Page 16 of This is a Kissing Book

With my teammate standing between us in the elevator, this time, I don’t catch her cherry blossom and almond scent. Earlier, it brought to mind a rose-colored memory of a trip Mom took me on to Washington, D.C. It was spring and the soft breeze would blow the flower petals from the trees. She called it “rain from heaven.” I guess she can confirm that now. We visited numerous libraries on her search for the lost love letters that she claimed were my birthright. After flipping through so many dusty old books, I decided that paper smells faintly of almonds.

One of my favorite memories. Two of my favorite scents.

The elevator dings for the lobby.

After we step onto the shiny marble floor, Bīriņš turns to my assistant. “I bet you look really good sunbathing, Juliana.”

I fight the urge to flick his ear. For all I know, this woman could be totally into him and feed off comments like that. Or she could be married. Though no ring.

Her cheeks turn a faint shade of cherry before her lips drop into a flat line. “While I appreciate you using my correct name,” she cuts me a glare, “I prefer full-body swimming costumes.”

“Like a wetsuit?” I blurt, not sure what to make of her response.

Bīriņš waggles his eyebrows. “I bet that leaves a lot to the imagination.”

Her expression pinches with a pout. Presumably, that wasn’t the response she intended. “Um, Mr. Sullivan probably⁠—”

And there it is. I flinch.

“Mr. S—?” Bīriņš doesn’t even have my mother’s maiden name out of his mouth, likely wondering why Juliana called me that, when she finishes her thought, “has a lot of work for me to do so⁠—”

“Linc,” I interject. “Just call me Linc.”

Juliana frowns. Seems like she’s not keen on skipping class, especially not with me.

I’d like to beam myself out of here as my father materializes, flanked by his assistant and Drecken. He looks at the three of us, undoubtedly recognizing my teammate, and narrows his eyes in my direction, very likely reading this situation accurately. “Don’t you have a project you should be working on? This isn’t summer vacation.”

That’s exactly what it is, but even Bīriņš is smart enough not to cross Frank Andresen. My father has the kind of commanding presence that can get the burliest of hockey players to back down.

I would know.

Turning to Juliana, my father says, “Are you the new assistant?”

“Yes, sir. We were just showing this man to the exit—he got lost upstairs—before we head to the reference room.” Juliana’s smile is convincing … mesmerizing. Never mind charming the ice off a rink, she could melt it.

Apparently, my father buys it. “Very well. Good day to you all.”

Bīriņš starts walking backward, slowly toward the exit, and in a low, conspiratorial tone—as if he’ll employ a network of spies if necessary—he says, “This isn’t over. I’ll be back to break you out of here.”

But I’m not sure whether he means Juliana or me.

When we’re alone, I bark, “Better get back to work, Julianne.”

She narrows her eyes and whispers, “By the way, I’ll never share my chocolate with you.” Turning on her heel, she gets on the elevator and pounds the closed button before I can board.

I’d rather go to the reference room, anyway. But the question about why she helped me out lingers as I exit onto the lower floor. It’s been ages since I’ve been down here—always with Mom.

The Research and Reference Department occupies an entire level and, on one side, contains climate-controlled glass cases displaying rotating selections from our vast collection that are under examination—ancient manuscripts, first-edition volumes, and authenticated artifacts.

Floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves occupy the other side, housing thousands of books, while another area contains catalogue raisonnés, auction records dating back centuries, and comprehensive provenance documentation.

The far end of the floor hosts workstations featuring high-resolution digital displays connected to Meridian’s global database of artwork ownership information and histories.

White-gloved archivists and authentication specialists work at examination tables equipped with advanced imaging technology, UV lights, and microscopy equipment for analyzing brushstrokes, paper composition, and ink dating.

The room maintains museum-quality environmental conditions with precise temperature, humidity, and lighting systems to protect the invaluable reference materials spanning thousands of years.

Being back here stirs up memories of tagging along with my mother—her showing me the importance of history as she sought to clarify our own. Or, the more I’ve understood, perhaps solidify her future with my father.