Page 62 of This is a Kissing Book

She arches an eyebrow. “I think it’s part of a diptych.”

“A what?”

“It’s the name for a piece of art that consists of two panels. Together, they tell a complete story.”

“Apparently, one of us did pay attention in college,” I mutter.

She shifts and then points to the screen. “Look at the composition. See how Lincoln is positioned off-center? And this shadow here suggests there’s something—or someone—just outside the frame.”

My pulse quickens. “Like what?”

“Like Mary Todd. Or maybe the painting shows Lincoln before and after a pivotal moment. The Gettysburg Address, perhaps, or …” She trails off, chewing her bottom lip in a way that makes me want to find out if she’s wearing cherry lip balm tonight.

“Or what?”

“Or it could be documenting something more personal. More private or particular, like a post office.”

I chuckle because that’s classic Jules, being random.

Then her eyes meet mine, eyes as expansive as the sky, and I see the same excitement that hits me when I’m on a breakaway. “Linc, what if your mom was right? What if there really are love letters, and these paintings are a map that leads to them?”

Even though it’s a balmy summer night, a shiver runs across my skin. “My mother wrote almost that exact thing in her journal. Only, she didn’t speculate about there being a second painting. Hadn’t gotten that far, I suppose.”

Even the whir of the washing machine fades as the possibility of actually finding those letters grows. “I think you’re onto something.”

Jules squishes up her face and pinches her fingers together. “There’s only one problem. I can’t be sure unless I see the original again.”

Thinking about my father’s comments earlier, I say, “After the, um, security incident, I’m not sure I can get us access.”

… and the almost kiss. How can something that didn’t happen take up all the air in my lungs, all the oxygen in the room? Sitting so close to her, my body remembers every moment of the almost-kiss.

My gaze drifts to hers. Our eyes lock. Her full lips quiver ever so slightly. My pulse is thunderous. As if sensing one of us is going to do something stupid, she hops up to toss her clothes in the dryer.

When she returns, her expression is mild, a Mona Lisa. “Is it really necessary for us to ask permission?”

Her mysterious smile lingers before what she means hits me.

Lowering my voice, I ask, “Are you suggesting we break into an art gallery?”

“We wouldn’t be stealing anything,” she says quickly.

“Just … unauthorized viewing.”

I hedge.

“Think of it as research.”

I should say no. Should remember my father’s warning, think about my career, and consider the consequences.

Instead, stomach swooshing, I ask, “When?”

Her eyes twinkle. “Now.”

“Now?” I find myself repeating much like the text earlier.

“There’s no time like the present! Seize the day, er, night!” She pumps her arm enthusiastically. “Plus, I already scoped out their security system online. They have motion sensors, but the cameras are focused on the doors⁠—”

“You researched their security system?” I hastily lower my voice.