Page 90 of This is a Kissing Book

She stiffens beside me, a dainty flush creeping across her cheeks. Before I can respond, a familiar voice joins our conversation.

“Oh no, she’s his assistant.” Maxine chortles with dry certainty, appearing at Jules’s elbow like she materializes from thin air. “Smart to bring someone to handle all the administrative details, Abraham.”

My jaw clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t break bones. The casual yet harsh reduction of Jules to nothing more than office furniture while they preen on center stage strikes a match inside. I grip her hand tightly, anchoring her to me and refusing to let her flounder in this pool of fake smiles and manufactured charm.

Jules steadies her voice and lifts her chin. “I’m Linc’s art authentication consultant.”

Iva’s laugh is like crystal breaking. “How interesting, Linc-y baby. You always did like your projects.”

Projects. The word carries a suggestion that I throw away relationships when they no longer suit me. I can practically feel Jules withdrawing beside me. The idea that anyone would see her as something disposable, something I picked up to tinker with and discard, makes me want to set the record straight in terms that would definitely violate tonight’s expectations for propriety.

Instead, I step closer to Jules. Close enough that she can feel the warmth of my body. Close enough that everyone watching knows exactly where I stand. “She’s the tick to my tock,” I say with a smile.

Their faces, including hers, cycle through several expressions I can’t quite read—surprise, confusion, and maybe a hint of jealousy from Iva.

“The frosting on my chocolate cake.” Jules stands taller as she catches on.

I chuckle despite the tension. “The cheese to my pizza.”

The auctioneer’s voice booms across the room before anyone can respond to our playful banter. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats, we’ll begin this evening’s auction.”

As we move toward the auction room, Jules glances at our target painting again. “That’s not good.” She gently elbows me.

“What?”

“Seems you and Aiken have a shared interest.”

My muscles tense. “Interested in Iva? We most certainly do not.”

Her smile fades and I realize how that sounded—too forceful, too defensive.

I lean closer to her, lowering my voice. “Jules, you’re the showstopper in this room tonight.”

She opens and closes her mouth like she’s not sure how to respond. But I follow her gaze back to Aiken, who examines the second half of the Echo & Answer painting with an intensity that makes me suspicious. “The Demo King,” I mutter under my breath.

Jules nods grimly. “If he gets that painting …”

“He won’t. Whatever it takes.” The words come out with determination because the thought of watching that piece of history—and our only lead—be destroyed for internet views makes my vision go red around the edges.

We take our seats as the auctioneer begins the evening’s program. Lot after lot of beautiful things pass by, but I barely register them. All my attention is focused on the painting we need and on Aiken’s predatory smile as he raises his paddle again and again, like he’s warming up for the main event.

Finally, our lot comes up. The auctioneer’s description matches what we suspected—a Civil War era piece, recently acquired from a private estate. The bidding starts at fifty thousand.

I raise my paddle immediately. Aiken counters without hesitation. Back and forth we go, the price climbing steadily. Seventy-five thousand. One hundred. One-fifty.

Jules leans closer. “How high can we go?”

“As high as necessary.” And I mean it. This isn’t just about money, it’s about preserving something irreplaceable, about honoring my mother’s memory, about proving that some things matter more than fame and fortune.

But the calculation burns in Aiken’s eyes as Iva whispers encouragement in his ear. They’re not bidding because they want the painting. They’re bidding because they know we do, because turning this into a spectacle serves their self-promoting purposes.

The auctioneer calls for two hundred thousand, and both our paddles go up.

Two-fifty.

Three hundred.

I watch our investigation—and possibly our only chance at the truth—slip away one bid at a time. At four hundred thousand, Aiken raises his paddle with a grin that makes me want to cross-check him into next week.