Page 81 of This is a Kissing Book

“Nothing about you is unnecessary.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Jules freezes like I’ve just confessed to major crimes. Which, technically, I have.

“You like fresh starts,” I add, trying to equalize things.

“Hopefully, I don’t have one in prison.”

My phone buzzes with a text in the team group chat. I glance at it.

Bīriņš: I’m back in the land of the maple leaf and getting in my morning skate. Coach wants to talk to everyone about conditioning plans. Dun, dun, dun.

He adds the skull and crossbones emoji.

For the first time, possibly ever, my stomach drops at the notion of my beloved pastime and livelihood. Hockey. Training. The life I’m supposed to be preparing for while I’m here playing corporate hack and art thief.

The fans who recognized me the other night outside the gallery flash through my mind—how long before word gets out that I was lurking behind buildings in the middle of the night? Thankfully, they weren’t the type to ask for selfies. Maybe they were up to no good, too.

“Everything okay?” Jules asks.

“Just your favorite boating buddy.” While that part is true, the next part is a lie. “Nothing important.”

It is vitally important. Every day I spend here makes it harder to keep my two lives separate. Every moment with Jules makes me want to tell her the truth, and every text from my teammates makes me regret not doing so sooner. At this point, she’ll be upset that I wasn’t forthcoming with my real day job.

“I should go and get ready at home,” Jules says, moving toward the door. “We can’t show up at the office together looking like this and have people thinking we’re …” She trails off, gesturing vaguely between us.

My lips twitch with a grin. “That we’re what?”

“You know. That we’re, um, anything other than professional colleagues.”

“Right. Professional colleagues who commit crimes together on weekends.”

And fall asleep together on the sofa.

Despite Jules’s love for Monday, the day passes in a blur of meetings. I can barely concentrate. Every time someone mentions asset protection or insurance procedures, my mind jumps to the painting hidden in my bedroom closet. Every time Jules walks past my office, I remember the weight of her head on my shoulder and the trust she placed in me by falling asleep in my arms.

During an afternoon administrative meeting, I find myself studying faces around the conference table, wondering which of these people might be involved in the insurance fraud we uncovered.

Maxine drones on about protecting company assets and allocating more funds toward loss coverage. I can’t tell if her emphasis on the topic is suspicious or just her usual obsession with liability.

Just then, Jules quietly enters and slides a folder onto the table in front of me. Nodding pointedly, I’m not sure if the contents are a hastily scrawled note, alerting me that the authorities are coming and instructing me to make a run for it or if this is the report I requested regarding the discrepancies we’ve been investigating. If that’s the case, she sure is efficient.

“As I was saying,” Maxine continues, visibly irritated given the way her eye twitches, “we need to ensure our most valuable acquisitions are properly protected. Our top-tier collections alone represent millions in potential loss, never mind how much individual properties add up on the balance. Right now, it’s the Lincoln-related pieces I’m most concerned about.”

My head snaps up. Out of the corner of my eye, my father’s does too. He probes for clarification, “Are you referring to the pieces we’ve acquired over the past eighteen months or the original works?”

“There’s the Fairfax Collection to be sure,” Maxine starts.

The very one Jules and I have been working on.

I suddenly feel as if I’m on a putting green during a thunderstorm … while on the golf trip last week, one of Dad’s friends mentioned a Civil War painting by Clement Marchand. Only, he pronounced it in the French way, Clegh-men Marsh-an. Said it was perfect for someone with our “heritage” and made a joke about Lincoln probably spinning in his grave over modern auction prices. I only piece this together now.

“Excuse me,” I say, standing abruptly. “I just remembered something urgent I need to handle.”

Dad frowns. “The meeting isn’t over, Abraham.”

“I know. I’ll catch up with everyone later.”

I practically sprint to my office, my mind racing. If the painting we borrowed is part of a diptych and Dad’s friend was right, I think I know where to find it … tonight.