Page 87 of This is a Kissing Book

“Yeah. Could be.” The furrow across his brow deepens.

“I did some digging—probably more than I should have without telling you first, sorry—and I found some really old correspondence. Your grandfather bought the Fairfax Collection at auction, totally legal, but there are hints that Mary Todd Lincoln had specific intentions for some of those pieces. Intentions that maybe weren’t … fully honored.”

For a long moment, he’s quiet. “My mother spent years trying to find the letters, to prove that romance between—” Linc sighs. “She wanted to believe that even in the hardest moments, even in a war, love could survive.”

I know a thing or two about theft and what this could mean for Meridian, but let Linc speak freely.

“If finding these letters means exposing something ugly about how we got the collections or my father’s involvement, then that’s what we do.”

“Or it could be Maxine … or someone else.”

He nods. “I’m not going to let anyone interfere with what my mother spent her last years searching for.”

I beam a smile. “Whatever you say, boss.”

We turn our attention to the auction gala and Linc gives me a rundown on who’s who. Turns out his father won’t be in attendance, but Maxine Drecken will.

My stomach grumbles shortly before we’re supposed to touch down.

“Hungry?” Linc asks.

“You’re not supposed to know I’m human under all this polish and gloss,” I joke.

He chuckles. “Jules, this is just our guest pass into the party. I happen to prefer the way you look at about seven thirty a.m.”

My cheeks warm and the place between my bones and skin tingles.

“There is food available onboard, but much better than your typical airplane meals. Or, if you can wait about thirty minutes, I’ll bring you somewhere that will put our deep-dish pizza to shame.” He places his finger in front of his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though. I’ll lose my Chicago residency card.”

My laughter turns nervous because, although I work in a professional environment and I’m as fascinated by the lives of the rich and famous as the next person, I’m more comfortable in my natural habitat. Also, my father taught me some things that saved us a bundle on his health care—even though his other debts eventually caught up to me. However, I never got a lesson on which fork to use first, if it’s customary to put your napkin next to your plate when you’re finished with a meal or leave it in your lap in case there’s a dessert course.

The little things feel really big right now.

Yet another sleek black town car brings us through New York City. I gaze into the fading golden light, caught up in awe as skyscrapers stretch tall and famous landmarks all but wave at me.

“Have you been here before?” Linc asks.

“I’ve never gone further east than Dallas and that was back when I was seven.”

For dinner, he changes the script because instead of going to a five-star restaurant that required a reservation that was made last year, we sit at a table with a checkered cloth in a tiny pizza parlor. I’ve gathered that we’re in Little Italy and this place has been family-owned for four generations. The owner greets us warmly, likely wondering why we’re so dressed up.

“This isn’t exactly what I expected,” I admit, biting into the best slice of pizza I’ve ever tasted.

“And what was that?”

“Something with far more dollar signs on the menu.”

He winks. “That comes next.”

Next turns out to be Impresso, a chocolate boutique that looks like it was designed by someone who thought regular desserts were insufficient. Everything is plated like art, and the menu reads like poetry written in sugar and cream.

“The noisette cake,” Linc tells the server without consulting the menu. “And two forks.”

“And there I was hoping we’d order one of each.”

“If you wish.”

“I’m kidding.”