P.S. It’s Always Been You: A Second Chance Romance

by Lauren Blakely

  Presley tells him she’ll have an iced tea and I say the same, then we sit at a small iron table in the middle of the park as her boss trundles off to the beverage cart.

  Silence hovers between us as I look at her and she looks at me, and years seem to weigh between us.

  Where to start?

  What to say?

  Surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m sitting across from the woman I once thought I’d . . .

  I erase the thought. That was the past. In my line of work, you learn from the past, but you don’t let it trip you up again. Say you were nearly dismantled by an ice block the size of a Subaru on the Khumbu Icefall. You evaluate, study, and practice more for your next trip up the mountain. What if your rickety raft capsizes in crocodile-infested jungle waters? Scramble to the shore and be glad the water wasn’t full of sharks.

  Learn from the situation and move on to the next challenge.

  But hell, moving on feels like escaping quicksand. I’m stuck in the past. I’m that twenty-seven-year-old guy again, completely taken with a woman, like I was when I met Presley one random Sunday at the American Museum of Natural History when we were both checking out the Cosmic Pathway, an exhibit that laid out the thirteen-billion-year history of the universe. I’d made a joke about how the Big Bang had the best name ever for a theory. She’d laughed then made a comment about how the evolution portion of the exhibit moved sooooo slowly. Soon we’d wandered together through the mammal halls, then out to a nearby coffee shop, and into each other’s hearts and minds for six too-short months.

  That was more than ten years ago, and I don’t know why I keep thinking of her when I’m scaling sheer rock walls and navigating icebergs, but I know this—now I can’t stop staring at her. Those waves of chestnut hair, those brilliant blue eyes, and those freckles that send a shock of pleasure down my spine. Dear God, her freckles always did me in—they’re the sweetness to her side of sexy.

  Her lips are shiny and glossy, and I’m tempted to run my finger across her bottom lip, see if her breath hitches, if goosebumps rise on her skin. Does she react the way she did before?

  I should be thinking about regrets and apologies, but instead I’m thinking about kissing her.

  A groan rumbles up my chest, threatening to make landfall.

  What the hell is happening to me? I’m being taken over by a lust monster, and I’m having a hard time fighting off the horny creature.

  Words. I need words.

  I grasp the first ones that come to mind. “How in the world are you?”

  There. That’s safe. That’s friendly. She won’t know I’m thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts.

  “I’m great.” She flashes a winning smile. “How are you? How’s your family?” Her tone is friendly, gregarious, even.

  “Mom is great. My brothers are too. Brody has three kids, Jamie two,” I tell her, adding that I saw them the first night I was in town at a get-together at my mom’s house. “And you’re well?”

  “Fantastic.” In the blink of an eye, she segues straight into work mode. “I have some ideas for the house, and I thought we could map out a plan for the rooms. There are some great books in the public library here about the estate, and that’s why I suggested to Daniel that we meet when he told me we were all getting together to prep. I thought we could get started right away.”

  The words come out like an avalanche, and they give her away.

  She’s pissed. That’s her tell.

  Some missions you prepare for. Sometimes, you just jump and go for it. “Presley, I get the distinct feeling you’re still mad at me.”

  She scoffs. Then she scoffs again. Like that’s the most ridiculous thing I could have said. “Don’t be silly. That would imply I was mad at you in the first place.”

  I furrow my brow, because that doesn’t quite compute. “You weren’t mad at me?”

  “For maybe five minutes, and then I had other things to deal with. We both did. We were so young. That was years ago,” she says, waving her hand, dismissing those days. “We were kids, right?”

  My brow knits tighter, since I’m thrown off once more. “Twenty-seven for me, so not really kids. And you were twenty-five.”

  “Practically a generation ago.” She tilts her head. “It’s all good. I’m fine. And so are you, clearly. Look at us, working it, living our best lives.”

  Hmm. That sounds like my show’s slogan: live big, live brave, and live your best life.

  “Okay. You just seem . . . bubbly and perky,” I say.

  She points at me playfully. “I’m a bubbly, perky person. I’m the bubbliest and the perkiest. I’m effer-fucking-vescent.” The smile she flashes is full of fire, and that’s the woman I knew. Strong, bold, determined.

  She was also someone who never pretended.

  But tonight, she’s pretending she’s fabulous, and I want to know what the hell is going through her head. This woman felt like everything to me during our whirlwind romance, as we savored every second of our ticking-clock affair.

  Now, suddenly, I’m starving for all the things I don’t know about the person who was the center of my world ten years ago. What she’s been up to. If she pursued all her dreams. If she’s married. If she’s involved . . . all the things I couldn’t glean online, since there’s no public Facebook profile for her. No Instagram either. Only a bare-bones bio on the company website that reveals nada in the personal department.

  But before I can even respond to her “effer-fucking-vescent” (my ass) comment, Daniel returns, sets down the drinks, and dives into some details on the house and the project.

  “The Valentinas are a well-regarded family, and this is an opportunity for us to help them go through their legacy and also showcase it to the world.”

  “Of course,” Presley says. “You know it’s in good hands.”

  “The best hands,” I add.

  Glancing at his wristwatch, Daniel turns to me. “I have a meeting with a fellow from London, and I believe Presley wanted to spend a few moments here doing some research. Hope it doesn’t bore you too much, since I’m sure you’d rather be climbing rocks or scaling waterfalls.”

  I grin. “I’m all for doing, and sometimes you have to do research.”

  “Yes, you do,” Presley says. “There are some interesting books on the Valentina estate in this library, and I thought we could check some of them out.” Then to Daniel she says, “Have a great meeting with Oliver.”

  He crosses his fingers. “Let’s hope it’s better than great.”

  We say goodbye to Daniel then head to the library, talking about the house, and only the house, as we climb the stairs to the entrance. I’m still determined to hear more about Presley, but maybe time with books will loosen her up. They were her passion, something we had in common.

  When we hit the top step outside the library, my phone buzzes. It’s Cammi, so I tell Presley I need to answer it quickly.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” I ask.

  “Great. I just wanted to let you know I’m setting up a shooting schedule for the Valentina estate special, and I have a few questions.”

  I shield my eyes from the sun. “Fire away.”

  Cammi asks about the first day, how much emphasis to place on the search for treasure, and the possibility of any artifacts and how to handle them. I answer as she runs through her list, then she tells me she’ll send the details for my approval.

  When I hang up, my ex-girlfriend is studying me.

  Wait.

  That’s more than studying.

  Holy shit.

  Her eyes are taking a tour of my body. I do believe she’s checking me out while she thinks I’m looking the other direction.

  Well, that’s an interesting twist. And it gives me a whole new way to play this night. I’m going to tease the hell out of her, because I need to know what that might reveal.

  When she looks up, I smile without showing my teeth. “Enjoying the view?”

  7

  Hunter<
br />
  She searches the grounds for a desperate moment, then gestures to the stone lions guarding the library and blurts, “Yes. Of the lions. The view of the lions.”

  I smirk, enjoying having caught her ogling. “The lions.” I chew on the word, like I’m tasting it, sampling its flavors.

  “The lions, Hunter. The lions.”

  I hum, considering this, then nod. “Makes sense. Lions are handsome creatures.”

  She shoots me a laser beam glare. “The lion statues,” she says, the correction crisp and emphatic. “I’ve often admired them.”

  Oh, I can’t resist. “You have. You definitely have enjoyed handsome creatures.”

  Those laser beams? They’ve been upgraded to death rays now. “You’re the worst.”

  Laughing, I hold up my hands like I’m exonerating her. “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.” But there’s a hint of laughter there, so as she marches up the steps, I take time to enjoy the view. Her ass is spectacular. Was her butt that firm when I knew her? Because, holy hell, she has buns of steel, my favorite kind.

  “The view is good for me too,” I quip as I walk behind her, enjoying the heck out of the shift from let’s be cordial to let’s have some goddamn fun.

  She stops midstep, a quirk in her lips as she turns her gaze to me. “The view is good for you? You’re already going there?”

  Even though this is wildly dangerous when we’ll be working together, even though I have a ton of other reasons to tread carefully, I’m happily falling back in time, unable to resist flirting with her.

  This woman—she used to give good flirt, and I gave it back in return.

  I’m behind her in a heartbeat, inches from her neck so I can whisper against her skin, “I am going there. Because you look great. In fact, you look fantastic. Have I mentioned that?”

  The tiniest of shivers runs down her spine, barely noticeable enough for me to catch it.

  She draws a deep breath like she’s fueling up. She spins around, facing me, lifting her sexy chin so damn defiantly. “Thanks, Hunter.” She slides into a high-pitched tone. “I’m so unbelievably grateful, since all I was hoping for today when Daniel told me we’d be working together was that you’d admire my ass.” She sets her hand on her chest, hamming it up. “It’s like a dream come true.”

  Oooh, touché.

  She wheels around to continue up the stairs.

  “That’s cool. I don’t mind the blast of snark.” I wipe the cloud of sarcasm off my shirt. “I probably deserved it.”

  She huffs in response, marching into the mammoth building.

  I turn into the vast library, following Presley up the stairs, down a hall, and past a doorway. I try a new tactic for this round of flirting. “Do libraries still excite you? You’ve remained a voracious reader, I trust?”

  She sighs like I’m no more than a gnat disturbing her. “Yes, I still like books. What about you? Or do you no longer have any time to read because you’re so caught up in writing about your own fantastic adventures?”

  I grab hold of my favorite part of her comment. “Ah, so you’ve read my books?”

  She shakes her head, scoffing. “What part of my question sounded like I’d read your books?”

  “Wishful thinking. What can I say? I hoped you had. The image of you lounging in the sun, lost in a good book is so enticing.”

  She slows her pace, and I wince at the taste of my foot in my mouth. I flash back to our trip, to what she’d said as we played make-believe on the beach our last night. We’ll need to devote some time to lounging in the sun, and I require many hours a day to get lost in books. Please don’t forget that.

  It was just pretend, a fantasy.

  But her eyes flash with hurt, and I should apologize for that remark that’s too close to what we said on the last day we were happy together. Only, I’m not entirely sure how to start with that kind of apology without dredging up the past. But also because I can’t quite read the terrain of her. I backpedal, covering my tracks like an animal pawing at dirt to hide his trail. “Just because you love to read. I said that because you love books. And reading. Doesn’t have to be in the sun. I bet you like reading at coffee shops too. Probably in libraries. Or on the train.”

  “Yes, I love lounging on the subway as I read. But no, Hunter. I haven’t read any of your best sellers.” She takes a breath, then seems to dial down her frustration. “But if you feel it’s important I do so in order for us to work together, I will. Because I’d like to have a successful working relationship with you.” Her words are pointed, and a part of me hates that she keeps emphasizing the nature of what we are—colleagues—while I keep rewinding to what we were—lovers.

  And I keep going there. "Nah. No need. There are more exciting books to read. Books like The Highwayman.” Gently I reach for her arm, stopping her in her tracks at the end of a quiet corridor. “I seem to recall one night when I discovered you caught up in that book—”

  She brings her finger to her lips, imploring me. “Please. We’re in a library.”

  “I don’t think that’s the reason you don’t want me reminding you of that time,” I say, my voice smoky as I lock eyes with her.

  “What’s the reason, then?” Her tone is mixed with flames too.

  “Because it’ll bring back memories.”

  “I don’t recall a thing.” But the wobble in her voice, the flicker of heat in her blue irises tells me she remembers everything about that night at her apartment. I picked up her dog-eared romance novel and read aloud a passage to her as the hero undressed the heroine for the first time. Then I tossed the book aside and showed Presley how much better that felt when it was happening in real life.

  “I bet you remember every detail as well as I do.”

  She swallows, her lips parting as she casts her gaze to my hand on her arm. She says nothing. I take that as a cue to brush my finger along her bare flesh. Goosebumps rise in its wake. “Like that. Just like that.” I inch closer. “And then a whole lot more.”

  A flush spreads across the exposed skin on her chest, a tell.

  “I remember all the details of reading to you that night. Every. Single. One. Want me to remind you?” I ask.

  “Please, don’t,” she whispers, her voice almost desperate, and I can’t tell if I’ve hurt her by mentioning it or turned her on.

  Maybe both.

  Or maybe I’m doing all of this wrong, miscalculating every move I make. “Sorry,” I say quickly as I let go of her arm. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  But I don’t finish the sentence. Because I did mean it. I meant to turn her on. I want her to be affected by me, because I’m clearly still affected by her.

  “It’s okay.” She waves her hand down the hall, like she’s pointing in the direction of our earlier conversation. “And listen, I didn’t mean to suggest you were so caught up in yourself that you stopped reading.”

  I smile. “I still have my nose in books.”

  She smiles in return, but then it disappears. “But Hunter?”

  “Yes?”

  Her expression is intensely serious. “I don’t want to spend this time together revisiting old memories. We both know the score. We have history. But that’s the past. I’m a historian; you’re an explorer. We both ought to know you learn from the past, but don’t live in it.”

  “I don’t want to live in the past. I’m liking the present,” I say, and for a second, maybe more, the air between us hums, charged with electricity. With possibility.

  Her eyes linger on me, and I could band an arm around her waist, haul her in for a kiss.

  Because I definitely like the present, where she’s flesh and blood. The three-dimensional woman in front of me is so much better than the memory of her that haunted me those first few months after we split. Images of her flickered before my eyes every night when I huddled in my tent and every morning when I woke. She was there with me, and that expedition had a higher degree of difficulty than it should have, since I was cli
mbing the world’s highest mountains while trying desperately to fall out of love with a girl.

  But I succeeded somewhere around Mount McKinley in Alaska, vowing to forget her.

  And I did. Successfully. I erased her from my head for nearly ten years.

  “Let’s focus on the present, and our present involves work,” she says, redirecting the conversation once more. “We’re going to the house in a few days. We should prep.”

  This time, I don’t fight it. I give her my best professional smile. “Fine. Take me to your books.”

  She heads down the hallway and turns into a room full of shelves. The floorboards creak, the scent of old books wraps around us. Methodically, with the precision of a researcher who knows her job cold, she takes a few books off the shelves, and we head toward the tables. They’re full, but I spot a worn leather couch in the corner, and we sit.

  She opens one book, flipping to the section on the Valentina family. I slide into business mode, and we talk about their history with the Exploration Society and Edward’s partnership with Jack Caribaldi on their adventures.

  “So, Miss Art Historian. Buried treasure. Yay or nay?”

  She rolls those lovely blue eyes. “That’s just a rumor.”

  “But it’d be pretty cool, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think for a second there is treasure hidden in a home in New York State.”

  “But what if there is?”

  “Then I’ll let you remind me of all the details you desperately wanted to remind me of a little while ago,” she says, a little coy, a little flirty.

  “You do realize you’ve made me more determined than ever to find that buried treasure?”

  She laughs, taps the book, and says, “Let’s get back to business.”

  As we do, it feels like we’ve meandered into something strangely like normal, like the familiar banter we had. Only a little new, a little different.

  That lasts for a while, thirty minutes maybe, and we exchange numbers so we can connect on the project. But soon enough, my curiosity rears its head again, and I want to talk about her, not a house. I gesture toward her chestnut locks. “I like what you did with your hair.”