Page 79 of This is a Kissing Book

We pore over the images until the pizza arrives, and even then, we eat with one hand while pointing at details with the other. The conversation drifts between historical speculation and gentle teasing about toppings, food, and other favorites.

Sometime between analyzing brushstrokes and debating Lincoln’s travel routes, we’ve moved to the couch and have been shifting closer and closer together. Our knees are touching. Every time he reaches for a photo or document, his arm brushes against mine.

My entire body fills with pins and needles, but in a good way.

Facing me, he says, “Thank you. For all of this. I know you’re taking huge risks to help me, and I don’t take that lightly.”

“You’re welcome.”

At this late hour and in the soft lighting, Linc yawns. It’s contagious and we both, heavy-eyed, smile at each other in a way that makes me forget that I ever hated him.

Full from pizza and the buzz of excitement from our discoveries wearing off, exhaustion rolls over me like a wave softly lapping the shores of the lake below. I let my eyes drift closed, just for a moment. The last thing I remember is my head dropping to the warmth of Linc’s shoulder.

29

LINC

I wake up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m in the habit of sleeping with blackout curtains and experience a peculiar feeling of disorientation, much like when I’m traveling for away games.

The jet lag is the most brutal, but as the room around me takes shape, I realize I’m at home in the condo. Strangely, my left arm feels like it’s been replaced by a block of concrete. Numb and prickly concrete.

Blinking away the haze of sleep, I realize Jules is curled against my side on the couch, her head tucked into the hollow between my shoulder and chest.

For a moment, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t do anything that might disturb this perfect moment.

Her hair smells like cherry blossoms and almonds with a hint of paint thinner—evidence of what brought us here. One of her hands rests on my chest, fingers splayed like she’s claiming territory, and I can feel the steady rise and fall of her inhales and exhales through my shirt.

This is not how I planned to wake up this morning.

It’s infinitely better.

Then reality crashes back like a bucket of ice water. The stolen painting and all our evidence of wrongdoing are still spread across my kitchen island and now the coffee table in incriminating photographs that can only mean one thing.

We fell asleep.

Together.

On my couch.

After committing what most people would classify as a felony at the gallery.

Jules stirs, making a small sound that’s half sigh, half protest against consciousness. Her eyes flutter open, and for exactly three seconds, she looks peaceful and content.

Then awareness hits.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she mutters, bolting upright so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t give herself whiplash.

“Morning,” I manage, my voice rough with sleep.

I instantly regret losing the warmth where she’d been pressed against me.

She stares at me with wide eyes, her blonde hair sticking up at angles that would be hilarious if she didn’t look so mortified. “We fell asleep.”

“Appears so.”

“Together.”

“Also accurate.”