Page 39 of This is a Kissing Book

Her eyebrows pinch together as if conflicted, torn between caution and curiosity.

“Please?” I ask.

A pretty smile blooms on her face. “Well, when you put it that way …”

Apparently, that’s the magic word.

She moves to let me and marches toward an antique armoire and asks, “What should I wear?”

“Something cute,” I blurt.

Her head whips around. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Let’s just put it this way, I’d rather slog through a swamp filled with alligators.”

“No doubt, you’d throw me to them to save yourself.”

“Never.” And wouldn’t you know? I mean it.

17

JULES

The rooftop club is a modern mixture of glass, polished metal, and wretched excess. It’s the kind of event where the bubbly beverages alone cost more than I spend in a year on coffee. And it’s the last place I expect to be on a Friday night with my boss.

With all the oddball glitz and glam, it’s evident nearly everyone in attendance is trying very hard to look like they’re not trying at all. Take, for example, the person wearing purple plastic panel pants, a denim suit jacket, and cowboy boot sandals.

Not my scene, not that I have one. Libraries? Book stores? Art galleries? Coffee shops? Those are my common habitats and I am happy to wear a cardigan and stretch pants.

If I hadn’t used my blow dryer to remove the glitter from Linc’s face and shirt, he’d fit right in.

He pauses just outside the elevator and takes stock of the space at large. He wears a pair of worn-in jeans and a cotton t-shirt. Underneath that, I can tell he’s built of solid engineering. Like God took the blueprints and said, “Let’s make this one massive, towering above the rest. Nothing but the highest quality materials. Fortify him. Reinforced with the strong bedrock of the earth. We take pride in our work and he is no exception!”

Hesitating because I’m counting my blessings and cursing myself for thinking this way about my boss, he raises his eyebrow sharply as if sensing my candy-eyed weakness or issuing a dare. I can’t be sure.

Then his hand lands on the slope of my spine. My pulse rattles like I just drove over a speed bump. A shiver ripples through me like a breeze in the fir trees. I tell myself the gesture is so I don’t get lost in the throbbing throng of people drinking and dancing.

I freeze, then look at him briefly over my shoulder, wondering if this is how it starts.

Out of the corner of his eye, he looks me up and down and his mouth twitches.

It’s the same hint of a smile as when I answered my door in a robe, only now I’m wearing my one and only little black dress that is more understated than it is elegant. After running my brush through my hair, I quickly blew it dry, letting it loose around my shoulders. Through the crack in my bathroom door, Linc watched me and for a moment, he wore a reverent look on his face that made me think of romantic scenes on balconies, open train windows and hankies, couples rushing toward each other in the airport.

How someone’s beloved is both the artist and the masterpiece—beautiful just by being themselves.

Just kidding, I saw the amusement on his lips as if I’d hired a clown to point their makeup gun at me and turn it up to maximum.

No doubt, I’m wide-eyed as we pass two people making out on top of a table.

“Are these your friends?” I murmur, watching a group of scantily clad influencers pose for photos against the city skyline backdrop. It’s warm out, but I happen to know where you can get textiles cheaply.

He laughs through his nose. “Friends? Certainly not.”

I can’t wrap my head around what we’re doing here.

As if reading my mind, Linc leans into my ear and whispers, “We have some investigating to do.”

I’d like to focus on his proximity and how my hair momentarily got adhered to his stubble like Velcro, but he pulls a penny from his pocket and flips it.