Page 102 of This is a Kissing Book

“What? Where?” Jules turns, confusion written across her face in the dim phone light.

“They’re not after the letters. They’re after ….” But I can’t say it.

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by fear. We turn and scrabble-crouch back the way we came, but the voices are gaining ground. In our panic to escape, we take a wrong turn and hit a dead end. A small piece of dirt, the size of a pebble, drops onto my shoulder. Then another. Our surroundings judder, dust puffing up, making me think this is the start of a dirty avalanche.

“This way.” Jules points to another narrow passage.

We barely squeeze through, emerging into a section where the ceiling is significantly lower and the walls were already slowly crumbling around rough timbers that are ready to quit. Behind us, flashlight beams sweep the tunnels.

“In here,” I pull Jules into an alcove as the footsteps get closer.

“Where are they?” one voice demands.

“Must’ve gone deeper. Come on.”

The footsteps recede, but something is wrong. The walls are groaning, and the dirt continues to fall from the ceiling like dusty snow.

“What if they—or we—destabilized things?” Jules asks, gripping my shirt, frantic.

The soft tumble of another clod of dirt follows as if punctuating her statement.

The historical section begins collapsing around us. We hurry toward what I hope is an exit, debris falling behind us as the century-old support beams truly give way.

I will myself to remain calm, clearheaded. I focus on finding an exit, imagining it’s the goal and I’m running the puck to it. I spot a narrow passage that leads upward, and once again, we squeeze through as the section we were in completely caves in.

We emerge through what turns out to be a grate in an alley behind the building, gasping, covered in dust, and probably looking like we’ve been buried alive.

Which, technically, we almost were.

“I knew you hated me,” Jules says, trying to catch her breath as she leans against a brick wall.

“Don’t say that.” The words come out harsher than I intended.

She looks up at me, dirt streaked across her cheek and her hair escaping its bun. She’s still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and she almost got killed because of something connected to me, to my family.

My gaze searches her gray eyes. She’s shaken up, but that’s understandable. Her hair is mussed, breath shallow. I gently wipe away the smudge of dirt on her cheek.

Overall, she’s okay. No injuries. Just dusty from the tunnels. I imagine I’m in need of a shower, too.

Like touching a live wire, a sudden thought jolts me. I can never let anything happen to this woman. I need her to know this, inextricably, but words fail me.

My hands skim her shoulders, neck, and then I frame Jules’s face with my palms. A shaky breath escapes. “Jules …”

Her lips part with a little exhale as her eyes dance from mine to my mouth. “Linc …”

“Kiss me,” I say.

Then our lips meet as if she, too, has the desperate need to be reminded with warmth and oxygen and skin that we’re alive.

Our mouths move together in a kiss that sparks and snaps like an electrical current.

My pulse spikes.

She grips my shirt, demanding I move closer.

Our surroundings turn blurry. My thoughts get fuzzy.

There’s just Jules. Me. This connection.