Page 63 of This is a Kissing Book

“I may have gone down a rabbit hole.” She shrugs, looking adorably pleased with herself.

“Explain.”

“While the art on display has value, it’s not Picasso or Renoir. More of the special interest sort and on temporary loan. So security is more of the warm-blooded variety than the techy type.”

“So you mean there will be security guards?”

“Who spend more time on their phones than watching for suspicious activity during their shifts.”

“Still, it sounds sketchy.”

“I’ll be James Bond.”

“You mean a Bond girl.”

“Me, a Bond girl? Hardly.”

“You have those sugar eyes.”

She inclines her head. “What about your slow-burning stare?”

Whatever this is, it stokes the embers inside, starting with the vacant, lonely place I’ve occupied for so long and spreading like wildfire. I should keep a fire extinguisher at the ready.

She blinks and says, “You have more of a Clark Kent look.”

“Are you saying I’m like Superman?”

“If the cape fits …”

I think of Aiken and his silly cape at the rooftop party and prefer my superheroes without makeup and tights, but I play along. A church bell chimes somewhere in the distance, deep and resonant, interrupting my thoughts.

After the twelfth ring, Jules softly says, “Happy birthday.”

“But—” I start, about to comment about the confetti birthday wish, when I put two and two together. It’s her birthday and I want nothing more than to give her birthday kisses.

“We’re birthday neighbors?” I ask.

Her smile is small, not the kind I’d expect from someone who is so obviously excited about life that she keeps a Care Bear with a cheerful rainbow on its belly on her bed. “That is much preferred to living next door to Screechy and Grumbly.”

I chuckle. “Thanks for the confetti. Any big plans to celebrate?”

“It’s not a big deal. I don’t really do celebrations.”

The way she says it, like her birthday is insignificant and just another day, makes something in my chest corkscrew. “Why not?”

She fidgets with the smooth edge of her laptop. “My Dad died a few days before I turned twenty-two and that kind of sucked the fun out of it.”

Before I can overthink it, I ask, “If you could have anything for your birthday—anything at all—what would it be?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, watching the machines spin. “I’ve always wanted someone to play me a love song. Like, actually play it. Sit down at a piano or pick up a guitar and play something just for me.” She laughs, embarrassed.

A buzzer sounds, indicating the dryer is done. She closes her laptop, hops down, and stuffs the clothing in a mesh bag.

“Can I walk you home?” Not that she has a choice, not at this hour.

“Sure, but the fact that I machine-wash instead of dry-clean my work attire is between you and me. Don’t tell Carmen in the Collections Processing Department. It’ll spike her blood pressure.”

I chuckle and we chat about safe topics—avoiding discussions about burglary and birthdays. When we get to her building, she passes me the hoodie I gave her to wear when she was cold on July Fourth.