Page 49 of This is a Kissing Book

That simple word unleashes this woman and she bounces on her toes before launching herself at me, arms spread wide, before they engulf me. Her hug is all-encompassing warmth. No sooner do my arms close around her than she’s gone, abandoning me to the Antarctic. Freezing cold with a pang of longing.

She jolts back. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I didn’t mean⁠—”

Our gazes tangle together and then a sharp intake of breath—mine or hers, I can’t tell—breaks the spell.

My mistake. We’re not alone.

Veronica, Drecken’s assistant, stands in the doorway, eyebrow arched as if preparing to report us for indecent behavior.

I clear my throat. “I missed my trip to the tailor. She was taking measurements.”

Jules narrows her eyes in my direction.

Veronica clicks her tongue. “Sure. Well, Ms. Drecken wants an executive summary of all of the accounts that you’ve been reviewing.”

Jules turns sharply. “Is that typical protocol? In my experience, those are submitted directly to Mr. Andresen.”

Veronica narrows her eyes. “Which department did you come from, Miss, um, sorry, I forgot your name? Silly me. You’re new here. I can’t expect to remember or for you to know a thing about executive protocol.”

“Actually, I drafted Mr. Andresen’s guidelines for that very thing.” Even as Jules says this, she seems to shrink.

“Was that task assigned directly to you? Seems unconventional,” I say.

Jules shifts slightly as if the task landed on her desk from someone else who didn’t want to do it.

Time to intervene. “I’ll see to it that the summaries land on the correct desk.”

Veronica sniffs. “I’ll let Ms. Drecken know that’s your intention.”

When the echoing of her high heels disappears down the hall, I ask, “Is that true about the summaries?”

“Unless the CEO changed it. It could be that he passed off the task to the acting COO.”

“And who passed it off to you?”

“I’m not a snitch.”

Then I was right. However, my father isn’t the sort to delegate that kind of thing. Seems slightly suspicious. Not that I should care. But we’ve been poking around obscure files. Maybe that raised a flag. “Listen, if she or the other assistant asks you for anything else directly, please let me know. Directly.”

“Yes, sir.”

I pull out my phone and ask for Jules’s number.

She stammers about HR rules, but then I lean in and whisper, her loose baby hairs tickling my cheek, “I reviewed the discrepancies. You’re on to something.”

Her eyes widen with surprise.

“Plus, there’s the matter of the pickleball bet.”

She texts me the address immediately, as if she’s afraid I’ll change my mind.

20

LINC

Saturday afternoon finds me at a community pickleball court in Prospect Heights, a nice suburb for young professionals and weekend warriors. The complex has a generic apartment-living vibe—beige siding, budget landscaping, and functional outdoor light fixtures.

From the parking lot, I immediately spot Jules wearing a blue skort with stars and a red and white striped tank top. I catalog every inch of her as I approach. Those legs. Toned, smooth, and tan. Her hair is off her neck, pulled back in a ponytail. She gestures wildly while talking to a tall woman and a desk-jockey-type, who offsets his time spent sitting with a fitness trainer.