PS It's Always Been You

by Lauren Blakely

  “What about your shake though?” I lift mine and take a sip. “It’s sweet, cold, and chocolatey. What could be more deserving of top marks?”

  He drinks from mine, humming his approval. “Now that’s an A. How about your salad? It’s a C, right?”

  “Hey, don’t put down my greens.” I spear some lettuce with my fork and make an obscenely satisfied moan. “It’s an A-plus.”

  Hunter laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that warms my heart. “We were excellent at grading meals.” He takes another bite of his burger. After he chews, he says, “We were excellent at a lot of things.”

  My heart stutters, wanting to skip out of its cage and frolic on the path back to him. But this easy way we have with each other is too risky. We’re already slipping back into old habits, the good ones. The two of us could always talk about anything. Hopes. Dreams. Goals. Here we are, doing it again, all while grading a meal, when I need to be dissecting a letter, cataloging a house, and finding an idea for a proposal.

  I can’t let one knee-weakening, toe-curling kiss distract me so much. I’m rebuilding my career. Hell, I’m trying to resuscitate it, and that kiss can’t be repeated.

  That’s when I finally decide to open up to him. He’s been forthright with me tonight. I need to do the same.

  When I finish the salad and fries, I set down my fork. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

  “You’re secretly married, and he’s coming to pick you up in five minutes, so I should hide under the table?” His dimpled grin makes me want to grab his cheeks and kiss him hard.

  That’s the problem.

  “No. Also, under the table would be a poor hiding place. You should hide in the ladies' room when this fictional husband arrives.” I set my hands in my lap, my mood sobering. “But seriously, I need you to know that this job and this project are incredibly important to me. I haven’t had quite the success that you’ve had, and this could be the key for me to reach the next level.”

  His expression softens, not in sympathy, but with compassion. “You’re working at a great auction house. You have this terrific project in front of you. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “It’s kind of you to say that, but here’s the reality: you’ve sold millions of copies of your books; I’ve sold one hundred fifty-four copies of one book.”

  He makes robot movements with his arms. “Does not compute.” He returns to his normal voice. “Who wouldn’t want to read your work? You’re brilliant.”

  “And you’re sweet to say so,” I reply.

  “It’s not being sweet. It’s being honest. You showed me all your articles when we were together. They were fantastic. You’re going to be a superstar. It will happen. Mark my words.”

  My cheeks flame red from the compliment, from his enthusiasm, from how much I love his support. This man was always a champion of mine. That’s another thing that stung when we split—I lost the person who encouraged me the most. We did that for each other. I never tried to hold him back from his love of adventure. I didn’t ask him to stop climbing mountains or sailing icy seas. All I wanted was for him to come home to me.

  “Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t need to be a superstar author. The reason I first wanted to write a book was to grow my career as an art historian. If it could help do that, I’d be psyched.”

  His eyes are fiery with intensity, the deepest brown I’ve seen. “It will happen. If you want to write something amazing that’ll vault you to the next level, you will. You want to put together an incredible collection for auction? You will. Maybe you’ve had some bad breaks, but that just means you have to keep going. You’ll reach the peak.”

  “Going after something doesn’t mean you’ll get it.”

  “No, but you also won’t get it if you don’t try.” He shakes his head. “This project will be incredible. You’ll come up with a brilliant book idea from it.”

  His confidence is alluring. I want to dip a spoon in and eat it up. “That’s my point though. I need to narrow my focus to work, and only work. That means you and I, we can’t have that kind of kiss again.”

  A wry grin plays on his face. “But we can have another kind of kiss? Like a bad kiss?”

  “No,” I say, laughing softly at the way he tries to find loopholes. “We can’t have any kind of kiss. Not a good kiss, and I definitely don’t want a bad kiss from you.”

  “You’ll never get a bad kiss from me.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  “We would only kiss like the world was ending.”

  A match strikes inside me. “Is that how you kiss me? Like the world is on fire?”

  “Like everything’s up in flames and the only thing that matters is kissing you.”

  The fire sparks higher, burning brighter, hotter. “You can’t say things like that.”

  “Why?”

  I grip the table because I need something to hold on to. Otherwise I’ll fall off the cliff of his swoony words. “Because it’s distracting. You’re distracting, and this can’t be anything more. The job is too important to me, and I need to do it justice. I need to do right by it.”

  He nods as if absorbing my words. “I hear you. If you insist, I’ll try not to grab you in a fit of passion when I’m overcome with the desire to kiss you.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re such a flirt. That hasn’t changed.”

  “Some things don’t change.”

  I desperately want to ask him what else hasn’t changed. But maybe I don’t want to know the answer.

  I know enough. His ambition hasn’t changed. He’s still the man compelled to jump off cliffs. He’s still the same man who walked away.

  Even if he’s more sensitive and more thoughtful, the reality is he’s still leaving and I’m still staying.

  “We’ll see what else is in the house, we’ll check out the letter, and then you’ll be free of me. Just like you want,” he says.

  “Just like I want,” I repeat, lying through my teeth.

  He pays the bill and grabs the milkshake for Lenny, and after we return to the city, he walks me to the front door of my apartment.

  Midnight slinks in closer, the dark of the night like a tempting embrace. “Presley?” he asks.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you regret the milkshake?”

  His gaze holds mine. He’s not asking about chocolate, milk, and ice cream.

  “I didn’t regret it,” I tell him.

  I’m not talking about the milkshake either.

  That’s why before I meet him the next morning, there’s something I must do.

  17

  Hunter

  I yawn.

  It’s the size of the world.

  “You need more sleep, darling,” my mom says as she wanders into her barn-sized kitchen, early morning light streaking through the windows, lighting up the day. It’s seven. Plenty of time for me to make it into the city to meet Presley.

  My mom smooths a manicured hand across her silver-streaked hair before she reaches for a mug on the pristine kitchen counter, lifts it in a question, and points to the pot of coffee she’s already made.

  I nod my answer.

  “And I suppose you think I’d sleep better if I were living here in town,” I say, leaning against the counter as I finish a glass of water. I wipe a hand across my forehead, still sweat-soaked from my five-mile run at dawn.

  “You living here in town. What a fabulous idea,” she says with a motherly wink as she pours.

  “I’m shocked you thought of it,” I say, stifling another yawn.

  “Why are you so tired?” She hands me a cup of the steaming beverage that gives life to all things in the universe.

  I take it, bowing my head. “Thank you for your coffee blessing. I miss good coffee the most when I’m out in the hinterlands. Do you have any idea how bad most coffee in the wilderness is?”

  She scoffs, and it sounds like I can only imagine. “You got that from me. Your coffee snobbery. I swear if I didn’t love retireme
nt so much, I’d open up a trendy little hipster coffee shop in downtown. A place where snooty baristas with handlebar mustaches make you a pour-over like it’s a gourmet dinner and tell you where the beans were sourced too.”

  “You let me know when you open that coffee shop, and I’ll be the first in line.”

  “Good. So you’re moving back here to frequent my coffee shop. I knew I could pull this off.” As she takes a drink, her dark eyes twinkle with mischief over the top of the mug, perhaps imagining the day I show up at her fictional shop.

  I laugh. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a one-track mind?”

  She reaches forward and pats my cheek affectionately. “Never underestimate the power of a mother on a mission.” She makes a rolling gesture with her hand. “So, last night? You were up late? Working?”

  “Sort of. We found some fascinating items in the home, but mostly I was up late thinking.”

  “What’s on your mind? Anything you want to talk about?”

  I sigh, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck. Where to start? What to say? Do I tell her I was completely caught up in getting to know a woman again? That I felt swept up in the fascinating swirl of Presley once more? That I’ve reconnected with the person who captivated me with her brains and her beauty a decade ago? Not to mention her wickedly dry sense of humor and the fact that she’s 100 percent unafraid to poke fun at me?

  Presley’s easy ability to knock me down a peg makes me smile. She had a no-holds-barred attitude, and she would keep me in my place. Yet at the same time, she was one of the most supportive people I’ve ever known. That’s one of the things that made it nearly impossible to leave her. And that made it necessary to slice the strings of our love affair with the sharp edge of a knife.

  She was too right for me. She fit me perfectly.

  Other women I’ve dated only a few times pleaded with me to just retire. To take a year off and lie in the sun.

  Never Presley. Her wants were different. She wanted us to still be together even if I was halfway around the world, risking my life every day.

  But I made the other choice, and that’s why I’m here, living my best life, a life that includes visiting my mom for a few days and giving her everything she and my dad didn’t have when we were growing up.

  I survey the kitchen she loves to cook in, the house she loves to relax in, the grounds she keeps her horses in. I took the chance I needed to take, and it made all this possible. This wonderful reality for my family.

  I glance back down at the coffee, trying to center myself to my reality. To my temporary return home before I leave again. Cammi sent my schedule for the next month, and it’s packed with shoots, scouting trips for specials, and appearances. She reminded me, too, that I’ll need to plan the next wild journey I embark on that hopefully will become fodder for another book.

  Why, then, knowing that I have one foot out of town, am I unable to stop thinking about Presley, talking to Presley, and wanting to get to know Presley again?

  As my mom waits eagerly to learn what deep thoughts kept me up, I know I can’t tell her it was because of a girl. That would only get her hopes up. I won’t do that to her, because I’m not staying.

  I’m leaving, because that’s what I do.

  I go.

  I give her a smile instead. “Work stuff. Just some prep for my next shoot. Utah desert. Scaling cliffs. I’m kind of ridiculously excited, even though I’ve gone there before. But I can’t wait to return.”

  She sighs, and it’s sad, but understanding too. “You really do love what you do.”

  “I love it as much as I loved Satchel.”

  “He was a good dog. Speaking of dogs we love madly,” she says, then turns to the back door that leads out onto the porch. “Franklin!”

  A few seconds later, a tan-and-white corgi/border collie mix charges in, panting and wagging his tail. Franklin’s the rescue mutt she adopted recently from Best Friends, an organization in the city.

  After he sits at her feet, she pats his head and tells him he’s a good boy. “I’m going to take this rascal for a walk. Maybe visit the horses too. He loves horses.”

  “You and that dog are one and the same.”

  “We are.” She steps closer to me, rubbing my arm. “Hunter, I want you to live a long and happy life. I worry about you every day. I want you to be safe and in one piece, and I won’t stop trying to get you close to home.” She takes a breath and offers a small smile. “But I also know you’re your father’s son, and I’m probably fighting a losing battle.”

  I drop a kiss onto her forehead. “I love you, Mom.”

  I’m turning down the hall to take a shower when she calls out, “Oh, one more thing. There’s a gala this weekend in the city, at Sorvino’s on the Upper East Side. Vikas is receiving an award for his charitable contributions, and his wife invited Jesse and me to attend. They have some extra tickets. It’s a fundraising event for the children’s hospital. Would you want to come along? You’ll still be here for the project, so it would be a nice chance to see everyone.”

  “Sure. Count me in.”

  “If they have an extra ticket, should I hold on to it for you? I could invite Marisa’s daughter. Or Denise’s daughter. Did I tell you she’s a marathoner? Oh! Idea!” She raises her finger in the delight of discovery. “You could take up marathoning. Maybe do all the big marathons in the United States. Boston, New York, Chicago.” She rattles them off. “That sounds quite adventurous.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “You already have my yes to the gala.”

  Rubbing her hands together, she mutters like a movie villain as she and the dog head to the front door. “I’ll keep working on your other yeses.”

  She will. I’m sure of that. She said it herself—she’s on a mission.

  And on that count, it’s safe to say I’m a lot like her too.

  After I’m showered and dressed, I slide into the back seat of the car and text my cousin on the ride into the city.

  * * *

  Hunter: Guess what? I did that whole “say you’re sorry” thing and it didn’t work.

  * * *

  Josh: Did she smack you upside the head like everybody else wants to do?

  * * *

  Hunter: Good guess. But no. The apology didn’t work FOR ME.

  * * *

  Josh: What do you mean?

  * * *

  Hunter: I don’t think that’s my regret—whether I’d said I was sorry. Don’t get me wrong. I needed to say it. But that isn’t what’s messing with my head.

  * * *

  Josh: Which brings us to “What’s behind door number two?” I suspect I know what it is.

  * * *

  Hunter: Me too.

  * * *

  Josh: So you realized you regret ending things because you still have a whole lot of feelings for this woman?

  * * *

  I lean back against the seat, reading his words, staring at the stark truth of them. Maybe I knew that ever since the near-fatal jump, but perhaps I needed to see it written in black-and-white.

  I know now why she won’t leave my head.

  Because my heart still beats for this woman. Too bad she made it clear there’s no room in her life for me.

  * * *

  Hunter: Seems I do. And that’s a whole other kettle of fish.

  * * *

  Josh: But shouldn’t you know how to catch those?

  * * *

  Hunter: Trouble is, I don’t think I can catch this one.

  * * *

  Josh: My condolences, then. Nothing worse than wanting someone you can’t have.

  * * *

  Hunter: Indeed.

  * * *

  Soon the car pulls up to a mansion in Lenox Hill.

  When Presley comes into view, the words are on the tip of my tongue. I’m not over you.

  I’m not over you one bit.

  18

  Presley

  I read the email again, now that I’m wide awake.
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  Nine in the morning would be perfect, and we’re so delighted to have you visit.

  As soon as I saw the message at dawn, I texted Hunter, asking if he could meet me at nine.

  He replied with a fast yes, saying he was out for a run but would be ready in time.

  Exercise sounds wise to me too.

  I get out of bed and go straight to the archery range. Alone, I take aim. My vision narrows to a tight, neat line. Nothing exists but the target in my crosshairs. I am a sniper. This is what I need to do before I see that man.

  With the precision that comes from ten years of practice, ten years of habit, I pull back the bow and let the arrow fly. In less than a second, the head of the arrow lodges into the center of the target with a satisfying thwack. I let out a soft “Yes” that only I can hear.

  I never set out to be an archer. Archery wasn’t on the long list of things I wanted to learn: how to speak Mandarin (everyone needs to, I’m convinced), how to pick a lock (this would be a fun party trick), and how to do a killer smoky eye (because . . . sexy).

  But shooting an arrow? Nope.

  Archery found me instead, and I stuck with it because the routine turned out to be the best therapy. I showed up at the range. I learned how to fire an arrow. I refined my technique. Archery gave me structure when I wanted to curl up and cry. I’ve always done well with structure. That’s why I liked school—for the order and the organization.