Chapter 25 #2
I shouldn’t be thinking about this right now, but Linc’s family history makes my own life seem so boring in comparison.
I’ve had what Oly calls a “greige” life—gray and beige, predictably neutral.
Then again, she doesn’t know the gory details of the deleted scene when Dad was sick.
Maybe that’s why I try so hard to be sunny and cheerful.
Compensation for a lifetime of ordinary—at least on the surface.
I do know the finer points of fraud and forgery, and can read a security system plan with ease.
I have my father to thank for that. I can also execute a perfect can-can kick thanks to my mother.
Focus, Jules.
When I find the painting, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I take dozens of high-resolution photos from every angle, zooming in on brushstrokes.
From somewhere in the building comes a creak. I tell myself it’s old and settling.
In the lower right-hand corner, beside the edge of the frame, there is a slight difference in the paint texture, just as I suspected. My pulse accelerates. It’s almost like newer paint sits slightly raised above the original surface.
If there is something hidden underneath, I need to examine this properly, with tools and time. I need to … borrow it.
The clock is ticking and empty-handed, I hurry back the way I came, coming up with how to handle this. I slip through the window like a cat burglar. Linc closes his big hands around my waist to help me down. However, my feet don’t touch the ground. Instead, our bodies zip tight together.
I’m keenly aware of our proximity. How firm his arms are around me. That the space between us could close in less than a breath.
The swoops in my belly.
The rise and fall of his chest.
The heat on my skin.
The way his eyes rake over me.
We’re frozen, magnetized together. The authorities will find us like this and we’ll be memorialized in bronze, titled, “A Lover’s Embrace.”
Only we’re not that. It’s as if we both realize this at the same time and question what’s going on. How we got here. Who tricked us?
He lowers me slowly, letting me slide down until my feet touch the ground. But he doesn’t pull his hands away as if he realizes I need an anchor.
I’ve been a very bad girl. For sneaking around security systems. For having thoughts about my boss that would get me fired.
“What happened?” he rasps.
Does he mean just now, because I’m not sure. All I could think about was the almost-kiss. Which, let’s face it, didn’t happen. The whole thing could’ve been a big fantasy thought bubble when really he was trying to figure out how to tell me I had spinach in my teeth.
Reality snaps back. Oh, right. He wants to know what happened in the gallery.
“Let’s get away from the scene of the crime.”
“Did you commit a crime?” he asks, aghast.
“Not yet.”
I hastily draw him away from the gallery, taking an indirect route to where he’d parked his car.
When we’re in the clear, I say, “I made an interesting discovery.”
Before we pull away, I show him the photos. “See this corner? It looks like someone painted over whatever was there. But I can’t tell what it is from photos alone.”
“So we have evidence that—”
He’s not following, so I interrupt. “I need to borrow it.”
He stares at me, speaking slowly. “Borrow. The. Painting.”
“Temporarily. Just long enough to examine it properly, maybe do some non-destructive analysis to see what’s underneath.”
“Jules, that’s not borrowing. That’s theft.”
The reality of being my father’s daughter rears its head, feeling like a tattoo that was an impulsive, ill-advised idea—at some point, someone will see it. “It’s research! I’ll return it as soon as I’m done.”
“How exactly do you propose we ‘borrow’ a painting from a secured gallery?”
“I have an idea. But considering your reaction, you may not like it.”
“Try me.”
I clear my throat. “I could … make a copy. Replace the original temporarily while I examine it so as not to arouse any suspicion. Then switch them back.”
He looks at me like I’ve suggested we steal the crown jewels. “You want to forge a painting?”
“Not forge. Copy. For research purposes.”
“That’s still forgery!”
“Only if we get caught.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the weight of what I’m suggesting like a fuse burning between us.
I play my ace. “You said you wanted to find those letters.”
He closes his eyes briefly as if witnessing his internal battle. Finally, he sighs. “For the record, I don’t like this plan.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a ‘I can’t believe I’m even considering this.’”
“I’ll take it.”
The dawning sky fills in the darkness with misty gray, pale purple, and powder blue as Chicago wakes up. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re part of a romantic sunrise painting.
But when I glance at Linc and see the determined set of his jaw, I realize maybe this is exactly what needed to happen to shake us out of our joint stupor of hatred.
He seems slightly upset, but instead of driving to my apartment, he parks outside a doughnut shop.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, imagining this is the first place he could think of to get coffee.
“It’s your birthday.”
I rub my eyes. “I haven’t pulled an all-nighter in—” I interrupt myself. “What?”
“It’s your birthday. I may have succeeded at finding a piano in the middle of the night, but I wasn’t sure where to find cake at this hour. If you think about it, a doughnut is like fried cake.”
I’m touched and my glowy Care Bear heart beams. The softness in his expression tells me he doesn’t want this night to end either.