Page 44 of This is a Kissing Book

“All guys? First of all, you’re my boss. Second of all, I do not own doilies, do needlepoint projects, or have floral wallpaper. Though I wouldn’t object. Sounds like my kind of Friday night. However, even if I did, that’s not something to criticize.”

“I wasn’t. But you do have a Care Bear.”

I cut him a Care Bear STARE. Which, fine, is adorable and glowy.

He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. It’s leather and surprisingly nondescript. Manly. Though I’m not sure what I was expecting. One made out of holographic material? Gold plating?

He says, “By the way, I’m not officially on the payroll at Meridian.”

“How does that work?”

He pinches his license between his first and middle fingers, passing it to me. “Haven’t received a check yet.”

Of course, he has a good picture, unlike most humans whose driver’s license photo is a poor representation of what they look like—ironic since it’s used for identification purposes.

I read the stats: Abraham Lincoln Andresen. His address, eye color: blue, height: six feet four inches—I knew it!—weight a buck ninety-five. I bet his muscles have muscles.

Then my gaze snags on his name. Abraham Lincoln. This is either a very good fake ID or there’s a story here. One I have to know.

“You want to come up? I have root beer.”

“Root beer?”

“Not regular beer. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Root beer is my favorite,” he says in slow motion.

Then his eyes float over me, coming in and out of shadows from the headlights of passing cars. “Nothing about you could disappoint, Jules.”

I suddenly feel quite wobbly inside.

Apparently, he’s sticking with “Jules” for the variation of my name. I don’t hate it. Maybe I don’t even hate him.

He follows me upstairs. I’m keenly aware of how lived-in my single room studio is compared to the office and the extravagance of the party.

In my postage stamp-sized home, to the left of the front door is the kitchen quadrant, designated with a non-slip mat. Along the wall on the right, my sofa and coffee table make up the living room, designated by a jute rug. The bookshelf creates a vague border wall to my bedroom area, designated by a plush faux fur sheepskin that’s a delight to step on when it’s cold out.

He eyes the Care Bear on my bed, then eyes me, and we stare at each other for a long, meaningful moment.

“Cute,” he says at last, breaking the standoff.

I take that to mean he thinks I’m a child. Yay. My thoughts tune to the sarcastic station.

Linc plants himself on one side of my two-person couch—a glorified love seat. I bring him a can of root beer and plop down beside him. It cannot be helped. Our knees brush. The denim of his jeans is like soft grit sandpaper against my bare skin, and neither of us pulls away. Instead, we both take simultaneous sips of root beer as if waiting for the picture show to start.

I have to get a handle on myself. I cannot be tricked. Refuse to let myself be attracted to a guy who hates me. I don’t want to become a cautionary tale of heartbreak.

“So,” I start, biting the inside corner of my lip. “Abraham Lincoln.”

“What about him?”

“The penny flipping, the interest in Civil War paintings, your given name!”

He nods. “He’s my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.”

I don’t know what answer I expected, but I inhale liquid instead of sipping my root beer. After sputtering a few times, I ask, “Your what?” The words come out as a garbled squeak that would appall my church choir leader.

“On my mother’s side. Her family line traces back to the Lincolns.”