Page 119 of This is a Kissing Book

She whispers, “Your mom was so sweet, so strong. She loved you and your dad so much, even when it didn’t seem like the sentiment was returned.”

I smooth my thumb across her jawline, wiping away her sadness. “Sometimes when there’s a person in our lives who does the wrong thing, we learn more about the kind of person we want to be.” That’s something Mom would’ve said.

The chair barely fits both of us, but I settle beside her anyway, pulling her against my side as we watch the sun begin its descent toward the glassy lake. Jules feels small and warm pressed against me, and I want to shield her from every hurt she’s ever experienced.

“Tell me about your past relationships,” I say, surprising myself.

“That’s a cheerful topic change,” she laughs a cute, snorty, watery laugh.

Squeezing her close, I say, “I want to know about your great love story.”

She scoffs. “There haven’t been any serious ones. My last boyfriend was a lot like my dad—charming when he wanted to be, but unreliable. He’d often miss important events and holidays like my birthday.”

“Then we had that in common about our dads.”

“He’d show up later with a gift as if that made up for the disappointment.”

The casual way she mentions her birthday being forgotten makes me want to give her a celebration she’ll never forget, yet all she wanted was a love song. I’ll certainly never forget our doughnuts at dawn. “You deserve better than that.”

She snuggles against my chest. “What about your love life?”

“A few relationships that never really went anywhere.”

The truth is, most of the women I’ve dated were more interested in my last name or proximity to fame than anything else. Jules doesn’t even know my real career exists and aside from paying off the debt she’s saddled with, doesn’t seem to be concerned about striking it rich. Past girlfriends would insist I take them to fancy events, get us into swanky restaurants, exclusive clubs, buy them clothes, and expect expensive things.

Jules had my credit card for a week and spent a whopping two hundred and eighty dollars after losing all of her worldly possessions.

She turns to face me fully, her eyes searching mine. “Can I ask you something? What happens after? Say we find the letters. We prove there was insurance fraud going on. What then?”

The question makes me feel like I missed a crucial pass, lost a game. I’ve been so focused on the search, on protecting her, on this growing connection between us, that I haven’t thought about what comes next. Hockey season starts in a few weeks. She thinks I’m just some rich kid tolerating my father’s insistence that I learn the family business. And somewhere in the mess of insurance fraud and burned buildings and lost love letters, I think we’re creating something special.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

The next morning dawns bright and cheerful, sunlight dancing across the lake like scattered coins. Jules appears in the kitchen wearing one of my old t-shirts that falls to mid-thigh, her hair piled in a messy bun, and I nearly drop the coffee mug I’m holding.

She’s gorgeous. All those summer sun freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and spreading across her cheeks like someone flicked a paintbrush. Lips that are way too distracting for someone who talks as much as she does. And her curves make a man forget what he was doing—pouring coffee? The way her hair catches light like spun gold with hints of strawberry. And her laughter … I’ll do desperate things to hear more of it.

When she asked if she could borrow an old shirt for pajamas back in Chicago, I hoped she didn’t notice how many hockey team shirts I owned. But this was also her way of saving money. While I like the looks of her in my t-shirt, I hate the idea of her thinking she can’t buy a cute pair of pajamas—or ten—because she doesn’t want to take advantage of my generosity or that she’ll owe me.

The only thing I want from Jules is … well, Jules.

“Morning,” she says, padding barefoot across the tile floor.

“Morning.” I hand her a mug. Our fingers brush in the exchange and send a shiver through me despite the warm late-summer morning. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in weeks.” She takes a sip of coffee and closes her eyes appreciatively. “I understand why your mother loved this place so much.”

I lean against the counter, watching her move around the kitchen. Like a little cartoon thought bubble, the idea that she belongs here pops into my mind. “What do you want to do today?”

She spins to face me and beams a smile. “This is the perfect place to take a whimsy.”

“You told me before, ‘if you know, you know,’ but I still don’t know whatsy a whimsy is.”

“Then I’ll show you.” She bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet.

An hour later, we’re hiking through the woods behind the cabin. Jules chatters about everything and nothing—the birdsong, the way the light filters through the leaves, a funny story about Oly and Nate’s first dating disaster. Side note: it wasn’t their last, but now they’re married, so they got an HEA, which she explains means a happily ever after.

We wander, stop, look, listen, kiss. This woman has a way of finding joy in the smallest details that makes me see the world differently.