Page 68 of This is a Kissing Book

“Sure, I can. I’m smaller and sneakier. Plus, it’s your turn to be the lookout.”

Linc’s expression tells me he wants to argue, but I’m already slipping through the window before he can stop me.

Inside, the gallery is eerily quiet and emergency lighting splashes the walls red. I slip off my shoes to avoid squeaking on the polished floors and pad toward the south wing on my tiptoes, phone flashlight dimmed to its lowest setting.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this right now, but Linc’s family history makes my own life seem so boring in comparison. I’ve had what Oly calls a “greige” life—gray and beige, predictably neutral. Then again, she doesn’t know the gory details of the deleted scene when Dad was sick. Maybe that’s why I try so hard to be sunny and cheerful. Compensation for a lifetime of ordinary—at least on the surface. I do know the finer points of fraud and forgery, and can read a security system plan with ease. I have my father to thank for that. I can also execute a perfect can-can kick thanks to my mother.

Focus, Jules.

When I find the painting, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I take dozens of high-resolution photos from every angle, zooming in on brushstrokes.

From somewhere in the building comes a creak. I tell myself it’s old and settling.

In the lower right-hand corner, beside the edge of the frame, there is a slight difference in the paint texture, just as I suspected. My pulse accelerates. It’s almost like newer paint sits slightly raised above the original surface.

If there is something hidden underneath, I need to examine this properly, with tools and time. I need to … borrow it.

The clock is ticking and empty-handed, I hurry back the way I came, coming up with how to handle this. I slip through the window like a cat burglar. Linc closes his big hands around my waist to help me down. However, my feet don’t touch the ground. Instead, our bodies zip tight together.

I’m keenly aware of our proximity. How firm his arms are around me. That the space between us could close in less than a breath.

The swoops in my belly.

The rise and fall of his chest.

The heat on my skin.

The way his eyes rake over me.

We’re frozen, magnetized together. The authorities will find us like this and we’ll be memorialized in bronze, titled, “A Lover’s Embrace.”

Only we’re not that. It’s as if we both realize this at the same time and question what’s going on. How we got here. Who tricked us?

He lowers me slowly, letting me slide down until my feet touch the ground. But he doesn’t pull his hands away as if he realizes I need an anchor.

I’ve been a very bad girl. For sneaking around security systems. For having thoughts about my boss that would get me fired.

“What happened?” he rasps.

Does he mean just now, because I’m not sure. All I could think about was the almost-kiss. Which, let’s face it, didn’t happen. The whole thing could’ve been a big fantasy thought bubble when really he was trying to figure out how to tell me I had spinach in my teeth.

Reality snaps back. Oh, right. He wants to know what happened in the gallery.

“Let’s get away from the scene of the crime.”

“Did you commit a crime?” he asks, aghast.

“Not yet.”

I hastily draw him away from the gallery, taking an indirect route to where he’d parked his car.

When we’re in the clear, I say, “I made an interesting discovery.”

Before we pull away, I show him the photos. “See this corner? It looks like someone painted over whatever was there. But I can’t tell what it is from photos alone.”

“So we have evidence that⁠—”

He’s not following, so I interrupt. “I need to borrow it.”