Page 77 of This is a Kissing Book

Or maybe I’ve just been inhaling too many paint fumes and turpentine.

My stomach is queasy, but I think it’s from guilt because forging paintings and this kind of behavior was my father’s specialty, not mine. I swore I’d never follow in his footsteps.

Yet here I am with a fake diploma, a stolen painting, and a growing pile of lies between my boss and me—someone I’m afraid I’m starting to care about.

Everything is built on deception.

Before I can travel too far down that dead end, I examine the lower corner of the painting and make a discovery that makes me stop and stare … and stare.

Underneath the surface layer of paint, barely visible but unmistakably present, is what looks like another signature.

Sunday evening, we meet at Linc’s place to return the painting. I’m practically vibrating with excitement as I ride the elevator to the top floor—because of course, he couldn’t sink so low as to live closer to ground level like a normal human. At least I don’t have to walk up four flights of stairs with this painting.

I note that the building has a concierge service, a gym, and probably a driver on call.

After knocking, I wait outside a dark wooden door in a plush carpeted hallway with gold sconces that make me feel woefully underdressed and out of place. I notice too late that I have paint on my denim shorts—a small smear of brown that could be used as evidence against me in the court of law. Surely, someone like Lincoln Andresen has access to good lawyers.

“Well, that’s not incriminating at all,” I mutter, trying to rub it off as Linc opens the door.

“What isn’t?” Linc’s gaze corkscrews down my body and lands on my legs before murmuring, “I’m so grateful for summer. Should buy stock in Daisy Dukes.”

“Huh?” I ask, not sure what he means, as I push my way inside. “I have paint on my clothes. This looks bad, but it’s too late to change now.”

Then I look around, having only set foot in a place like this vicariously through movies—classics with Mom and modern flicks with Oly.

Linc’s condo is a luxury high-rise along Lake Shore Drive with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan. The view alone would solve most of my financial woes, if not give me a solid dose of tranquility every day. Everything is shiny and clean. Nary a dust bunny in sight. Either his favorite hobby is sweeping floors and polishing surfaces or he has a cleaning service.

Linc must read my expression because he says, “Leave it to my father to pull out all the stops to show me the life I could inherit.”

I take that to mean, like the car, this condo is thanks to Frank. I set the painting on the marble countertop where I glimpse a distorted version of my reflection.

“Hungry?” he asks, pulling out his phone. “I was thinking pizza.”

“Pizza works.” At least some things remain normal.

“Preferences on toppings?”

“Anything but anchovies.”

“What’s wrong with anchovies? They’re salty little gems from the sea.”

I stick out my tongue. “They’re fish. On pizza. It’s unnatural.”

“So is pineapple, but I don’t see you vetoing that.”

“Because pineapple is delicious. Sweet and tangy. Summer-y.”

The corner of his lips teases a grin. “This is important information. I’m learning so much about the real Jules Lindley right now.”

“The real Jules has very strong opinions about pizza toppings.”

“Among other things.”

We settle on half and half—his weird anchovy preference on one side, my civilized combination on the other. While we wait for delivery, I open my laptop and spread out the photos I took and the research materials across his granite kitchen island.

“Okay, prepare to have your mind blown.” I arrange the images. “Look at this.”

I point to the background. “See this arrangement of trees? And that church with its spire?”