Page 29 of This is a Kissing Book

Cute, huh? My lips ripple with a smile. “Actually, I’m the oldest.”

His eyebrows climb slightly toward his hairline. “I stand corrected.”

“In addition to working nights at The Lucky Nugget Casino as a showgirl, returning home in time to get me off to school. She’d also pull the day shift at a nearby diner. Then Brad the Dad swept her off her feet, they got married, and had triplets. Life changed significantly after that. Although those snot-nosed goobers were annoying, we had a family. The boys are four years younger than me, so they’re twenty-three now.”

“Triplets? Three babies at once?” he asks as if only just now grasping the concept of multiples.

“Bryce, Brian, and Brody. The ‘bros.’” I roll my eyes, but there’s affection there too. Can’t help it—they’re annoying, but they’re family. “They work in sports now. One wants to be a coach, another’s in sports marketing, and the third thinks he’s going to be the next big sports broadcaster.”

He shifts slightly as if uncomfortable. “Let me guess—they forbid you from dating anyone. Would try to embarrass you in front of the boys you brought home. Would be obnoxious any time⁠—”

My stomach flips. The comment makes me feel like I was walking down a set of stairs and missed the bottom step.

“It wasn’t like that.” What I mean to say is that I didn’t bring boys home. “They’re protective in theory, jokester jocks in practice. Think of them as overgrown, hyper puppies who never nap.” I give him a pointed look. “Unlike some people I know.”

“Hey, I don’t nap⁠—”

“You literally have a pillow stashed in the drawer of the shelving unit in your office.”

He starts to defend himself because it’s not true, but then says, “Have you been poking through my things?”

“No, I’m just observant.” Affronted by the accusation, I straighten my posture.

Without advance notice, an application, or so much as a choice, I was promoted to exec assistant. Fishy. So, of course, temptation dangled like a carrot on a stick. I gave in and snooped around L. Sullivan’s office. It could not be helped. Disappointingly, I didn’t even find anything interesting—not even a pillow. I made that up.

Linc pushes to standing and stretches. I watch, half expecting his shirt to lift and expose his trim waist, a tease of toned abs. Just assuming. The guy is one big muscle under his suit, given the way the fabric hugs him. But his shirt remains firmly tucked in. However, making a half turn toward his office, he cradles his head in his hands like he does during naptime. I only know this because once, he left the door cracked open.

Linc’s eyes graze over me as if he’s counting every freckle on my nose, every tremor on my lips, every twitch in my fingers. I’m suddenly warm all over as two little pink flags rise on my cheeks.

He smiles.

I blink.

It’s gone. Must’ve been my imagination.

Flustered, I swiftly move on. “The bros are still obnoxious, yet somewhat lovable. They’re adults now, but when they were kids, it was exhausting.”

“I can just picture you as a mini-mommy, micromanaging them.”

“Someone needed to facilitate order. But Brad the Dad makes my mom happy, and when they met, she no longer had to work two jobs. So I put up with the chaos, broken furniture, and frogs on my pillow. Family’s family, right?”

“And your dad?” he asks.

My walls slam back up. I’m quiet for a long moment, debating how much truth I want to share with this man who somehow keeps catching me off guard. Why am I even considering telling him this? To show him I’m human? Maybe hoping he could act that way toward me more often? I can’t reveal too much, otherwise I could raise suspicion about my degree.

Or maybe that’s just my guilty conscience.

Clearing my throat, I say, “He struggled with gambling throughout my childhood. It ultimately drove my mom away—that’s what brought her to Vegas.” My fingers find the edge of my desk, needing something solid to hold on to. “Later, he had a serious accident that left him needing daily care.”

“And you stepped in,” Linc finishes for me. “Family’s family.”

I nod. Despite how it felt like my father abandoned us and the pain he’d caused, I couldn’t do the same to him.

It’s like our family photo albums sit on the desk between us, raw, honest, unedited. Mostly. I can’t believe I just told Lincoln Sullivan—Mr. Privileged Executive himself—about the messiest parts of my life.

“I’m sorry—” His expression softens as his massive, hulking figure fills the doorway, backlit by sunlight. He could be someone’s Superman.

It’s a sight so stunning I almost need to shield my eyes.