Page 56 of This is a Kissing Book

“Why not just look it up online?”

“It’s been missing. Never photographed.”

“Ah, which explains our deep dive into the Fairfax Collection.”

He nods as if his mind is elsewhere, perhaps on a battlefield of his own, one foot in the past and the other in the present. “I’ll pick you up at seven. You looked good in that little black dress, but this will be slightly more formal.”

I freeze like a department store mannequin in a window display, modeling the latest in “Corporate Professional-wear” while my brain sprints like a hamster who just took a bath in espresso, running through every word he just spoke.

Mere days ago, we were bickering about quarterly reports, and now I’m mentally cataloging how the light hits his face. Picturing how good Linc would look in black-and-white photography. The sharp lines of his jaw, the way shadows would fall across his cheekbones … Or maybe sepia, all golden and vintage like those old, romantic Hollywood movie star magazine spreads Mom loves. A girl can dream.

At the end of the day, Misha, one of Maxine Drecken’s assistants, summons me, inquiring about reports that are definitely in her job description, not mine. But like the good little worker bee that I am, I bring them to her office, but before I’m able to announce my arrival, I overhear hushed voices hissing.

“Twenty years of loyalty and he’s handing everything we’ve built to a kid who doesn’t even want it. The spoiled brat. I’ve more than earned the official role and I’m not going to let it slip through my fingers without a fight—whether Frank realizes it or not.”

A chill breezes over my skin and I hastily drop the files on Misha’s desk as she approaches, looking at me as if to ask what I’m doing here.

I point to the material she requested and then scurry away like a scared rabbit. I debate whether to tell Linc about what I overheard between the COO and her assistant.

It feels like ten years have passed before I manage to get home. By seven o’clock, I’ve changed outfits four times and settled on a navy blue dress that hits just below my knees with eyelet embroidery along the hems. It’s professional enough for meeting Linc’s father but not so formal that I look like I got lost in my aunt’s closet.

I leave my hair down before settling on putting it up and adding a pair of pearl earrings.

That’ll have to do because Linc should be here any second. I haven’t yet decided on shoes when someone knocks on the door. A tall someone in a suit when I peek through the peephole. I expected to just meet him downstairs.

I open the door and spin in a circle, panicked. He stops my twirling by dropping his hands onto my shoulders. Barefoot, I feel impossibly short, a bit vulnerable. But that may have more to do with the bold smile on his face.

“You look pretty.”

“I do?”

I can’t read his expression which tells me we’re either going to murder each other before the night is through or we’re at the start of a side quest that’s the beginning of everything.

22

JULES

The venue is a gallery in River North composed of small rooms with dark wood and dramatic lighting. They must’ve spent a fortune on placards instructing visitors not to touch or take photographs of the art or artifacts.

It’s quite a contrast to the rooftop party. Here, people in expensive clothes mill about with wine glasses in hand and speak in hushed tones about the items on exhibition.

“This is incredible,” I whisper as we walk past a display case containing actual Civil War logbooks.

“Stay close,” Linc murmurs, his hand finding the small of my back. “Don’t want you to get lost in here.”

Which, of course, is exactly what happens after we meet several men Carmen would call silver foxes, none of which are Frank Andresen.

One moment I’m following Linc through the crowd, and the next I’m standing alone in front of a display of vintage garments, wondering how I managed to lose a six-foot-plus man in a suit. I wander through several rooms, growing increasingly worried, when two security guards approach me.

“Miss, are you supposed to be here?” one asks, not unkindly but with an authoritative suspicion that makes me instantly feel guilty. Must be genetic.

“I’m with someone …” I start.

“And who might that be?”

Before I can answer, a voice behind me says, “She’s one of my employees and a guest of my son.”

I turn to see a man who looks like Linc will in thirty years—same strong jawline, same intelligent eyes, but with silver hair and an air of authority that could command armies.