Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye - Jacquelyn Middleton Page 0,92

for such an amazing time. I’m so sorry I couldn’t stay for breakfast or for a few extra weeks exploring London with you. I’m still shocked about the job offer, but after tossing all night thinking, I believe returning to NYC really is for the best. Phoenix Properties needs all your focus, and the Costume Institute and Frill-Seekers need mine. I would hate to interrupt the great work you’re doing in London. I know how passionate you are about saving those beautiful old buildings. You’re making a huge difference, giving back to the city you love so much. And when your dad eats his words, it’ll feel even sweeter!

I hate goodbyes, especially when it comes to someone as amazing as you. Going into our fling, I didn’t expect to feel sad when it ended, but I’ll be honest: I do. And I’m not just talking about the mind-blowing sex (although you are TRULY talented in that department!). Tarquin, you’re so much more than a ‘good shag’. You’re incredibly kind, thoughtful, and empathetic, the sweet guy who made my London visit one I’ll always cherish. I’m so grateful to have had you in my life these past two-and-a-half weeks.

As for Saz, I think she’ll be happy to see the back of me. Our pizza just arrived and she’s slicing roly-poly grapes in half, cursing my existence! See what you’re missing? Me returning to NYC just saved you from your worst pizza nightmare!

Keep in touch, okay? I’d love to know how your work is going, how you’re doing. And next time you’re in New York, please call me. The (half-assed) Serendipity tour and frozen hot chocolate will be my treat, and best of all, no skates required.

Much love, Leia xo

“Tarquin?”

An American accent stole his attention.

Dex, a tall, gangly fellow with chunky blue eyeglasses and salt and pepper hair slicked off his forehead stood in his office’s doorway. With his black and white striped dress shirt, skinny-fit burgundy trousers, and pork pie hat, he looked more like a wannabe jazz musician than a psychologist. All he was missing was a saxophone and a weekly residency in a dingy basement club in East London. “I’m ready for ya.”

“Cheers.” Tarquin picked up his coat and grabbed his coffee—his fourth of the day—and gladly left the stupid kissing fish behind, taking a seat on the therapist’s green couch overrun with matching throw cushions. A small jungle of leafy plants shared the space with photographs of sun-soaked Costa Rican beaches, and a wide window was cracked open just a smidge, allowing brief bursts of the afternoon’s chill to mingle with the dry heat pumping from the radiator.

Dex took his own perch, folding his 6’4” frame into an iconic Egg Chair in a retro-tastic dusty blue. Whether it was an original or a design rip-off, Tarquin had no clue and meant to ask, but during his first session three days earlier, he’d gotten sidetracked by the therapist’s quirky appearance and mannerisms.

It’s so weird! I can’t get over how much he looks like Jeff Goldblum. He must be doing it on purpose. I mean, come on!

Actor doppelgängers aside, Tarquin hoped therapy would work its magic, but one session in, he was finding it hard to connect and open up.

“So”—Dex wrapped his spindly fingers around a pen and balanced a clipboard of notes on his knees—“I last saw you three days ago…on Monday. How’ve you been doing?”

Excruciating. “Good! Busy. I’m in the middle of purchasing two Victorian pubs. One in Hackney, another in Spitalfields, which I thought I’d lost out on. The original buyer withdrew his offer, so I’m doing everything I can to seal the deal.” If that pillock of a broker would return my fucking calls. I’ve left five messages already.

“So, how many projects is that now? On your redevelopment slate?”

“Four and counting. I’m also trying to get my hands on a gorgeous Grade II listed Victorian property in Pimlico…” Tarquin’s gaze strayed, landing in the cluster of plants. Wait. Is that… in the potted fern… a toy stegosaurus peeking out? A small grin met his lips, his mind hopping from Jurassic Park to Leia and his dino rescue in IKEA. “Uh, sorry…where was I?”

The Jeff Goldblum lookalike glanced up from his clipboard. “Pimlico.”

“Oh, right! Yeah, it’s a rundown B&B-style hotel, but I’d like to refurbish it into a six-bedroom family home. It’s got tons of hidden period charm begging to be shown off.”

“Making London more beautiful—how rewarding!” Dex wrote something on his papers. “You should be proud,