Page 48 of This is a Kissing Book

The power goes out in my brain like during a summer storm. The logical part that categorizes, analyzes, and keeps everything in neat compartments goes offline entirely. All I can process is the way her teeth worry her bottom lip and how badly I want to smooth away that little crease between her eyebrows.

She presses her lips together as if afraid to elaborate.

Then I tell her about the two possible outcomes of my coin toss.

“You wouldn’t do that, would you? Surely, it’s against HR rules.”

I get to my feet and stalk toward her.

She backs up as a slow grin broadens across her face.

I inch closer.

She blurts, “Okay, I told my friends Oly and Nate that my boss is related to Abraham Lincoln and they don’t believe me.”

I blink, slightly confused, though this is Jules, Queen of Quirk. “Why would you do that?”

“Because before that, I told them I met Iva Katz. Ever since we were kids, Oly has been a huge fan. Let’s see, her favorites were ‘Secret Liaison,’ ‘Heart Signals,’ ‘Arcane Skulls,’ and ‘Honey Bunny Bon Bon.’ Such an eclectic catalog.” She smooshes the sentences together.

The cold and familiar feeling of being used forms a brick of ice in my stomach. “Are you⁠—?”

“And Nate thought it was cool that I met Aiken the Demo King. They wanted the whole backstory.”

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by curiosity about how her mind works. “Did you mention the painting?”

“Of course not.” She looks genuinely offended. “That’s our thing, Linc-y baby.”

I exhale a breath and want to be annoyed at her for using Iva’s nickname for me, but I initially refused to use her proper name. Now, I’ve landed on “Jules” or Buttercup. I like that too.

Also, might I detect a hint of curiosity? Ridicule? Jealousy? A cocktail of all three? My gaze skates over her, searching for a clue.

She bites her lip. “So, um, they want proof you’re real. We could video chat with them, but …” She trails off, then glancing at the penny in her hand, she adds, “Actually, it was a pickleball bet.”

“A what?”

“Pickleball. It’s like tennis but smaller.” She pinches her fingers together.

“I know what pickleball is. But what’s a pickleball bet?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s the Fourth of July this weekend and they’re having a party. All you’d need to do is show up, play one game, then be gone.”

I can’t tell if she’s serious. With Jules, that’s always the question. She’s an original, first edition. I’ve learned to expect the unexpected. On Monday, her lunch was in a hollowed-out coconut because “Mondays in the summer need a splash of tropical pizzazz.”

“Do you have any plans Saturday afternoon?” she continues, rushing the words together. “You’d only have to play one game and then you could dip out. No need to stay for fireworks.”

I should say no. Bīriņš invited all the guys down to go boating. Plus, I don’t know Oly and Nate. I’m not big on social gatherings with strangers and I prefer hockey over pickleball.

But Jules looks at me with a hopeful, slightly desperate expression that’s near irresistible.

I rake my hand through my hair and find myself saying, “After the rooftop party, I do owe you.”

“So you’ll do it?”

I nod.

“Really?” Her body seems to coil as if she’s holding something back.

“Yes.”