.

  But what am I supposed to do with these thoughts of her?

  “So you’re telling me she’s not the reason at all that you said yes? Because it doesn’t seem like a typical job for you,” Josh points out as I position myself for a shot.

  “Why not?” I shoot. I score.

  “Because you’re Mr. On the Go. You don’t work locally. You’re barely even in Los Angeles, so I hardly see you here or there. When was the last time you were in New York? Two, three years ago?”

  I scratch my jaw as he retrieves the ball. “Maybe. Wait. I was here for the Emmys.”

  Josh shoots me a steely gaze. “The Emmys are in LA. You can’t fool me. But nice work, dropping in that you attended the awards ceremony.”

  I wiggle my brows. “I was nominated too. Have I mentioned that?”

  He flips me the bird, then he shoots. “Have I mentioned I swept the championships last year, repping clients who won the Super Bowl, the World Series, the Stanley Cup, and the NBA Championship?”

  I snap my fingers. “Wait. I remember the last time I was here. It was for a book event when my latest number-one best seller hit the shelves.”

  “Glad to see you haven’t changed a bit. You’re still the same cocky bastard you always were.”

  “Naturally.” I flash a grin. “And so are you. But to answer your question, I have been back plenty. You know my mom gets worked up if she doesn’t see me.”

  “So what’s the story? Did she lure you back here?”

  I shrug. “Kind of. She worries about me. I get it.”

  “I bet she worries more since the parachute incident.” He gives me a pointed look. Josh knows what went wrong with the chute, knows what it did to my knee, knows the joint is all better, but he doesn’t know how it rattled me.

  “She does worry. Her solution is—get this—to set me up with a nice local woman so I’ll settle down.” I scoff for good measure.

  “She’s such a matchmaker. If only she knew about Presley.”

  I bring my finger to my lips. “Shh. She was working on the other side of the country when I dated Presley, so I dodged that matchmaking bullet.”

  “Though that raises the question—is Presley one of the reasons you took the job?” he asks, persistent bastard that he is. “Are you hoping to get back together with her?”

  I shake my head. “That’s not it.” Sure, I’m still attracted to her. Yes, I’m damn curious about her. But I didn’t know that till the other night, so it can’t be why I said yes.

  I said yes before I saw her because I want to understand why she has invaded my thoughts since that messy jump. I want to know what I’m supposed to do with her reentry into my head.

  “Then what is it? Because working with a woman you slept with is not easy, man. Trust me, I should know. The baggage can trip you up.”

  Tripped up is precisely how I feel. It’s how I’ve felt the last few months. Unsteady, uncertain . . . And uncertainty is deadly in my line of work. Put that way, maybe I should let Josh in on the situation and hope he can help me make sense of it.

  I tried to sort through it with Vikas when we talked on the phone a month or so ago. I mentioned the jump and the way I keep seeing Presley now, but his response was cryptic. There are always women who flicker in and out of our lives.

  “Listen, as I was falling that time, when I was sure the chute wouldn’t deploy, I saw her face.”

  Josh stops dribbling, locking eyes with me. “Yeah? Like, as you were hurtling toward death, you mean?”

  “Exactly.” The disquiet I’ve kept locked down since that day now strips away any teasing humor. “She was all I was thinking of for those last seconds. Not my dad. Not Vikas. Not my team. Not my mom. Not even Satchel, and I loved that dog fiercely.”

  He nods a few times. “That’s heavy, man. Especially since Satchel was a badass mutt, and I loved that scrappy guy too.”

  “But it doesn’t stop there. She’s in my head as I work. I see her now at the most random times. When I’m crossing rapids. Or navigating an uncharted cave. I haven’t said a word to anyone. I haven’t told Trevor because I don’t want him to think I’m off my game. But I feel like something in my head is one degree out of sync.” I meet his gaze, feeling unmoored. “What the hell? Why now?”

  He smacks my arm. “For a smart guy, you can be pretty dumb.”

  I blink. “What did I miss?”

  “You had a near-death experience. It’s called regret, man. All your fucking regrets flashed before your eyes. She’s one of your regrets.”

  “Yeah, I get that,” I say quickly, because I truly do. “But am I supposed t
o do something about this regret? I don’t want to get back together with her. So what the hell is the issue?”

  He chuckles lightly. “Well, if you’re not trying to bang her, it seems pretty obvious.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  He tosses the ball at my stomach. “Maybe you’re supposed to say you’re sorry.”

  Catching the ball, I consider that. But not for long because I know he’s right. The letter I carry with me from my dad. His advice about regrets. The unease I feel about how I left Presley. It adds up.

  It makes perfect sense.

  I’m not here to woo her. I’m not here to flirt. I’m here to apologize. I need to man up and say I’m sorry for the way I coldly, cruelly left.

  That’s it. I’ll say my piece, then I can be free again. Free to focus, free to work, free to live the life I want.

  “You’re brilliant.”

  “I know. So say you’re sorry and move on.”

  I have the opportunity to put the plan into action later this morning.

  The other night, I told her I’d send a limo to pick her up and take her to the job site.

  What I didn’t tell her was that I’d be in it.

  10

  Presley

  He’s waiting on my street, leaning against the shiny black door of a limo.

  His aviator shades and a crooked grin grace his face, and he has the faintest trace of stubble. Does the man wake up with a five-o’clock shadow?

  Probably.

  My jaw tightens because I wasn’t expecting him. All he said in his text was that he’d send a car to take me to the estate outside the city.

  But then a smile seems to tickle at my lips.

  What’s that all about? I don’t want to see him, so I shouldn’t be smiling.

  Or . . . do I want to see him?

  All that talk the other night of unfinished business has thrown me for a loop. And today the loop-de-loop is in my belly. It’s a freaking roller coaster in there, swooping up, screaming down.

  He whips off those shades.

  Those eyes.

  Those deep, knowing eyes.

  Keep it cool.

  Keep him at a distance.

  I march up to him. “Good morning. I didn’t realize the offer of a car came with a person attached to it.”

  “I guess we’re a package deal.”

  “Does that mean you have a little black cap and a suit you wear when you moonlight as a chauffeur?”

  He laughs, the lines around his face crinkling as he does. “I’m good at many things, but Lenny is a better driver.”

  As if on cue, the driver pops out of his side of the car, takes off his cap, and says, “Good morning, Miss Turner. We have a fine selection of all your favorite beverages and snacks for our drive this morning.”

  He starts to make his way around the car, but Hunter holds up a big hand. “I’ll get her door. Thanks, Lenny. You’re the best.”

  “I hope you two enjoy the ride.”

  Hunter turns, opens the door with a flourish, and gestures grandly for me to slide in.

  I do, and I’m not going to lie—this is more than nice.

  I don’t have many occasions to ride in luxury. None, actually, and this is heavenly. The seats are soft, buttery leather, the air is perfectly modulated with just the right chill, and the side console is stocked with a thermos of presumably hot water and English breakfast tea bags next to cups, as well as a container of yogurt with pineapple chunks. My chest twinges. He remembered my favorite breakfast foods down to the damn tropical fruit.

  My heart has the audacity to flutter.

  It’s just yogurt. And you already ate. Cool your jets.

  Hunter moves in next to me and hits the button to raise the partition. “Thanks for everything, Lenny.”

  “Anytime, Hunter,” the driver says, then he disappears behind the tinted glass.

  “Is he your regular driver?” I ask, and it comes out snippier than I intended. Because the man has a freaking driver, and I still have loans from graduate school.

  “Just met him this morning. Great guy. We had a good conversation on the way over. The network set it up.”

  Somehow, this irks me more. Because it reminds me of the lines between us. The past and the present. His wealth and my complete lack of it. But even so, I won’t be a bitch.

  “Thank you for the ride, and for the breakfast, but I already ate. Why don’t we get to work?”

  “I’ll put the yogurt in the fridge.”

  His car has a fridge? Does it have wings too?

  He tucks the yogurt away in a small icebox under the console, and I grab some papers from my bag so we can go over the plan for today and the best approach to inventorying the home.

  “I’d love to go in order, room to room. I think that would work for the crew too. What do you think?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that’s great. But listen, there’s something I want to say first.” His tone is strong, but with a touch of emotion that surprises me.

  My shoulders tighten. “There’s something I want to say” nearly always precedes bad news. I reach for the thermos to pour a cup of tea, since I might need something else to focus on. But as I reach for it, the car swings around the corner, and I nearly slam into the door.

  “Whoa. Let’s get you buckled in, honey,” he says.

  And I freeze.

  Honey. He just called me “honey” again. That’s what he used to call me. But I steal a glance at his face, and he must not have noticed or cared.

  Besides, he’s busy reaching for the seat belt. As he stretches across me, I catch the faint scent of him. It’s woodsy and freshly showered, and there is nothing I love more on a man than a clean, soapy scent. Hunter has it in spades. I want to lick his neck and touch his face and trace his stubble . . . and what the hell is wrong with me?

  Or maybe I should be asking what’s wrong with him? Because he’s still tugging on the seat belt. “It’s just a little stuck,” he mutters, while his arm reaches across my chest.

  I close my eyes and catch my breath.

  “You okay?”

  When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me, his brown gaze impossibly darker.

  “I’m good.” My voice is a feather.

  “There.” With a rough yank, he pulls the seat belt across me, his fingers grazing my breasts as he goes.

  I squeak. My body goes up in flames.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m great.”

  When he’s done buckling me in, he smiles, arching a brow playfully. He lowers his hand and tugs on the waistband of the seatbelt, like he’s testing it.

  His hands are on my hip now and that feels too good. My resolve, where did that go? Is it curbside at my apartment? Did I leave it at the door? Because it’s missing when I open my mouth. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt.

  His smile is legendary. It’s cocky, and it kills me, and I’ve said the worst possible thing ever. But I couldn’t stop thinking about his situation after the other night. “Forget I said that,” I say quickly, as heat splashes across my cheeks.

  His grin spreads wider. “No need to forget. I’m happy to tell you.”

  I wave it off. “I don’t need to know. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

  He hums, moving in closer. “There’s no one. Not a single woman is distracting me.” His breath whispers over my ear, turning me on. “Except you.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could both redo this morning and stay like this, with him this close, with his breath, with his lips, with his nearness, for the whole morning.

  But I can’t. I’m a woman on a mission, and that mission is work. I hit rewind, returning to something he said a few minutes ago. “There’s something you wanted to say to me?”

  His expression shifts instantly. Gone is the playful man, the flirt. He’s wearing his serious face, the one I bet he uses when he leads dangerous expeditions.

  “What is it, Hunter?” I ask, co
ncerned.

  He takes a deep breath. “I know it’s probably too late for this, but I want to say it. I’m sorry for how it ended. I’m sorry for how I didn’t say a word about where I was going. It was cold and cruel, but I thought it was the only way I could leave without feeling completely ripped in half. I did what was best for me, not you, and I’m sorry for that.”

  My heart clenches, and an unexpected tornado of emotions swells inside me. Ripped in half. He’s not supposed to say that.

  “It’s . . .” But I don’t know how to finish the thought.

  It’s what? It’s nothing? It didn’t hurt? It’s fine?

  None of that is true.

  Yet his apology unlocks and sets loose something inside me—the idea that he’s the enemy. That he left me callously. Deep down, I think I knew he didn’t mean to hurt me that deeply when he did what we both agreed we’d do all along. But hearing these words ten years later helps me let go of a final shard of anger.

  “Listen,” he continues, “I knew leaving was what I had to do. We’d talked about it. I shouldn’t have gotten caught up in imagining any other outcome.”

  “It’s easy to get caught up. I was caught up too.” I can admit that now, something I couldn’t do ten years ago, or even a few days ago.

  “But I do regret how I handled everything,” he says, his gaze trained on me. “For the longest time, for the whole time we were together, I was so sure we should stick to the original plan—the expiration date. But then I thought we could make it work after all. That was because . . .” He stops to scrub a hand over his jaw. “Because I didn’t want to leave you, Presley. I wanted to believe it could work. But then the expedition with Vikas came up, and I had to just go—cold turkey. I knew the only way I’d get on that plane without you was if I did it clinically. And I had to get on that plane. It was a huge opportunity.”

  Tears well in my eyes, and I fight them off. His words dig up so many memories—cruel, yes, but beautiful ones too. “I wanted desperately to make us work too,” I say softly, letting down my guard. “But I understand why you left. I get that it was the chance of a lifetime.” I clear my throat, collecting my emotions. “And you saved someone’s life. It’s the butterfly effect. If you hadn’t taken the job, Vikas Winters might have died. If he’d died, he might not have raised all that money for research. There is great progress being made in the fight against pediatric cancer thanks to him.”