Page 23 of This is a Kissing Book

She knows me so well. “Insufferably so.”

She sing-songs. “You’re in trouble.”

“I despise him and he abhors me. That’s the way it is and how it will always be.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced.

“I may have also taken something from the office,” I add quietly.

“Juliana Lindley!”

“It was just gel highlighters … and some Post-its. Turns out I put them to good use.”

Oly gives me the look—the same one when I’d suggest skipping class to go to the Art Institute or when I’d spend my meal plan money on books instead of food.

It’s not like I forged my diploma or anything. Oh, wait. I did do that. However, no one can know that tiny detail if I am going to avoid having to move back in with Mom and Brad the Dad.

On Monday morning, I drag myself into the office like I’m at the prison gates, starting a life sentence. Linc is already at his desk when I arrive, looking annoyingly fresh and put-together in a way that suggests he actually gets eight hours of sleep instead of lying awake wondering if his research assistant is a fraud.

“The Fairfax files, Julissa?” he asks without preamble.

I grumble and then hand over the folder, trying not to notice how his fingers brush mine during the exchange or the way his aftershave makes me want to lean close … and yeah, like the little weirdo that I am, press my nose to his neck and inhale.

The office girlies are right about one thing. Linc is handsome in an effortless way that has probably gotten him out of trouble for his entire life. Dark hair and deep blue eyes behind a pair of glasses that make him look distinguished. I imagine that he’s picture-perfect right out of the shower. Not that I would ever think about that.

Only problem, and it’s gigantic—along with his ego—it turns out his personality is awful.

Thankfully, he’s gone most of the day, but returns just before it’s time to clock out. He says, “The Fairfax files were thorough.”

I pause at the door, hand gripping the frame. My back to him. “Is that a compliment or is there a but coming?”

His gaze drifts up and down my body. Or he’s worried about the finish on the wood framing as my nails dig into it.

Warmth rises up my neck and wraps around my cheeks like a hug from behind, but that can’t be right. There’s no way this man is appreciating my assets. Though I am wearing my favorite skirt.

Peeking over my shoulder, his gaze lingers on my legs—last I checked, they’re nothing special. He’s probably calculating the quickest way to push me out a window.

11

LINC

Coach can put me through a series of ten-pass chaos drills, and I won’t so much as raise an objection. I leave nothing but sweat on the ice.

But put me behind a desk all day, and I want to take a nap. I admit, I’ve dozed off more than once in the last couple of weeks since taking on the title Executive Curatorial Officer. It’s a junior position even though it’s part of the executive department, meaning it’s pending until my father decides I’m not COO or CEO material, like he hopes.

In addition to the search for the letters, his team sends assignments to me on the inter-office app. Because I have no interest, I pass them off to Juliana.

Yes, it’s inconsiderate and unprofessional.

No, I’m not entirely clueless about the operations around here.

But being in this building instead of taking a summer break after a grueling hockey season makes my brain feel like it was soaked in gasoline and lit on fire. Dramatic, I know. However, I have zero interest in filling my father’s shoes—they’re the kind that only go in one direction.

Away.

Plus, my assistant is competent and seems to enjoy art history, and if I’m entirely honest, I enjoy her even—especially when—she’s self-righteous and sassy.

Why do I keep having these thoughts?