Page 85 of This is a Kissing Book

Oly: You look like a movie star!

Me: I was hoping it was more inconspicuous.

Oly: I need details. Times, places, all of it! And take pictures of you two together.

Another text interrupts. This one from Linc. He’s waiting. Nerves fire and instead of gliding like the rest of the women here, I suddenly feel like I’m a slug, inching along the gleaming tile. I quickly reply to Oly and hope I don’t leave a slime trail.

Me: Sure will, but it’s call time. Gotta go. Wish me luck.

When I step out of the spa, Linc leans casually against a sleek black car with his arms lightly crossed. He traded his usual business attire for a perfectly tailored black suit—I didn’t get a peek into his bedroom last night, but I bet he has dozens of them lined up in his closet like little soldiers prepared for corporate battle.

When he catches sight of me, his jaw slackens and a smile spreads across his face as if he just spotted a shooting star. Remembering that his mouth doesn’t have the night off, he manages to say, “Wow.”

Or maybe now, as in I’d better hurry up.

Yet, he never takes his eyes off me as I approach. This very much feels like a soft lighting, slow-motion, dreamy romantic sequence moment.

“Jules,” he breathes.

I’m already wearing rouge with thanks to the makeover, but my cheeks feel hot to the touch. Could it be a dermal allergy from all those beauty products? I glance down at my garb. “Too much?”

He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his minty fresh scent mixed with his cologne. “You look …”

I wrinkle my nose. “Like I don’t belong in my own skin?”

“Like you belong anywhere you want to be.”

Opening the car’s door with one hand, he plants his other on my low back, guiding me into the vehicle.

The drive through traffic passes in a blur of me thanking him profusely for the outrageous once-in-a-lifetime spa day.

“Once in a lifetime?” he asks.

“You’ve been to my apartment. I buy nail polish when it’s on sale and only get my hair cut once a year.”

As we talk, I keep catching Linc glancing at me, and each time our eyes meet, invisible electric sparks pass between us despite my playing down how pampered and fancy I feel. I know this because I feel it on my skin, my belly, everywhere. However, I know all too well that if I let myself like something too much, I’ll be disappointed when I can no longer have it.

Except chocolate. I’ll go to battle for the stuff.

After going through a security gate, the car stops at what looks like a big black expanse with some blinking lights in the distance, lining what could be a giant outdoor bowling alley.

But a private jet taxis toward us.

Clutching my phone, I’m suddenly worried and would very much like Oly to call for backup.

Linc jiggles his wrist as he checks his watch. “Right on time.”

“Um, where are we going?”

“Did I forget to mention? The Whitmore Estate is just outside Manhattan.”

I think he did say that, but it didn’t register. “And we’re—?” I point to the plane.

“We’ll make good time. Be in the air an hour and a half max.”

As we board, my brain has to reboot. This is so surreal, I’m certain someone won the lottery—made wise investments or is scamming their insurance company—but it wasn’t me.

The jet’s interior consists of cream leather seats, polished wood accents, and a flight attendant who offers me champagne before we’ve even taken off. I accept it because refusing would require admitting that this level of luxury makes me feel like an impostor.