Page 19 of The Treasure Hunt Hookup

I smile at her steadfast loyalty. To this day, she still leaves mean comments on every single one of Jake’s social media posts. Along with a row of snake emojis.

“Anyway, as my overpriced therapist so wisely says, expecting people to change their essential nature is a waste of your time and energy.” I shrug. “Jake will always put himself first. You can’t expect a shark not to maim you. It’s just what they do.”

Just like it’s my essential nature to be the go-to girl for restaurant recommendations, and filing tips, not wild, sexy adventures with dashing men.

I feel a hollow pang inside. So it’s a good thing that Mary-Alice has whipped up enough spaghetti and meatballs to fill the void. I reach for the garlic bread. “Let’s eat!

* * *

I sneakout of my house early the next morning for work, wanting to avoid any more ego-

crushing encounters with my new neighbor. Still, I may have spent an extra twenty minutes blow-drying my hair and putting on makeup, just in case I happen to run into Reeve.

I can’t help searching for a glimpse of him as I pass the Kellerman house: his tall frame and thick dark hair, his crooked smile. The way he gazed into my eyes on Halloween, like he truly saw me—

Except for the part where, obviously, he didn’t.

It’s a quiet morning at the museum, and Dot’s posted up at the front desk with a basket of jalapeño/blueberry scones when I arrive. “You look nice today,” she says, sounding suspicious as she takes in my good jeans, ankle boots, and form-fitting red turtleneck sweater. “It’s not for that rat bastard, I hope.”

Rat Bastard, aka, Jake.

“Nope,” I reply, breezy. “Just felt like making an effort, that’s all.”

I take my time fixing myself a cup of coffee in the kitchenette before putting on some vintage jazz and getting to work cataloging some old diaries I found at an estate sale a couple of weeks ago. It’s my favorite kind of work: reading up on all the juicy gossip from eighty years ago, making notes about any big news or scandals, and cross-referencing with any familiar names that I’ve already logged in our archives. This author’s brother-in-law was a bigwig in local politics, and I’m listing names to check later, when the front door swings open, and the sound of boot heels taps across the floor.

“Ivy!”

I wince, knowing exactly who it is before I even look up. The smell of Chanel perfume and backstabbing betrayal?

“Jessica,” I give a grit-teeth smile, greeting the woman whose, uh, historical documents Jake went rifling through – back when he was still married to me. I run through a dozen polite greetings, all of them lies, before I land on: “You’re a long way from Atlanta.”

Jessica beams at me, all twenty-five-year-old dewy skin, blonde hair, and long, denim-clad limbs. “It’s great to see you too, Ivy. We all miss you,” she coos smugly. “And this town is just so … small.”

“Uh huh,” I reply dryly, narrowing my eyes. “What do you want?”

Jessica trills a laugh. “Always straight to business, isn’t that right? I’m just here to grab the Fortune family archives,” she says brightly.

“Excuse me?” I bristle.

“You know, those letters and diaries and stuff you always talked about,” Jessica looks around. I can see the condescension in her eyes as she takes in the kids’ exhibit, and our latest displays. Folksy and charming, yes. Impressive? Not to a snake like her. “We need them. For the show.”

And there it is: confirmation they’re here sniffing around after the legend of Earl’s missing gold.

I shake my head. “They’re not available.”

“Sure they are,” Jessica turns back to me. “I have all the family’s permission paperwork right … here.” She produces some pages from her designer bag.

“ButI’mthe family,” I scowl, confused.

“We got the go-ahead from … Eileen Fortune,” she says, checking the paperwork.

I stifle a groan. My mother. Of course; she loved Jake. Still loves him, probably.

“It’s all legit,” Jessica adds, handing the file over. “You were the one who taught me, always get the paperwork done right.”

I did. I’m the one who hired her, for her perky attitude and go-getting spirit. I just didn’t know she’d go and get my husband in the process.

I glance at the paperwork. Damn, it does look in order. “I still need to speak to her before I can release any of the documents,” I stall for time. “And I don’t see your preservation plan—”

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