Page 35 of This is a Kissing Book

“We could be good again.” Her voice drops to a throaty whisper that used to appeal to my ego. “I know things ended badly, but⁠—”

I interrupt, “I remember you deciding our schedules weren’t compatible.”

The subtext was that I was bore-ring, in her words. I also wasn’t helping her climb the social ladder as quickly as she’d hoped with my NHL and billionaire connections.

Boo hoo.

Her mask slips for just a second, revealing something calculating underneath. “That’s not fair, Linc-y. I cared about you.”

Dead air hangs between us as another fan barges into our semi-private conversation. I mutter, “You cared about what I could do for you.”

After another selfie and autograph, she returns with her bright smile. “Guess what? I’m seeing someone new anyway.”

Of course, she is and I’m sure he’d really appreciate what she just said to me. My sarcasm dial is turned all the way up.

Without my asking, she supplies, “I’m with Aiken D. You know, the social media star? He’s got this amazing channel where he destroys expensive things for entertainment. Cars, musical instruments, sometimes even art pieces.” She speaks like she’s bragging about dating a doctor who saves children’s lives and rescues puppies on the side.

A few of the dudes on my team watch Aiken D, the Demo King’s stuff. From what I know, the guy is a trust fund brat who burns through money and relationships with equal enthusiasm. Bīriņš showed me some videos where he destroyed vintage guitars and crashed a Ferrari and a Lamborghini into each other for views. He’s exactly the kind of person who gives wealthy twenty-somethings a bad name. The kind of guy Juliana thought I was.

“He sure sounds like a catch,” I say dryly.

She leans in conspiratorially and more cameras snap. “He is. And between you and me, he throws the most incredible parties. You should come tonight—rooftop club, very exclusive. Unless you’re still being bore-ring and responsible.”

She says the last part like I have a character defect, telling me everything I need to know about her priorities and why we didn’t work out. Iva sees stability as stagnation, commitment as limitation. She wants someone who’ll play her games and feed her need for drama.

I’m not that guy.

I used to think I was heartbroken when we split. Now I realize I was just … disappointed. In her, but mostly in myself, for not seeing who she really was—someone who wants attention rather than a relationship.

This is why I’m single. Why I focus on hockey. Women like Iva are users and I’m over being garage sale goods.

Even as I think it, an image flashes through my mind—blonde hair streaked with summer strawberry strands, a sharp wit, and eyes that see so much. Juliana isn’t like Iva. She doesn’t want anything from me as far as I can tell. She challenges me in a way that makes me want to rise to the occasion, not because she wants to tear me down—most of the time. I’ll admit that occasionally my ego could use some pruning.

Giving Iva a polite nod, I say, “Thanks for the invite.”

Her smile turns brittle. “Your loss. Aiken has some fancy art pieces you might like to see destroyed if you’re still bickering with Daddy Warbucks about hockey. His mother is very connected in the art world.” She bats her eyelashes. “And the best part, he knows how to have a good time.”

“I’m sure he does.”

She gives me one last appraising look, like she’s calculating whether I’m worth another attempt. Apparently, I’m not, because she shrugs and turns away. “See you around, Linc-y. Try not to be a stranger.”

I watch her go and then place my smoothie order, feeling nothing but relief. Whatever hold Iva once had on me is gone, replaced by something else—curiosity about a woman who makes me want to be worthy of her respect.

Back at the office, I can’t concentrate. Every time I try to focus on quarterly projections or strategic initiative reports, I catch a hint of cherry blossom and almonds—Juliana’s scent—wafting from the reception area.

It’s sweet and warm and wholly distracting.

More than once, I find myself peering through the double doors, noticing the way she absently twirls a pen between her fingers when she’s thinking, how she gets a little crease between her eyebrows when she’s concentrating. Glimpsing a little smile at the corner of her lips when she’s … well, I’m not sure what. Certainly not thinking about me.

And why am I thinking about her so much?

The woman is brilliant. Infuriating at times, but smart and clever and beautiful, too.

At the end of the day, we both pack up, the silence awkward rather than acrimonious. The weather has taken a turn with dark clouds overhead, promising the kind of summer storm that’ll keep me landlocked tonight. So much for a sunset boat cruise with the guys.

Jules joins me in the elevator and we both remain quiet. Could be that the thick, gray blanket outside has a muffling effect.

“Looks like rain,” I say dumbly.