Page 47 of This is a Kissing Book

While I’m here, I’m going to find the lost love letters and I may as well try to do something useful. Turning back to the spreadsheets, the numbers don’t lie—if we’re right, Jules uncovered something that could seriously damage Meridian Holdings. But there’s still more digging to do because it could be as minor as a staff member forgetting to add a comma, cross a t, or dot an i.

Or someone could be stealing money.

The question that keeps me up at night isn’t who, though.

My initial instinct was to protect Jules because everyone knows what happens to whistleblowers, which is probably the real reason why I told her to stay in her lane. The corresponding thought was that my father is involved. If it’s true, that’s certainly not something to be trifled with. Looking back, my warning could’ve been delivered more delicately.

When I’m not thinking about that, I’m preoccupied by the Echo & Answer painting. It’s missing from the Fairfax Collection, but where could it be?

Then there’s the nagging thought of whether all of this is connected.

Doubtful, but the letters, though important to my mother, would fetch a high price at auction. As far as I know, Mom was the only one looking for them. But could someone else be too?

I’m hunched over spreadsheets when Jules materializes at my desk, fidgeting with the loose string on her shirt. I’ve come to know her various laughs—nervous, amused, giddy. Her smiles—obligatory, shy, genuine. That she always adds one unexpected flourish to her otherwise professional outfits—a sparkly pair of earrings here. A pair of patent leather pumps there.

She’s like an artist who just can’t help but add one more brushstroke to make the masterpiece pop.

But the fidgeting right now suggests she’s about to say something completely unexpected.

“I’m the cheer to your blah,” she announces, setting down a paper cup of coffee.

I look up. “Hardly.”

“The cream to your black coffee.”

Delighted by the gesture because I’d been considering sneaking a nap, I take a sip. “There are grounds at the bottom.”

“There are not. It was from a fresh pot.”

I snicker. Just trying to get a rise out of her, see her blush … smile, even if it’s a harbinger of revenge.

She shifts from foot to foot. For the past few days, she’s been doing weird little things, which, after being in her house, are very on brand. The woman is unique, delightfully quirky. A breath of fresh air when she’s not acting like she hates the ground I walk on.

Yesterday, I’m certain she was rooting through my desk drawer. Sorry to disappoint, but the only things I keep in here are a notepad, pens, paperclips, a letter opener, a spare phone charger, and a tin of mints. Like an art thief leaving behind a calling card, I found a tiny rubber duck with a bowtie. I noticed she had several on the windowsill in her bathroom.

After my discovery, tit for tat, I went through her desk drawer. I am not one to be outdone. There, I found a small stack of fortune cookie fortunes. All optimistic and each with lucky number eighty-three on the back. Odd. Her desk also houses several types of lip balm, gloss, and lipstick, along with a lot of chocolate. Lots.

I added a fake plastic spider to her stash of paperclips.

Now she’s hovering like she wants to tell me something, but can’t figure out how to start. Or she wants to inform me that she’s leaving. Or … I’m not sure what.

Jules keeps me on my toes. This would be a great time to skate a few laps, blow off some steam. Get iced up.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” I ask without looking up from my computer’s monitor.

Despite the connection I thought we’d established—I sat on her couch, drank a root beer, told her I’m related to our sixteenth president—we’ve slipped back into our grumpy boss and cheerful assistant roles.

She pulls a penny from her pocket and starts tossing it, but then fumbles and it spins on my desk before lazily showing heads. The movement draws my attention to her hands, then I drag my gaze up her body. Today, she’s wearing a pale yellow blouse with shiny white buttons and a black pencil skirt that fits her like a dream.

I get minor bumblebee vibes and remind myself that I’m allergic to all apiformes.

“Well,” she says, still fidgeting.

Now, she’s making me nervous, or at least that’s what this unusual feeling in my stomach must be.

I draw my penny out of my pocket and flip it. Heads, I go back to work. Tails, I toss her over my shoulder and carry her around the office until whatever it is she wants to tell me spills out of her.

Jules fidgets with a length of her hair, twirling it around her finger. Gripping the coin hard so I don’t reach out to feel if it’s as soft as it looks, I leave nail marks in my palm.