Page 20 of This is a Kissing Book

“I do not. Whatever expression you see on my face is one of loathing. Deep, unadulterated hatred.”

They both laugh like I’m Ken from shipping and receiving, who is ready with a new “dad joke” whenever he rolls through.

“The man is minty,” I continue, desperate to make my point.

Carmen inhales dreamily. “I bet he smells ah-may-zing.”

“Like mint?” Wendy asks.

“Probably more like a rat that just crawled out of a sewer and then stepped in dog⁠—”

“Then what did you mean by minty?” Wendy interrupts again.

I search for the right words. “You know, harsh. Sharp. Like he could cut you down with a single look.”

But even as I say it, I remember the way his aftershave lingered in the elevator earlier—clean and crisp.

“Speaking of your minty boss,” Carmen says, glancing at her computer screen, “you might want to head back upstairs. He just sent out a company-wide email asking for you.”

My stomach lurches. “What kind of email?”

“The kind that says, ‘Has anyone seen Julita? I need her in my office immediately.’ I assume that’s you.”

“He still doesn’t know your name?” Wendy whispers as if she’s about to get in trouble by proxy.

“He certainly knows it, but doesn’t hesitate to call me anything other than Juliana. Most recently, he referred to me as Buttercup.”

Wendy bounces a little. “Like from Princess Bride? That means he’s your Westley.”

“You’ll fall in love after peril and a grand gesture—a declaration of devotion!” Now Carmen has gone over the top.

“Never.” I roll my eyes, but before I can fume, I take my leave.

10

JULES

The elevator ride to the top floor runs at half speed like a poorly calibrated vinyl record. Where is an executive with his badge when you need one? Oh, right, sending out a company-wide email inquiring about my whereabouts. Why does he need me, anyway? My inner romantic reads into the phrasing and I very quickly put it in the time-out chair. Next stop, the naughty step.

Between floors thirty-three and thirty-nine, then down the long hallway, my thoughts jump from him reprimanding me for leaving the office, to gradually worsening scenarios.

Maybe someone saw me take those fancy gel highlighters from the supply closet recently. It wasn’t stealing, exactly, more like gathering supplies for when I’m working from home. Sometimes my colleagues ask for my help with their projects. It’s not my fault, which often results in longer hours, some of them at home.

Perhaps Sullivan discovered I don’t actually have my degree.

I knock on his office door, thankful my shoes aren’t squeaky today.

“Come in, Julian.” Mr. Sullivan stands behind his desk, rolling up his shirt sleeve as if preparing for a fight … or to tease me with his toned forearms that could’ve been chiseled from marble by a master craftsman.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Sullivan?” Concurrently, I ask my cheeks to remain their normal shade because … forearms.

“Call me Linc,” he says without looking up.

That explains L. Sullivan, but not what the office girlies downstairs were saying about him supposedly being Mr. Andresen’s son. They must’ve been mistaken.

Mustering boldness, I say, “Then you call me by my name. Juliana.”

“Okay, Julana.” He works on the other shirt sleeve now, folding the fabric neatly.