Page 67 of This is a Kissing Book

“How much do you want to find those letters?” I tip my gaze to his.

He’s quiet for a long moment as if thinking about something significant. “More than I probably should.”

“Then we do this. I’ve already scoped out the security situation and mapped out the best entry point …”

“Entry point?” He looks genuinely alarmed. “Jules, we can’t actually break in. That’s⁠—”

“We’re just photographing for research.”

He stares at me like I’ve suggested we rob a bank. “You’re serious.”

I bounce on my toes. “I have a plan. We get in, I examine the painting properly, take detailed photos, and we’re out. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“And if there’s an alarm?”

“Did you notice how divided the rooms were in the gallery? There is a section outside the system.”

“How did you obtain the security schematics?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Probably not.”

So I tell him anyway. “Nate was not at all vengeful after being laid off from his job at a data backup and storage company. He may have accidentally let me view some info. Okay, so the motion sensors shift through the various galleries, leaving a time gap.”

“Should I be concerned that you seem oddly knowledgeable about this?”

Thinking about my father’s untoward dealings, I give him my most innocent smile. “I promise never to use my sleuthing skills against you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, and I try not to notice how the gesture makes it stick up in adorable directions. He slides his hand into his pocket and retrieves his penny.

Taking a deep breath, he says, “Heads we proceed. Tails, we abort the mission.”

I watch as he tosses the coin into the air and catches it with ease before revealing which side it landed on.

“Let’s do this.”

I think he’s holding his breath until he finally says, “Okay, but we do this smart. No unnecessary risks.”

“Obviously. I’m many things, but reckless isn’t one of them.”

“Says the woman who just proposed breaking into an art gallery.”

“Proposed is such a formal word. I prefer ‘enthusiastically suggested.’”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Not if I can help it.”

The way he looks at me then—like I’m brave instead of foolish, like my crazy ideas might actually be brilliant—I feel a bit honey-drunk.

“Come on,” I say, tugging him toward the back alley. “Let’s go before I lose my nerve entirely.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re standing behind the gallery with a plan. A slow drip of adrenaline courses through my veins. I’ve felt this once before and understand how my father became addicted. Linc boosts me up to a window that I easily open, hoping he doesn’t question my lock-pick skills later. Let’s just say I went from being months away from completing my degree to getting an entirely different education.

“I don’t think you’ll fit through here,” I call down.

“You can’t go alone.”