Page 74 of This is a Kissing Book

Never mind a troubled look, her jaw hangs slack.

27

JULES

After Linc sends me copies of the files, I spend the rest of Friday afternoon staring at numbers that don’t add up and insurance valuations that make my brain hurt. The deeper I dig, the more convinced I become that Linc is right. Someone with executive access has been playing fast and loose with company resources.

My demand for caffeine is high, so after grabbing not one, but three cups of coffee—don’t worry, they’re not all for me—I visit the Collections Processing Department on the thirty-third floor.

I know I can trust the office girlies. Carmen has been with Meridian for twenty years—she knows where all the bodies are buried, metaphorically speaking. Wendy is newer but sharp, and since she came back from maternity leave, what some people call “mommy brain” has turned into “I’m going to get the job done as efficiently as possible so I can get back to my baby” brain.

“Hi, ladies,” I say, sliding into the office like I belong here, because I used to before my abrupt ejection … upward, to an exec suite.

I’m still undecided whether that’s a net gain.

Carmen looks up from her computer. “There’s our third Musketeer!”

I’ve been looking at images of muskets a lot lately, but that’s another side project entirely, though I’m quite sure the two must intersect somehow.

We exchange hugs and I inquire about how Carmen’s hubby is doing with his physical therapy after shoulder surgery and how many teeth Wendy’s baby now has.

“Half a mouthful. He’s like a puppy, chewing on everything. Nothing is safe in our house from his gummy exploration anymore.”

Carmen chuckles. “Speaking of naughty boys, how are things with your boss these days? You haven’t set his office on fire, so I take that as a good sign.”

Heat creeps up my neck, but I wave my hand dismissively. “Linc is as impossible as always.”

“Linc?” Wendy asks.

“Last month, you referred to him as ‘a corporate Ken Doll with a plastic personality.’”

Wendy interjects, “But at the last meeting, she didn’t look at him like he was a bowl of lumpy oatmeal.”

“Maybe I’m just getting used to his, um, management style.”

Carmen gives me a knowing look. “And maybe I’m getting used to my husband leaving his socks on the bedroom floor next to the dirty laundry hamper, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”

She and Wendy waggle their eyebrows in unison.

Goodness, do I miss them, but I guess my new position isn’t the worst.

“It’s not like that,” I protest, but the lilt in my voice fools no one.

Wendy places her hand on my arm. “There’s nothing wrong with warming up to someone. Especially if they’re actually decent underneath all those handsome good looks.”

“He’s still my boss,” I mutter.

Wendy asks, “So what’s he really like when it’s just you two working late? Is there anything sweet or ridiculous that he does?”

The question catches me off guard because it goes past the professional and into the personal. He’s funny and vulnerable and surprisingly easy to talk to. He listens when I speak and remembers details about things I’ve told him. He writes songs and worries about living up to impossible legacies and looks at me like I’m good for more than answering emails.

But I can’t say any of that.

I let out a stuck breath. “He’s … different from what I expected.”

“Different how?” Carmen presses.

To lighten things up and take the spotlight off me, in my best robot voice, I say, “He’s more human, less man-droid.”