Page 148 of This is a Kissing Book

Somehow, that’s all that needs to be said about. The sincerity, the surety, supercedes our mistakes. We’re equally at fault. Equally remorseful.

“Never again?” she asks.

“You mean we’ll never keep secrets again?”

“Never.”

“Never,” I echo.

“I love you, Linc. All of you. Hockey player, reluctant businessman, descendant of a president, intrepid underground adventurer. I love every part of you.”

“I love you too, Jules. Art expert, master forger, Care Bear enthusiast, woman who makes me want to write love letters like my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.” I grin.

She threads her fingers through mine. “So you and me?”

I nod. “Want to play hooky today?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Hockey?”

I chuckle, relieved not to hear bitterness in her voice. “No, I mean take the day off. I promise your boss won’t mind.” I gesture toward the building behind her.

“What were you thinking?”

“I have some people I want you to meet.”

“Your teammates?”

“They’re still in town because of a league meeting. Fair warning—they don’t take losses well and they’re probably going to want a rematch against Chicago. They might question your loyalty since you were sitting with the Breeze fans,” I joke.

Shortly after, we’re at a diner near the lake, and Jules holds her own against five professional hockey players who’ve made it their mission to embarrass me as thoroughly as possible.

“So this is the woman who had our boy moping around training camp like a rejected puppy,” Stevens says, cutting his pancakes while his phone goes around the group, showing off video of his twin daughters cheering on the Outlaws to anyone who’ll watch.

“I wasn’t moping,” I protest.

“Were too,” Goudreau adds bluntly.

“He’d check his phone every five minutes to see if you texted,” Stevens confirms.

Pete Johannessen, never one to miss an opportunity for comedy, leans across the table. “He asked us if we thought sending flowers to the office as an apology was too much. We told him it was too little.”

Jules’s eyebrows lift.

“Then he asked about chocolates.” Stevens shakes his head.

“Then coffee⁠—”

“There’s never enough coffee,” Bīriņš interrupts, swigging what now must amount to an entire pot.

“Or chocolate,” Jules pipes.

“We told him to be honest.” Goudreau grunts.

Some descendant of Honest Abe I am. I slope my head in hangdog agreement and mouth I’m sorry.

The corner of Jules’s mouth bunches with a grin.

“He should have listened to us months ago,” Goudreau barks from the end of the table.