Page 32 of This is a Kissing Book

My phone buzzes almost immediately.

L. Sullivan: Missing me already?

I snort out loud. The man’s ego is as big as the building we work in. Like father, like son is a cliché for a reason.

Me: Like a sunburn misses the beach.

Me: Like a printer misses paper jams.

Me: Like an afternoon misses naps.

L. Sullivan: Okay. I get it. Authorization approved. Go home, Jujubee.

Me: Don’t tell me what to do, Lincoln Log. Also, I am home.

L. Sullivan: It’s Friday night. In that case, go have some fun.

Me: But my big, bad boss wants this completed ASAP.

L. Sullivan: Your big, bad boss wants you to take the night off.

Me: Is that so? I now have that in writing. But how do I know your account wasn’t hacked and this isn’t a bot?

L. Sullivan: You want verification?

My phone chimes again, and in place of our banter bubbles, a selfie of him comes through. He’s just gotten out of the shower—hair still damp and tousled, no shirt visible in the frame, just bare shoulders and that infuriating smirk. My phone suddenly feels too hot in my hands, and I have to set it down on my bed before I drop it.

L. Sullivan: That’s your boss reminding you that you’re off the clock. Also, here’s a friendly reminder to get some sleep. Headed there now myself.

Wait. He’s not at a club? A party? Linc going to sleep at a reasonable time on a Friday night does not compute.

Maybe he’s right and I should take a break. I’ve been staring at these documents for hours, and my eyes are starting to cross. Also, I’m thinking nutso thoughts about him … I have to fortify my defenses!

Me: That’s not what I meant about verification and you know it.

L. Sullivan: But it’s what you got.

Me: Your ego is showing, Linc.

L. Sullivan: Among other things.

Me: This is highly unprofessional.

L. Sullivan: Good thing it’s after hours.

Me: You’re insufferable.

L. Sullivan: Yet here you are, still messaging me.

Me: I hate you.

L. Sullivan: No, you don’t.

Me: Good night, Abraham.

L. Sullivan: Sweet dreams, Buttercup.

I tell myself the little flutter in my stomach has nothing to do with Linc. It’s most likely indigestion from the can of soup I had for dinner, which was a few months past its “best by” date. He probably just got home from a lavish dinner with multiple courses and mistook me for someone he’d flirt with.