Page 66 of This is a Kissing Book

I study his expression, trying to read between the lines. Searching his eyes, I see spots of vulnerability, a loneliness that expensive suits and a trust fund can’t fix. He doesn’t want or need material things at all. He wants connection. To be with someone who sees past the Andresen name and the corporate heir facade to everything underneath.

“Just now, I thought you meant stuff. Rich boy problems and all that.” My smile softens and I bite my lip. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?”

He shakes his head.

“And if that trip to space is off the table and we’re not going to be having a tropical resort fling, we’re running out of options, leaving just you … and me … trespassing.”

“You’re such a little weirdo,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from smiling. “I think I’m going to keep you, Buttercup.”

“What?” My voice goes up an octave.

He winks. “You heard me. That’s what I want for my birthday. To keep you.”

I stare at him for a long moment, heat flooding past my cheeks and all the way to my toes. Then I laugh, bright and surprised despite the butterflies performing aerial stunts in my stomach. “You can’t just say things like that and wink like you’re some kind of … of…”

“Devastatingly handsome corporate executive?”

“I was going to say cocky action film star, Viking, gladiator⁠—”

His hand goes to his chin. “You’ve never seen me with a beard.”

“True, I’m just speculating, given your stature. Film star, Viking, gladiator, professional athlete.”

“What did you say?” he asks carefully, almost as if offended or … something.

I look down at our joined hands, genuinely confused. “You’re strong, like you’re used to being physical and your hands—Oly noticed the calluses. They’re not desk-job hands. Are you a secret pickleball professional?”

Linc’s expression falls into shadow. “What about breaking and entering hands?”

“Maybe breaking hearts,” I tease, not really sure where the conversation was going, but wanting us to get back on the laugh track.

As we walk through the empty streets, I find myself studying him from the corner of my eye. There’s definitely more to Abraham Lincoln Andresen than expensive suits and quarterly reports. The way he handles himself, the confidence in his movements, even how he boosted himself onto the table at the laundromat earlier—it all suggests he’s comfortable with physical space in a way that’s different from, say, Nate, who has the same desk-jockey lifestyle.

Linc glances over and catches me staring, and his smile is so warm, so full of the good kind of trouble that I decide some mysteries can wait.

“So,” I say as we approach the gallery, “about our little research expedition …”

“You mean unlawful entry?”

“I prefer unauthorized art history inquiry.”

He stops walking and turns to face me fully. “Jules, are you sure about this? If we get caught …”

“We won’t get caught.” I inject confidence into my voice because this might be one unknown that I can solve. “I’ve been thinking about it non-stop.” Well, between revisiting our almost-kiss, the way his hand closes around mine, and the song he played for me …

I add, “If there really is a second piece that accompanies Echo & Answer, it might hold the key to everything you’re looking for.”

His face crimps as if he’s not quite convinced. “What makes you so sure?”

“For one, the title is in two parts. Echo and Answer.”

I pull out my phone and show him the low-quality and semi-blurry photos he took on the fly. “Don’t get too excited. We have to stay focused. But look at this corner here. See how the brushwork is slightly different? Like someone painted over the original. And the way Lincoln is positioned—he’s clearly looking at something or someone in the next frame.”

“Or outside the frame.”

“Yes, but see this shadow?” I point.

Linc studies the images and the gradual nodding of his head tells me he’s growing more interested despite his reasonable reservations.