Page 34 of This is a Kissing Book

My lips bunch together in frustration. I’m just doing the job he asked me to do. Deep research, investigating art history the way a detective would a crime, is where I thrive. He teased me with it and now he’s taking it away? I could scream.

An executive summary? I’d like to exec-u-cute him. No, he’s not a cute exec. What is wrong with me? I just want to wring his big, muscly neck. Mangle his lips with mine.

Cheese and crackers! I’ve gone mad.

Giving my head a rough shake, Linc ghosts a smile my way as if he has executive access into my brain with that badge of his.

I have a new thing I hate: the blush that sweeps across my cheeks under his gaze.

15

LINC

The gym is practically empty during lunch—exactly how I like it. No small talk, no autograph requests, just the satisfying burn of weights and the steady rhythm of my breathing.

Not the unsteady kind that happens when I’m around Juliana and not the gasp of shock I tried to hide when she shared the files with me.

I had her look into the Fairfax Collection because that’s where my mother’s trail went cold. She was convinced there was a painting of Abraham Lincoln that contained hidden symbols, creating a map of sorts that would point toward the location of the lost love letters.

Thinking about this now, I feel foolish. If Juliana knew I’m searching for lost love letters, she’d laugh in my face. Yeah, I’m a gramophone all right. Clunky, dusty, boring. A guy more interested in hockey reps than wild parties. Who would rather track my macros than the latest trends.

No need for me to risk ridicule.

Seeing the discrepancies Juliana discovered, I worry she stumbled on something sinister, something that other people in the office would rather remain hidden.

No need for her to risk her job. Better for her to drop it and for me to distance myself from her—for a variety of reasons.

After forty-five minutes of pushing iron and all of these thoughts out of my head, I’m ready for my post-workout routine—a cold shower and a protein smoothie from the place across the street.

I’m waiting in line, heart rate still elevated, when I hear a voice that makes my pulse stop.

“Linc-y Linc,” the woman squeals.

I turn, and Iva Katz, in all her glamorized glory, struts toward me. Her designer clothes in garish, clashing colors and patterns that demand attention give me an instant headache. Her perfectly applied makeup and plastic smile—the one that once practically had me under a spell—makes me want to turn and run while others in the shop flock toward her.

Being in the proximity of my ex instantly sends a wave of exhaustion and wariness over me. I’m three people away from placing my order and consider ducking out. But I can’t get away with going home for a nap and a snack today without Juliana commenting that I’m an overgrown toddler.

I glance over my shoulder as Iva lets out a squeal. I wince as she opens and closes her hand in a wave, then flashes me the one-minute signal, indicating I wait, while she poses for a photo with a fan. Typical.

When she reaches me, she makes a big fuss like I’m the star on center stage when, really, her over-the-top, bombastic behavior and appearance keep the spotlight on her. She wraps herself around me with a hug while I lightly pat her back, pulling away. I hear phone cameras flashing, capturing the moment.

When I break free, keeping my voice neutral, I offer a general greeting, “Hello. How are you?”

“Fabulous, Linc-y baby. I just finished a private tour of a very exclusive art collection.” She steps closer, invading my personal space and runs her hand across my chest. “Beautiful pieces, though none as good as this delicious hunk of man. You look good. Have you been working out more?”

The question is like asking a child if they want a colorfully frosted cookie for breakfast when their mother said to eat something sensible. I could bite, accept the compliment, and see where it goes. But I’ve learned Iva Katz doesn’t do anything without an agenda. Plus, cookies for breakfast will only leave me feeling sick.

She reaches for my biceps.

I step back slightly. “Same routine as always.”

Her laugh is like a tornado colliding with a hurricane. “I couldn’t possibly endure that kind of repetition. Bore-ring.” She bops her head. “I’ve been in three countries for filming this week alone.” She walks her first two fingers over my shoulder. “But enough about me. I’ve missed you, Linc-y. We were good together, weren’t we?”

I fight against recoiling. Looking at Iva Katz now, I’m trying to remember what I saw in her. Sure, she’s the kind of beautiful that photographs well and opens doors. But standing here, all I can think about is how different she is from a certain woman on the thirty-ninth floor.

Why am I thinking about my assistant … again?

“We were?” I blurt without thinking about how everything I say or do can and will be manipulated by this woman.