Page 88 of This is a Kissing Book

But was he? A line from one of my favorite movies comes to mind. What Linc said is a variation of Westley’s words to Buttercup—the ones loaded with meaning.

But I’m probably reading into things.

The noisette is three layers of hazelnut and chocolate perfection, topped with lacy vanilla drizzle, edible gold leaf, and a delicate sprig of mint.

Linc taps his fork against mine. “I noticed your chocolate stash and that the hazelnut chocolates disappear the fastest. I thought you might enjoy this.”

My heart springs from my chest at the notion. “I’m addicted just looking at it.”

Linc’s eyes hover over mine and I can’t quite read the smile on his face. Or maybe I’m afraid to.

“Bon appétit.”

I take a careful bite, savoring both the incredible flavor and trying not to be reminded of exactly how different our worlds are.

“Good?” Linc asks.

I close my eyes, wanting my thriftiness to take its OSHA-mandated fifteen-minute break, for goodness’ sake. “This is life-changing. But I could buy groceries for a week with what this costs.”

He frowns. “Jules⁠—”

“I’m not complaining. I just … to be honest, this is all ever so slightly overwhelming. Not in a bad way, but in a how I make my chocolate stash last all week kind of way.”

He reaches across the table and folds my hand into his. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I know this can be a lot.”

“It’s …” I struggle to find the words. “You make it seem effortless. Like you fit everywhere.”

“Do I?”

“Size, status, skill—you have the luxury of always feeling like you belong.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles in the little soft pocket of skin between my thumb and index finger. “I want you to feel like you belong too.”

“In your world?”

“With me, Buttercup.”

The words send me spinning. He didn’t sound possessive or demanding. Just … him. Like he’s offering me a place I didn’t know I was looking for … one I shouldn’t let myself want.

I snap a quick photo of us with the dessert before it disappears, remembering Oly’s instructions. I make sure I don’t have a double chin before I click send. In the picture, Linc is looking at me instead of the camera. The context of this particular image makes me feel like I’ll never stop smiling.

The car ride to the Whitmore estate is quiet. I watch the city give way to manicured suburbs, then rolling hills dotted with mansions that could house all the residents of a small village. Linc seems lost in thought, and I find myself studying his profile in the dim light.

The man is a puzzle. Arrogant enough to steal paintings and humble enough to bring me out for pizza while dressed in a gown. Confident in boardrooms but gentle when talking about his mother. Like he operates from an innate, internal knowledge that the world doesn’t owe him anything—rather, that the world is lucky to count him among its population. The thing is, he’s not wrong. That terrifies me because maybe I want him in my life beyond being his assistant, beyond this summer. But what would that mean?

“What are you really looking for?” My question interrupts the quiet shushing of the tires on the road.

He glances at me, confused. “The painting. The letters.”

“But why, really?”

He’s silent for so long, I assume he won’t answer. Taking a deep inhale, he says, “Because my mother didn’t finish looking. Never gave up hope. Because I want to be sure I’m not bound by blood to turn out like my father.” He shrugs, suddenly looking younger, vulnerable. “Sorry. That sounds silly.”

My heart hiccups. Upon formally meeting Frank Andresen, he’s not a horrible man. I don’t totally hate him. However, given what Linc said about his mother’s journal, he turned away from what’s most important in favor of money and power. He hardly sees what remains, his amazing son.

“It doesn’t sound silly at all.” I twine my fingers between Linc’s.

The Whitmore estate makes every other display of wealth I’ve seen today seem aspirational, a kindergartner playing dress up with her mom’s showgirl clothes. It’s a Greek Revival mansion with soaring columns, a fountain in the circular driveway bordered by manicured gardens, landscape lighting, and lots of topiary. Valets in white gloves somehow welcome us like royalty and blend in like wallpaper when we arrive.