Page 71 of This is a Kissing Book

Was that a birthday song or a love song?

I ask, “How do you know? Maybe he was a secret romantic.”

“Isn’t that what we’re trying to find out with those letters?” Her eyebrows crest.

“Is that what you want? A secret romantic?”

The question hovers like the puff of powdery doughnut sugar between us. While I perform an interrogation of my sanity, prepared to blame anything I say or do on lack of sleep, I watch her face carefully, looking for any sign that I’ve pushed too far.

But Jules doesn’t retreat. Instead, she considers my words seriously. I pause before taking another sip of coffee. My pulse is already loaded.

“Do I want a romantic? Yes, I do. A strong, manly romantic. What’s your take on it? I sense you have strong opinions or buried emotions.”

How can she read me so well? “I used to think romance was phony. Something people did for show, for social media, for status. But I could be convinced otherwise …” I trail off, meeting her eyes.

“Maybe it’s private. Just for the two people in the relationship and not the public.”

“I’m starting to wonder if maybe I just hadn’t found the right person to be romantic with.”

The piece of doughnut between her fingers falls back into the box between us. “And now?”

“Now I’m sitting in a doughnut shop at sunrise with someone who wants to break into art galleries and forge paintings, and I’m pretty sure songs could be written about her every day for the rest of her life.” The words come out before I can stop them, more honest than I’ve been with anyone.

Jules stares at me, birthday doughnuts forgotten, and I immediately worry I’ve overwhelmed her.

“Linc …”

“Too much?” I ask, suddenly uncertain.

“No, it’s not too much. It’s …” She fidgets with her coffee cup. “I’m not used to people seeing me. Most of the time, I feel like I’m just part of the backdrop.”

The sadness in her voice makes my chest ache. I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. “Jules. You’re definitely front and center.”

She looks down at our joined hands, and I can see the moment she starts to pull back emotionally. The vulnerability becomes too much, too fast.

“We should probably talk about what happens in,” I check my watch, “two hours when we’re back at the office.”

“Business as usual. We hate each other, remember?” She laughs, meaning it as a joke, but what I despise is the notion of anyone hating her. Most of all me.

I study her face, picking up on the nuances of how her upper lip quirks at one corner in a stubborn way that tells me she’s calculating something behind her innocent expression. The fine tension gathering at the outer edges of her eyes like storm clouds on the horizon. “I’m afraid that’s hardly the case anymore.”

She gives me a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Guess we’ll have to work on our acting skills.”

And I should probably come clean about my actual day job instead of playing the role of a tough executive understudy.

The next couple of days at Meridian are an exercise in specialized torment. Jules and I exchange polite pleasantries in the hallways, maintain an appropriate distance during meetings, and somehow manage to keep up the pretense that we barely tolerate each other.

It’s exhausting.

Every time she walks past my office, I have to resist the urge to call her in just to see her smile. Every time she hands me a report, I’m hyperaware of the brief moment when our fingers brush. And every time Ms. Drecken, our acting COO, makes one of her subtle comments about my “improving relationship with the staff,” I wonder how obvious we’re being.

Then again, I’m certain she has a pair of flying monkeys reporting our every move.

“Your father mentioned you’ve been working closely with Miss Lindley on some research projects,” Maxine says after a meeting. Her tone is casual, but her eyes are calculating slashes.

I play it cool. “She’s thorough. Good attention to detail.”

“Indeed. I’ve noticed she’s been quite … dedicated. Staying late, accessing archived files. Admirable work ethic.”