This is a Kissing Book
Chapter 1
JULES
My life is currently on a tangent. This isn’t where I expected to be. Yet here I am.
Seated at my desk, I pop a Lindt chocolate truffle (the one with the crinkly wrapper) into my mouth just as the phone rings—because of course it does. The chocolate shell cracks between my teeth as I fumble for the receiver and I answer with my mouth still half-full.
“Cowections Pwocessin—” I swallow, nearly choking. “Meridian Holdings Collections Processing Department, this is Juliana. How may I help you?”
The line is quiet and then a deep, rough-around-the-edges voice says, “Is this Frank Andresen’s office?” It’s the kind of baritone that shouldn’t be street legal on a Friday afternoon when I’m already dreaming about the weekend.
I clear my throat, still tasting hazelnut. “Not even close. But you sound desperate, so I’ll help you, anyway.”
“Desperate?” Amusement warms his tone like a beach bonfire. “That obvious?”
“You have that ‘I’ve been transferred three times and might commit violence’ quality to your voice.”
He laughs, and the sound is warm caramel dripping down my spine—completely inappropriate for a professional phone call.
He says, “Three times, actually. But who’s counting?”
I twirl the phone cord around my finger, then catch myself.
What am I, thirteen, on my first phone call with a boy?
For all I know, this guy could be my boss’s age, married, or a troll.
“Well, you’ve reached Collections Processing on the thirty-third floor.
Frank Andresen’s office is seven floors up and literally above my pay grade. ”
“Sounds about right,” he mutters.
I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused. Maybe both. “What do you need? Maybe I can point you in the right direction before you hit transfer number four.”
Another pause, longer this time. Maybe he hung up? I pout and am about to do the same, but pop another chocolate into my mouth. This week has been long.
He huffs a heavy breath. “I’m trying to reach him about a personal matter.”
“Ah. The ‘it’s personal’ call. Always a pleasure.”
“You sound like you’re familiar with those,” he says, picking up on my sarcasm.
“You have no idea. My boss is—” I stop myself. “Never mind. Not your problem.”
“No, go ahead. Now, I’m curious.”
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But the way he’s talking to me like I’m a person instead of a robot on a phone line makes me throw caution to the wind.
“My boss has been particularly,” I search for a word that won’t get me fired if this call is recorded for quality assurance, “efficient lately.”
“Efficient?” He sounds like he’s smiling. “That’s diplomatic.”
“I’m a very diplomatic person.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
I help myself to another chocolate when his comment boomerangs. “Excuse me?”
“What are you eating? I heard the wrapper. Sounds like something crunchy.”
My cheeks flush hot like I’ve been caught. “I got in early today and have been staring at a screen for hours. I’m all out of coffee, so I switched to chocolate.”
“What kind?”
“Does it matter?”
“Absolutely. Chocolate preference says a lot about a person.” His voice turns even more intimate.
I’m acutely aware that I’m alone in the office. Wendy and Carmen are already at our staggered lunch breaks. Feeling like I could blow away on the wind, I unwrap another one, deliberately letting the foil crinkle near the phone. “Oh, really. Do you have a degree in candy psychology?”
His laugh is rich and genuine. “Maybe I do. Let me guess, you‘re eating one of those round Lindt chocolate truffles.”
I nearly drop the phone. “How did you—?”
“The wrapper has a very specific sound. Also, they’re pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” I’m grinning now. “How about outstandingly delicious?”
“Nah. I stand by my claim.”
“What about Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?”
“Basic.”
“But delicious. Snickers?”
“Too much going on. It’s like they can’t decide who they want to be. Plus, the peanuts crowd out the other flavors.”
I giggle. “You have very strong opinions about candy.”
“I have very strong opinions about most things. But I’m willing to hear your defense of the Lindt chocolate truffle.” His voice drops into yet a lower register.
My stomach flips. Then, remembering where I am, I sit up straighter, ready to debate. “First of all—”
We talk about chocolate, and I insist the Lindt hazelnut truffles are the best flavor (he playfully disagrees). Next thing I know, I’m telling him about the time my brothers started an underground candy market at school, trading lunch money for their trick-or-treat stash.
“Did you aid and abet?” He sounds impressed.
At a whisper, I confess something that not even my mother knows, “I stole from them.”
“That’s either genius or the start of a criminal career.”
“Both?”
We laugh and I’m twirling a piece of my hair now.
“I like the way you think.” The words wrap around me like sunshine.
I tingle inside and the space between our words crackles, is charged. Like the air before a summer storm.
I glance at the clock. I’ve been talking to a stranger for fifteen minutes and completely forgot about the provenance reports waiting on my desk, my outfit for tonight’s outing, and everything except the voice on the other end of this line.
“This has been charming,” I say to break the spell. “You never told me your name.”
The line clicks. Someone cuts in—sharp, impatient, and unmistakably my boss. “This is Frank Andresen.”
My stomach drops. Frank Andresen. The CEO. My boss. The man whose name alone makes grown professionals straighten their ties and check their reports twice.
I start to apologize, to explain, but the phone transfer must’ve belatedly gone through. The line clicks again before I can speak. It goes silent.
Still holding the phone, my heart hammers against my ribs. The office feels too quiet, too empty. Did Frank Andresen just hear me laughing about Halloween candy? Did he hear me call his—relative, colleague, friend—charming? Can you hear my internal panic on the top floor of the building?
More importantly, who was I talking to?
I hate my boss is not a thought I should be having, but he interrupted the closest I’ve had to a flirty moment in forever.
Why is this my life?
My job in the Collections Processing Department of Meridian Holdings isn’t the worst. However, I didn’t expect to be working in an entry-level position as a cataloging assistant, doing the drudge work of digitizing documents, basic data entry, organizing files, pulling materials for senior researchers, and performing preliminary research inquiries.
Then again, logistically, legally, technically, I’m not supposed to be here.
Don’t get me wrong, seeing facsimiles of old texts and pieces of art the public hasn’t laid eyes on in hundreds of years feels like Christmas morning for a history nerd like me, but it’s not quite where I saw myself as an enterprising college student.
Then again, I never quite made it to graduation day.
For all intents and purposes, Meridian Holdings believes I graduated from the prestigious Sierra Institute with a major in art history and a minor in museum studies.
While the office girlies, Wendy and Carmen, enjoy BLTs from the Tasty Trolley, complete with complimentary butterscotch pudding cups on Fridays, I pull out my tomato and mayo sandwich from my soft-sided lunch box. If only I could afford the B in a BLT.
My father had some rough dealings, and his debt was passed on to me. I’ve always been just behind the eight ball—scrambling to catch up. A day late. A dollar short. Or in this case, 26,000—ironically, my age minus a few zeroes.
I’d rather his legacy didn’t include his counterfeiting expertise, but when you inherit both daddy issues and really good forgery tools, I couldn’t very well not take the lemons I was given and make lemonade, er, a fake document.
We’ll overlook that I may have committed a felony. I’m more than capable of doing this job, so it’s not like I took it from someone more qualified. Nor am I a nepo baby. More like a repo baby, since my father’s vehicle was repossessed the week I got to his house.
I just hope the world I’ve carefully curated never collides with the reality of my past. Though I wouldn’t mind meeting the guy who was accidentally patched into my phone extension.