Page 38 of This is a Kissing Book

I grunt. So she did believe me and was just giving me a hard time. But why? “Where am I going?”

She gives me her address in Logan Square, and we settle into uncomfortable silence as if neither one of us can figure out a good segue from the romance, heart, and love conversation. No sooner do I think of a topic that isn’t the weather, we’re pulling up in front of a converted brick building that would be advertised by realtors as an “artist’s loft.”

“Thanks for the ride,” she says, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t.”

She doesn’t argue.

I watch her hurry up the front steps, fumbling with her keys in the rain. She doesn’t look back, but I sit there for a moment anyway, watching her building like a lurker … or a doting boyfriend to make sure she gets in safely.

Rubbing my hand down my face, I have to wonder, what is wrong with me?

Late that night, my phone buzzes with a message through the Meridian app. I’m inclined to ignore it since it could be my father, demanding I work on the weekend, but I can’t resist the possibility that it could be the assistant who loves to hate me.

J. Lindley: Regarding that conversation we had this week, we need to talk. ASAP.

I stare at the message, remembering my cowboy move—that selfie I sent her. Probably crossed about fifteen HR lines with that one. I need to keep this professional. But my thoughts are slow to come around to what she refers to. There are a number of things we discussed.

Most likely, it doesn’t have anything to do with a romantic getaway to Cabo. Better chances are it has something to do with the discrepancies I told her to stay away from.

I’m only here for the summer and would be better off not getting involved in corporate espionage—or whatever crimes are potentially being committed at Meridian. Anyway, who knows, it could be a genuine fluke. All the same, I reply.

L. Sullivan: What did you find?

Instead of a regular message, I get a selfie of her with her hand on her chin like the “thinking emoji.” Not quite quick enough to read between the lines, my phone pings again with a link to an article about recent art forgeries hitting the auction circuit. I read through it quickly, my concern growing with each paragraph. This is bigger than just authentication issues.

My mind races through possibilities and then it lands on one so obnoxious, I can’t ignore it. I think we’d be better off having an off-the-clock conversation. Is that what she was suggesting, anyway? Interesting.

I spend the next hour following my hunch, making calls, reaching out to contacts in the art world, and digging into the names mentioned in Juliana’s research. What I find isn’t about forgeries—it’s something else entirely. A wildly unexpected lead on the painting Echo & Answer that my mother believed pointed to the lost letters … and it just so happens I have an invitation to a party hosted by its potential owner.

Maybe. It’s a bit of a lark, but what else am I doing tonight other than being bore-ring?

I’m staring at the information on my laptop when I make a decision that’s probably foolish. Then again, Juliana is a romantic. She said it herself. Maybe she wouldn’t find the search for the lost letters strange.

I grab my keys and head back out into the rain.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside Juliana’s building, find her name on the mailbox for 4B, and then when someone exits, I take the opportunity to go upstairs to her unit. The rain has slowed to a drizzle from the earlier downpour as I knock on the door.

When it opens, a cloud of glitter puffs into the air between us. I cough and wave my hand as Juliana’s eyes widen. Her hair is damp and in a messy bun. She wears a cozy robe and looks absolutely adorable. And absolutely furious.

“What’s with the glitter?” I try to brush it off, but this seems like only something that could be removed with a stiff-bristle brush or a wind tunnel.

“What are you doing here?” she demands. “I thought someone was breaking in. I was in the shower, and—” She stops, looking at me for the first time. “You’re not wearing glasses.”

“Contacts. Look, I read your message and I know this seems⁠—”

“Sketchy? Yeah, it does.” But her anger fades, replaced by curiosity. “Did you take a whimsy and find yourself here?”

“A whatsy?”

She waves her hand. “Never mind. If you know, you know. If you don’t, you don’t.” She wraps her robe tighter around herself. “It’s after nine p.m., Linc. What could possibly be so urgent that⁠—?”

“I need you to go somewhere with me. I got a lead.”

“What kind of lead?”

I hesitate. I’m not sure how much I’m ready to reveal. “The kind that requires two people.”