PS It's Always Been You

by Lauren Blakely

  His touch is electric, but I can’t give in at this moment. “I need to call Daniel and tell him what we found.”

  I expect a protest, but I get none. Only a nod of understanding. “Of course,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “Because these letters are priceless in a way I never expected.”

  Sparks race through me, the absolute delight of knowing that he feels the same damn thing I do. “But isn’t that the point of an adventure? You don’t always know what’s next.”

  “Look at you. Becoming my partner in adventure.”

  This feeling? It’s all bright and neon, like a bridge lit up at night. “I love that you’re excited about the letters. I thought you’d only be happy with rubies and sapphires.”

  His lips curve up in a grin. “The letters rock, and I’d like to cover them for the special. Can you even imagine?”

  His eyes glint with possibility—of high ratings, I presume—and my excitement dims. The show. The damn show. Intellectually, I understand why he wants to cover the letters. But emotionally, I feel strangely protective of the love story. “You do?”

  Except I have the same goals after all. A great TV special could make my stock rise when it comes to jobs and book ideas, and since I’ve been trading at penny levels, I might as well coattail off Hunter. It’s better if we get coverage for the letters. It’ll draw more attention to the collection and to my work. That’s what I’ve longed for—to be singled out for the art history work I love madly.

  “Hell, yeah,” Hunter says emphatically. “The letters are incredible. Better than buried treasure.”

  “But we still have to ask Corinne and Joseph.”

  “They’ll say yes,” he says, cool and unflappable.

  “No” probably isn’t in his vocabulary. Who says no to Hunter? He’s a man who gets what he wants.

  I call my boss and give him the 411.

  “That’s absolutely fantastic,” Daniel says in his cheeriest tone. “I knew if you were working with Hunter, you’d find something.”

  A knot of jealousy in my chest tightens, and I’m annoyingly frustrated with the man on the phone, and, by association, the man next to me. The too good-looking, too charming, too everything-comes-easily-to-him man. I bet Hunter can convince a cat to come when it’s called.

  “Yes, I found it,” I say to Daniel, instantly hating how petty I sound, but not hating it enough to backpedal.

  “Good work, Presley. This is going to be great for us.”

  Yes, the reminder I need. The project. My goals. My dreams. Highsmith, work, auctions. I don’t need the distraction of a man from the past. I don’t have the luxury of gorgeous love letters or of being bitten by the love bug. This is a J-O-B.

  “It is. It’s going to be fantastic for Highsmith,” I say, succeeding in diverting Daniel’s attention from his bromance with my ex. “Can you connect me to the client?”

  “Of course. But first, I’d like to join you there tomorrow. I think it’ll help as I woo Oliver.”

  “The guy in London?”

  “Yes. He’s quite keen on American art, and I’ve been telling him about our work on this house.”

  “Okay, join us,” I say, because if it helps Highsmith, it helps me.

  “Great. Let me try Corinne.”

  I signal to Hunter that Daniel’s putting me in touch with her, then set the phone on speaker.

  “This is Corinne Valentina,” an older Lauren Bacall-esque voice says while we drive away from Manhattan.

  “Hi, this is Presley Turner from Highsmith Auction House, and Hunter Armstrong is here with me. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Corinne,” Hunter chimes in, his voice sure to work its vocal magic on her with its warm, smoky tones.

  “We’re on our way to your grandparents’ house, and we’re finding some wonderful things at the estate,” I offer.

  She laughs. “Oh dear. I hope it’s not too dusty. We were never the cleanest family.”

  I pause for a second, since it’s odd that she’d mention the state of the home. Who cares if it’s dusty? “It’s an absolutely lovely house.”

  “Full of fascinating treasures,” Hunter puts in, and I smile, glad that he sees it the same way.

  “Have you found anything that you think we can auction off?” Corinne asks. “We’d love to figure out what’s finally worthwhile, and then perhaps make some donations to charity. Anything beyond the silly little items that my grandparents collected?”

  “Ah, but none of them are silly,” Hunter says, and I shoot him a look.

  “We did find some things,” I say, and then guide her briefly through the monkey and the bureau and the other items. “And we found a letter. It’s a bit like a treasure hunt they put together for the kids. For your dad, I believe.”

  “Ohhhh.” Her voice drips with curiosity and surprise. “Is that so?”

  I tell her about the letter and what we found in it. “If you want us to hand it over to you so you can see for yourself, of course we’re happy to do that. We went to the Exploration Society this morning because that seemed to be the first clue.”

  I cross my fingers, hoping she doesn’t want to play Inspector Poirot herself.

  She laughs, a deep, husky sound. “You are quite good at following the clues. I don’t know that I would’ve figured that out. Or frankly if I’d have the wherewithal. I’d rather polish the collection of compasses my father left me from Edward’s expeditions. Actually, I should send those to you. You might want to sort through them for your auction too. Lord knows I don’t need any compasses.”

  “Sure, definitely.” Compasses would be a welcome addition.

  “Let me know what you find. My grandparents did love a grand old adventure. Just let us know where it takes you. I’ll admit I’m curious. A little nervous, but curious too.”

  Hunter clears his throat. “We will. And hey, Corinne, I’ve got to think these letters would make for a fantastic TV special. The story is so captivating. Viewers are going to fall in love with your grandparents. I can even imagine the footage already, some terrific old-time images. I’d love, with your permission, to highlight the letters for the cameras,” he says, so damn convincing.

  Here, kitty cat.

  When she answers, Corinne’s voice is cloaked in surprise, like she’s been thrown for a loop. “Ohhh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “No worries.” His smile could reach all the way to her in California. “That’s what I’m here for. To find the angles.”

  Angles. He’s here for angles, not to chase down a love story. One that happens to enthrall me. I’m just like him though. I’m here for the angle—for launching my career to the next level.

  This is business, and I can’t let myself be wooed away by love letters.

  “I think we’d rather—” She cuts herself off. “I think I’d rather you find out what the letters are about first. I’m not sure we’d want them covered. Yes, that would be better, if we learn what they are.”

  My shoulders slump. Hunter’s do too.

  “Of course,” I say, disappointed. It would have been perfect, maybe even too good to be true if she’d said yes. But there’s no need to get down, because we have the true permission—to follow the clues—and surely once we uncover the story, we’ll be able to find a way to profile it for the special.

  “We’ll stop recording that part,” he adds.

  “Yes, that’s probably for the best,” she says. “Just focus on the dusty house.”

  I shuck off any frustration about Corinne’s no—it’s only a no for now—and focus on the bigger victory. We can find out what happens next. This adventure, the one Edward and Greta devised so many years ago only for it to lay forgotten, is officially ours. That’s where I should put my energy—learning where the next set of letters lies.

  I end the call and find I’m breathing a sigh of relief.

  “For a moment there, were you thinking she was going to take this away from us?” he asks, and I
tilt my head, surprised that he read me so easily, but strangely glad too.

  “Yes. And I didn’t want her to take it away.”

  “I didn’t either.”

  “But I thought you wanted them for the show? And we didn’t get that.”

  “I did want her permission for coverage. Because it’d be good for both of us. Because it’d be good for your next book, your career too.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t you get it? I want your dreams to come true.”

  My chest warms, approaching molten, because here he goes, shifting the balance once again. Making me feel like he’s in this with me. Like he’s my partner in a great adventure.

  “It feels like ours, Presley,” he adds, echoing what I was thinking. He lifts his hand, fingering a strand of my hair. That slight touch makes my pulse spike. “I meant what I said earlier. I’m having the time of my life.”

  I shudder, and now my heart beats overtime as I shove away what little annoyance remains. Who cares if he has angles? We all do, and none of our angles will matter in a few days when this ends.

  Right now, we have in our hands a love story we didn’t expect to find.

  “Their story, how they came together, what drove them apart. Writing letters. It’s all so wildly romantic.” My voice is laced with a longing I haven’t heard in ages. A longing I’ve only felt before with him.

  “It’s intensely romantic,” he agrees.

  That longing resides in my chest, terrifying me, but it energizes me too. I take one small step. “Are you disappointed she won’t let you cover them?”

  He swallows, staring at me with darkening eyes. “Yes, and I want to know where to go next. But right now, I’m not thinking about that letter.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “How I’d be more disappointed if you don’t let me kiss you right now.” He places his hand on my neck, and I am lost.

  I give in.

  I give up.

  I sink into a haze of static electricity that crackles and hums deep in my bones, reaching far into my cells.

  This is like some sort of fevered dream. All I can do is lift my chin and whisper, “Kiss me.”

  He holds my face and gazes.

  Who does that? Who gazes so intently that your heart flips? That you want to throw everything out the window but what he’s about to give you?

  He does that.

  He makes me feel like I’m the only woman alive as he sweeps his thumb over my top lip then brings his mouth to mine.

  One touch, and I’m under his spell again.

  This kiss is sweet and deep, full of promise. Threading my hands through his hair, I bring him closer, needing contact, body against body. We kiss and it’s devastating, utterly devastating what I feel as his lips explore mine. The kiss obliterates all my reason. It runs roughshod over my intellect, my logic, my goals.

  And it’s so damn insistent. Nothing is going to stop this kiss.

  Nothing is going to stop us.

  Soon, we are clawing and grabbing at each other. Sweet and deep turns into hot and dirty.

  Seat belts unbuckle. Hands slide roughly under shirts. We groan and moan and murmur, reaching and squeezing and seeking.

  I don’t know where we’re going right now. But I don’t want to think. I want to feel his touch.

  His hands play at the waistband of my jeans, and we don’t need words. Our bodies know. We slide flat onto the seat, lying face to face, kissing like we can’t bear to have our lips not touch.

  His hands undo and unbutton and unzip.

  He slides his fingers inside, between my legs, and I die a thousand beautiful deaths. I sizzle and burn, and soon our sounds turn feral and carnal.

  “You always used to love this,” he murmurs as he strokes, taking me there quickly, so quickly that I’m teetering on the edge already.

  I find my voice for a moment. “I always loved everything you did to me.”

  “Let’s see if you still do.”

  I close my eyes, and I’m not even sure where I am. I only know this—when he kisses my neck, his soft lips remembering the exact spot that drives me over the edge, that’s where I am.

  The other side of bliss.

  Starbursts explode behind my eyes, neon and snow-blindingly white.

  I fly away in the most exquisite ecstasy of this moment. I find myself lost and found again in love stories from the past.

  And that’s a terribly dangerous place to be.

  Especially when, a few seconds later, his phone rings.

  22

  Hunter

  I ignore the call, leaning in to kiss her as it goes to voicemail. But as my lips brush hers, the phone trills again. I groan, glancing at the screen, then sit bolt upright.

  The call is from South America, so I answer it right away, just in case it’s a Mayday and Trevor is in trouble.

  “Everything good?” I ask, bracing for bad news but hoping for good.

  “Everything is good with this connection. Is this the best connection ever or what?”

  It is indeed, Trevor, coming through crystal clear, and I let out a long breath. “Asshole. Are you still in Chile, man? And you’re calling just to chat? I thought you might be hanging upside down in an ice crevice putting out an SOS.”

  “And you thought I’d call you rather than, say, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue cover model to confess my undying love?”

  “Really, man? You haven’t told her yet you have a thing for her? You don’t deserve to be saved from an ice crevice.”

  “But if I tell her, I do?”

  “It’s called manning up, bro. Do it. Do it as soon as you hang up with me. Which brings me back to my point.” I cast my gaze at Presley, whose cheeks are the sexiest shade of après-orgasm pink I’ve ever seen. She’s tugging up her panties and zipping her jeans, a sight that makes me sad. She looks so damn good undressed. And half undressed. And one quarter undressed. “Are you calling to yammer?”

  “Please. I’m not loquacious. I’m calling to try this new satellite phone in the middle of the mountains. It is badass. The company asked me to test it and blog about it, so I’m testing it with you.”

  “It does sound like you’re calling from next door, so kudos to the company. But you called me to test a new connection? Gee, thanks.”

  “Well, were you busy? You’re just doing Antiques Roadshow.”

  “One, yes, I was incredibly busy,” I say, meeting Presley’s gaze briefly as she adjusts her top then turns her gaze to watch the town zip by outside the window. We’re not far from our destination. “And two, why are you testing it with me?”

  “Because you’re my partner, jackass. I mean, fine. I’m more like a junior partner. Wait, no, more like a peewee partner.”

  I laugh. “Now you’re getting cocky. I was thinking more like a little tyke partner.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

  But the reality is Trevor does appreciate what we’ve built. He’s joined me on many expeditions as my sidekick, and the benefit for both us and him has been tremendous. His star has risen as my show has climbed, and I couldn’t be happier that a good friend is reaping the rewards.

  “Anyway, I wanted to know if we could move up the dates on the Utah shoot,” he asks.

  “I can look into it. Why do you want to?”

  “Because I just snagged a huge opportunity. The company I’m testing these phones for? They want to do a series of videos showing how they work from anywhere in the world. And I get to test them in all the vids.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “Yeah, we’re talking Great Wall, Siberia, the Gobi . . .”

  “That’s amazing. How long will that last?”

  “A couple months. It’s when you’re shooting some of your solo specials and doing some book planning, so the timing should be okay as long as I can get it going sooner. They want to start in two weeks, so I’m hoping we can move up Utah.”

  “I’m sure we can work it out.” I'm thrilled for him. Thi
s is a huge chance for Trevor to grow his personal brand in the adventure-exploration world. “I bet we can even finish this estate sooner than planned.” I cover the phone and ask Presley, “How much more time do you think we need?”

  “One or two more days should be enough,” she says, crisp and businesslike.

  Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have picked up the phone after pleasuring her. But I feel like there ought to be an exception for calls from overseas when you think your friend might be dead.

  “Should be doable, but I’d need to check with Cammi to be sure,” I tell Trevor.

  “How about we conference her in right now?”

  I glance at Presley again, and her expression is unreadable, so I tell Trevor I’ll do it.

  “That would be fantastic. You’re the man,” he says, and I give Presley an I’m sorry and I’ll be off the phone soon shrug, but she’s already busying herself with her phone screen, so I chat with Trevor and Cammi, sorting out the details as Trevor makes the occasional joke with Cammi and she laughs easily with him.

  Before I know it, the car pulls up to the house as I’m saying goodbye.

  “Hey.” I set a hand on Presley’s thigh. “I had to take that.”

  Her small smile erases the tension. Most of it. “Sounds like good stuff is happening. I get it.” But her answer is clipped, a reminder that maybe I should have handled the call differently, so I try to sell her on it.

  “Good stuff is definitely happening, but that was great stuff back there in the—”

  Jared raps his knuckles on the window. I roll it down and he gesticulates wildly. “Check it out. I was strolling through the yard and found this buried treasure. It has to be worth something.”

  He thrusts out his open palm and shows me a penny.

  “You’re seriously a dick.”

  He laughs. “You ready? ’Cause my crew is raring to go. One of my guys has a preggo wife who’s due any second, so he’s chomping at the bit.”