Page 60 of This is a Kissing Book

Pretending to kiss was cover. A distraction from the security guards who suspected we were taking unauthorized photographs. They weren’t wrong. Instead, it stirred something inside.

“Abraham.” My father’s voice cuts through my daydream like a referee’s whistle. He’s standing in my doorway, looking every inch the corporate titan in his charcoal suit. “My office.”

I follow him upstairs and down the hall, past the intimidating oil paintings and polished wood. His corner suite overlooks the Chicago River, and he settles behind his massive desk like a king holding court.

Truth be told, I’d rather be one of Frank Andresen’s subjects than Aiken the Demo King’s, but I digress.

My father steeples his fingers. I make a mental note never to do that. “Interesting evening last night. I had the pleasure of meeting your assistant.”

“Jules is excellent at her job.” The words come out more defensive than I intend.

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Jules, is it? How … familiar.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “She’s professional. Competent. The office runs better with her around.”

At least she knows what she’s doing, unlike me, who blazed in here thinking I’d play the hard-hitting corporate exec, when in reality, any games I want to be involved in are on the ice.

“I’ve noticed.” He leans back in his leather chair, studying me with a similar intensity to when he evaluates million-dollar acquisitions. “She seems quite taken with you.”

“We work well together.”

“Abraham.” He uses the Dad tone that has always made me stand up straighter. “We don’t mix business with our personal lives. HR exists for a reason.”

I open my mouth to protest, to insist there’s nothing personal happening, but the lie sticks in my throat. After last night, pretending Jules means nothing to me would be like pretending there aren’t stars in the sky.

“Understood,” I manage.

He nods, apparently satisfied, but as I’m halfway to the door, he adds, “And Abraham? It won’t do well to dig too deep into certain … historical matters. Some stones are better left unturned.”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your mother had many admirable qualities, but her obsession with the past wasn’t one of them.”

The words hit like a slap shot to the ribs. Mom’s journal, her research, and her absolute certainty that the lost Lincoln love letters existed are what keep me here. He always dismissed it all as a romantic fantasy, so much so that our search for them became a secret. But now there’s something darker in his tone, something that makes my stomach twist.

He turns back to his computer, dismissing me. “Focus on learning the business, son. Leave the mysteries to the past.”

My instinct to stomp out of his office is juvenile, so I square my shoulders and turn to leave like an adult, intending to defy his orders.

Then he calls, “Oh, and Abraham, happy birthday.”

I falter, surprised he remembered. “Thanks, and it’s Linc.”

I walk back to my office on autopilot with my father’s warning echoing in my head. Sounded like he already knew exactly what Jules may have discovered. The way he mentioned Mom’s research like it was hazardous instead of hopeful.

Not for the first time since I started this internship, I wonder if my father might be hiding more than just business strategies.

The rest of the day drags like overtime in a scoreless game. Jules and I exchange professional pleasantries when we pass in the hallway, but there’s a hum of electricity between us now, an awareness that makes me buzz.

Every time she glances up from her desk, every time she strides through the hall, with every breath she takes … I remember the way she felt in my arms. The way she looks at me with those sugar eyes. No, I’m the one who is left wanting more.

By evening, I’m wound tighter than a goalie before playoffs, so I do the one thing I get right: go to a local rink where an old buddy works, lace up, and skate. I stay and watch a men’s league game and then hit the ice again before the Zamboni refreshes it for the final time tonight. Happy birthday to me.

For a few hours, it feels good to be where I belong instead of pretending to be someone I’m not.

It’s nearly ten p.m. by the time I get home and out of the shower when my phone buzzes with a text.

Jules: Do you like popcorn?