Page 55 of This is a Kissing Book

Linc: Not with those sugar eyes.

Me: Sugar eyes? This again. I assure you, I don’t understand. Please elaborate.

Me: Never mind. Don’t. Whatever it is, I’m not buying or selling.

He doesn’t answer.

Me: You can’t just drop something like that and ghost.

But apparently, he can, because mine is the last message in our thread.

The next day at work is torture. Linc has meetings until well after lunch, and I only catch glimpses of him in the hallowed halls of Meridian Holdings.

The first time we pass in the corridor, his lips quirk with a smile that makes my skeletal system forget that it has joints. The second time, he actually winks—winks!—like we have a secret. The third time, he looks over his shoulder at me as we pass, and I walk into a potted plant.

Thankfully, he didn’t see.

I’m not sure what to make of it.

Since the Fourth of July, I’ve started a rationing program, limiting how much I allow myself to notice about Linc’s … everything. Today I’m allowing myself his eyelashes—thick and dark and completely unfair on a man.

Tomorrow, it will be his jawline, masculine and strong—suggesting whatever he says will be important. Some stubble indicates he grooms but has a full life, so it’s grown out a bit before he’s had a chance to trim it. From the vantage point behind my desk, I typically have a very flattering angle.

At least, when he’s here.

It’s become a dangerous game.

When he finally appears at my desk at three-thirty, he smells like soapy mint with a hint of aftershave that now makes me want to … lick him. No, that’s not right. Too extreme. Too … weird. What am I thinking? But I do want to lean closer and breathe him in. Which would definitely be an HR violation. I tell myself that I’ll wash his hoodie tonight and return it to him. I won’t find it next to my pillow like I did this morning.

“About tonight,” he says, perching on the edge of my desk.

Hyper aware of his proximity, I suffer from the deadly trio of pink cheeks, a fluttering stomach, and a light layer of sweat at the nape of my neck. It’s oh-so-attractive.

I swallow thickly. “Tonight?”

He waggles his eyebrows. “The private party. River North. Exclusive showing of a Civil War Collection.”

My eyes widen. “Oh. That actually sounds really cool. I thought it was going to be another hipster glamour carnival, only this time in a cave instead of on a rooftop.”

He chuckles. “But there is one thing. My father will be there.” He winces as if preparing for someone to fix his broken nose. It’s not broken, but it may have been once. I’ll have to inspect it more carefully. I appoint Wednesday nose day.

“I’ve met Mr. Andresen.” I think of the lobby when we were with Bear Paw or whatever Linc’s boating buddy was named.

“I mean, he wants to meet you, uh, my assistant.”

That makes my antenna lift. “Why?”

“Because he’s noticed some really good work come out of this office and is convinced that I have nothing to do with it. I mean, probably. When it comes to my father, that’s par for the course.”

“Does he like golf?”

“Lives for it.”

“Anything else I should know?” I recall Linc’s comments about his mother’s journal and get a very stereotypical blueprint of what life was like in the Andresen household: a demanding father. A doting mother. A son caught in between, who tried to go his own way but repeatedly disappointed the one guy who should’ve been his biggest support.

He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but makes me worry I drooled a little. Friday will be hair day.

“Yeah, actually.” He pauses as if weighing something. “My mother believed that the painting we’re looking for contained symbols—a visual code like the positioning of a fallen flag, the angle of a cannon, the number of visible stars. She described it like a map for those who knew how to read it.”