Page 112 of This is a Kissing Book

I want Jules and I have a high rate of confidence that the feeling is mutual.

Eventually, we ease up and the kiss turns sweet again. Her fingers roam along the nape of my neck, sending shivers down my spine. My own hand traces the curve of her hips, slow and deliberate, memorizing every dip and plane.

She lets out a heavy sigh when we break apart, and my gaze strays to the way her lips look slightly swollen from my kiss.

“Linc,” she whispers, and I’m not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation.

“Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m agreeing to, but she can have anything of mine. She can have me.

The next few days pass in a blur of insurance investigation. We try to locate the possible four additional desks, sending the photos Jules took to antiques dealers and Abraham Lincoln estate experts. Meanwhile, I’m staving off the reality that very soon I’ll be leaving for hockey prep while playing house with Jules. I gave her my credit card to replace what she needs—clothes, toiletries, and basic necessities when really I want to buy her the world.

She insists on paying me back, while I assure her it’s not necessary. She’s too stubborn to accept outright charity. I told her not to worry about it. She promises anyway, and I know she means it. This woman, who has every reason to take advantage of my resources, refuses to accept even the smallest gesture without trying to reciprocate.

All I want is to give to someone who has such a hard time receiving.

For the first time in my life, I’ve met someone who doesn’t want what I have—money, influence, and fame. Rather, she just wants me.

I check Aiken’s social media obsessively, looking for any sign that he’s destroyed the painting he won at the auction—Echo & Answer. No evidence yet, which gives me hope that we might still have a chance at finding those letters.

When my team captain calls about a mandatory event in Ottawa the following weekend, I almost skip it. The thought of leaving Jules alone, even in my secure building, makes my body flood with adrenaline.

I assure myself she’ll be fine here. The place is like Fort Knox. I have the perfect opportunity to tell her about hockey, about my real career, and why I’m going to Canada. Instead, I say it’s business and leave it at that.

Why ruin a good thing?

The reasoning is all wrong and I know that, but what else am I going to do—as I rush out the door, call, Oh, and by the way, I play for the NHL. Byeee?

She’ll find out. But I tell myself we’ll deal with it later.

Walking into the training facility feels like exhaling after holding my breath for months. The familiar smell of rubber mats and industrial-strength cleaning solution, the swish of skates on ice, the rhythmic thunk of pucks hitting the boards remind me this is where I belong. It’s like my nervous system finally remembers how to function properly.

The ice calls to me the second I lace up my skates. I take a few warm-up laps, feeling my muscles remember this language they’ve spoken since I was five years old. Every stride feels like coming home.

The guys run passing drills, working on conditioning, and I slip into the rotation like I haven’t spent the summer playing executive boss. Coach has us do breakaway scenarios next and power play setups. For once, I don’t complain when he has us repeat them ad nauseam.

In the locker room afterward, sweat-soaked and breathing hard in the best possible way, I’m adjusting my gear when the teasing starts.

“Not long until preseason begins and you’ll be free of your nepo baby summer internship,” Johannessen says, tossing a puck my way.

I catch it reflexively, but my mind is elsewhere. In Chicago, with Jules, wondering if she’s safe.

“Earth to Linc,” Butcher says. “You’ve been distracted all weekend.”

“Just got a lot on my mind.”

“Let me guess,” Stevens grins. “Girl problems.”

“It’s not—” I start, then stop. Because it is girl problems, just not the kind they think.

I tell them I met someone, but leave out the parts about our adventures and almost being buried in an underground tunnel.

“Is the problem that you’re her boss?” Johannessen asks, holding his hands open for the puck.

I toss it. “Nope. It’s an unpaid internship, so I’m not on the payroll.”

“Meaning you don’t get a weekly check.”

I shake my head.