Page 21 of This is a Kissing Book

My eyes glaze over, then I give my head a shake to come out of this stupor. I speak slowly and with emphasis when I say, “It’s Juliana.”

Jewel-EEE-ah-na! It’s not hard unless you’re a dumb butt.

He finally looks up, and I catch the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “My apologies, Miss Lindley.”

The way he says my last name with confidence suggests he does indeed know my correct first name. His voice is like a whisper to awaken the butterflies sleeping in my stomach.

“I have a new project for you,” he continues, tapping the papers on his desk and showcasing firm muscles against tan skin.

“What about the Gettysburg painting authentication?” I ask, referring to another task he saddled me with.

“We’ll be doing both.”

Of course, he’d double my workload. I bite back my initial response and settle for, “Lucky me.”

His lips twitch. “I need you to research its provenance.” And then he starts to mansplain the concept.

“I know what provenance is,” I interrupt, then immediately regret it when his eyebrows rise.

“Do you?”

“The ownership history of a piece. Documentation proving its authenticity and legal ownership through time.”

“Good.” His tone is patronizing enough to make my teeth clench. “Then you’ll understand the importance of being thorough.”

Rifling through the papers, he mentions wooing an obscure investor, a postmaster named Eli Ligget from Indiana, and tracking down handwritten letters that may or may not exist. It’s confusing, scattered, and seems like he and another exec made a bet, and whoever lost had to take on the project. Though I vaguely recognize the name from my Eaton Boyd research.

“Any questions?” he asks when he’s finished.

“Only about eighteen hundred,” I mutter, starting with why he looks so good in those glasses and ending with whether he’s always this impossible or if it’s just a special gift he reserves for me. Instead, I go with, “When do you need this completed?”

“By the end of the week.”

“This Friday?”

“Is that a problem?”

“That’s tomorrow.”

“Oh. Right,” he says as if he’s been boating with his buddy and lost track of time. I happen to know he hasn’t been on the water since he broods at his desk all day or staring down at the sheet of glassy liquid below the building.

“By the end of the month, then.”

“That’s in two weeks.”

Shall I lady-splain that these types of projects take time? Lots of time, especially if I’m the only one working on it.

“Would you like help?” I can’t read his sarcasm meter.

“Not from you,” I blurt like a ball rolling downhill.

A shadow crosses his features. “You know what? You’re a real peach, Yulia.”

My lip juts out as I try to decide whether I should be offended or lean into the sass and his repeated misuse of my name.

Glitter, Juliana. Use the glitter!

But I don’t. I possibly do something worse. “If that’s the case,” my voice drops, “then bite me.”