Page 33 of This is a Kissing Book

On Monday morning, I’m already at my desk when Linc arrives, surrounded by mountains of documents. I’ve been here since seven, caffeinated and focused, following a thread in the Fairfax case that’s been nagging at me since Friday night—in addition to the messages with Linc on the company app. Hopefully, it doesn’t track how many times I looked at the attachment he sent … of him.

“Morning, Julipop,” he says, setting down a coffee for me.

I glance up, and something in my expression must give me away because his casual demeanor immediately shifts to alert.

“I think I found something,” I tell him.

“Related to the Fairfax Files?”

“There are some irregularities in the provenance of several high-value pieces associated with the collection scheduled for auction.” I gesture to the papers spread across my desk like a forensic investigation.

He grunts.

“I’m not sure what it means yet, but the documentation doesn’t add up.”

His expression grows serious. “What sort of irregularities?”

“It seems someone has been very creative with their paperwork.”

I look up at him, and for once, there’s no antagonism between us. Just concern and the shared realization that there could be something suspicious going on. Something clicks into place. It’s subtle but unmistakable—like finding the right frequency on an old radio.

“Show me what you’ve found,” he says, stepping behind me and craning over my shoulder.

As I scroll through the spreadsheet, pointing out the records, dollar amounts, and dates, Linc asks reasonable questions.

Whatever he’d planned to do when he arrived this morning is put on hold as I reveal the discrepancies in the paper trail. He removes his suit jacket, folds up his sleeves and paces the room, taking in all of this information.

“There is one piece missing from the Fairfax collection. It’s called Echo & Answer. There is no record of it in the digital archives. Nothing online. No idea of what it looks like. All we know is it was last seen and sold as part of the Douglas Kinnard estate,” I say, recapping what we know.

Linc drops his hands on my desk, framing me inside his massive arms. The banded muscles and veins form a tapestry on his forearm as he reads the content on the computer screen over my shoulder. “Are you sure that was the painter’s name for that particular piece?”

“That’s what it says here.”

Forcing back tingles inside, I continue to show him my discoveries.

As I explain the discrepancies in dates and signatures, I catch myself noticing things I shouldn’t. The way Linc leans forward when he’s concentrating. The subtle scent of his cologne teasing my nose. The contours of his lips when I glance back to see if he’s tracking all of this.

There are potentially forged documents in front of me, and I’m thinking about my grumpy boss’s forearms.

Focus, Juliana.

Outside, clouds gather for what looks like a summer storm. They’re the kind that make me want to curl up inside with tea and a good book while rain pounds against the windows.

But also the kind that makes me grateful I’m not alone.

“This could be bigger than just the Fairfax Collection,” I murmur, studying the scan of a signature that’s supposedly from 1943 but looks suspiciously fresh.

For better or worse, I’m familiar with these things, given my father’s background.

“How much bigger?” The intensity in Linc’s voice suggests this matters to him more than just professionally.

Much like in the elevator, when I look up at him, we’re barely a breath apart. My inhale catches and my voice is unsteady when I answer. “I don’t know yet. But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”

Concern pierces his eyes and then they quickly darken. “Actually, it might be better for you to stay in your lane.”

“But you requested⁠—”

“An executive summary will do,” he says with finality.