Chapter 41
LINC
I wake from my nap to a sniffling sound and find Jules curled up in my mother’s reading chair with a pair of tears sliding down her cheeks as she closes the leather-bound journal.
“Jules? Are you okay?” I ask, concerned.
She looks up at me, not attempting to hide her sniffles.
I cross the room and press gentle kisses to her salty cheeks, tasting her sadness on my lips.
She whispers, “Your mom was so sweet, so strong. She loved you and your dad so much, even when it didn’t seem like the sentiment was returned.”
I smooth my thumb across her jawline, wiping away her sadness. “Sometimes when there’s a person in our lives who does the wrong thing, we learn more about the kind of person we want to be.” That’s something Mom would’ve said.
The chair barely fits both of us, but I settle beside her anyway, pulling her against my side as we watch the sun begin its descent toward the glassy lake. Jules feels small and warm pressed against me, and I want to shield her from every hurt she’s ever experienced.
“Tell me about your past relationships,” I say, surprising myself.
“That’s a cheerful topic change,” she laughs a cute, snorty, watery laugh.
Squeezing her close, I say, “I want to know about your great love story.”
She scoffs. “There haven’t been any serious ones. My last boyfriend was a lot like my dad—charming when he wanted to be, but unreliable. He’d often miss important events and holidays like my birthday.”
“Then we had that in common about our dads.”
“He’d show up later with a gift as if that made up for the disappointment.”
The casual way she mentions her birthday being forgotten makes me want to give her a celebration she’ll never forget, yet all she wanted was a love song. I’ll certainly never forget our doughnuts at dawn. “You deserve better than that.”
She snuggles against my chest. “What about your love life?”
“A few relationships that never really went anywhere.”
The truth is, most of the women I’ve dated were more interested in my last name or proximity to fame than anything else.
Jules doesn’t even know my real career exists and aside from paying off the debt she’s saddled with, doesn’t seem to be concerned about striking it rich.
Past girlfriends would insist I take them to fancy events, get us into swanky restaurants, exclusive clubs, buy them clothes, and expect expensive things.
Jules had my credit card for a week and spent a whopping two hundred and eighty dollars after losing all of her worldly possessions.
She turns to face me fully, her eyes searching mine. “Can I ask you something? What happens after? Say we find the letters. We prove there was insurance fraud going on. What then?”
The question makes me feel like I missed a crucial pass, lost a game.
I’ve been so focused on the search, on protecting her, on this growing connection between us, that I haven’t thought about what comes next.
Hockey season starts in a few weeks. She thinks I’m just some rich kid tolerating my father’s insistence that I learn the family business.
And somewhere in the mess of insurance fraud and burned buildings and lost love letters, I think we’re creating something special.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
The next morning dawns bright and cheerful, sunlight dancing across the lake like scattered coins. Jules appears in the kitchen wearing one of my old t-shirts that falls to mid-thigh, her hair piled in a messy bun, and I nearly drop the coffee mug I’m holding.
She’s gorgeous. All those summer sun freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and spreading across her cheeks like someone flicked a paintbrush.
Lips that are way too distracting for someone who talks as much as she does.
And her curves make a man forget what he was doing—pouring coffee?
The way her hair catches light like spun gold with hints of strawberry.
And her laughter … I’ll do desperate things to hear more of it.
When she asked if she could borrow an old shirt for pajamas back in Chicago, I hoped she didn’t notice how many hockey team shirts I owned.
But this was also her way of saving money.
While I like the looks of her in my t-shirt, I hate the idea of her thinking she can’t buy a cute pair of pajamas—or ten—because she doesn’t want to take advantage of my generosity or that she’ll owe me.
The only thing I want from Jules is … well, Jules.
“Morning,” she says, padding barefoot across the tile floor.
“Morning.” I hand her a mug. Our fingers brush in the exchange and send a shiver through me despite the warm late-summer morning. “Sleep well?”
“Better than I have in weeks.” She takes a sip of coffee and closes her eyes appreciatively. “I understand why your mother loved this place so much.”
I lean against the counter, watching her move around the kitchen. Like a little cartoon thought bubble, the idea that she belongs here pops into my mind. “What do you want to do today?”
She spins to face me and beams a smile. “This is the perfect place to take a whimsy.”
“You told me before, ‘if you know, you know,’ but I still don’t know whatsy a whimsy is.”
“Then I’ll show you.” She bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet.
An hour later, we’re hiking through the woods behind the cabin.
Jules chatters about everything and nothing—the birdsong, the way the light filters through the leaves, a funny story about Oly and Nate’s first dating disaster.
Side note: it wasn’t their last, but now they’re married, so they got an HEA, which she explains means a happily ever after.
We wander, stop, look, listen, kiss. This woman has a way of finding joy in the smallest details that makes me see the world differently.
I have a cooler backpack with lunch supplies, and when we emerge from the loop hike by the lake, I wipe the sweat from my forehead.
Jules points to an old rope hanging from a massive oak tree suspended over the water. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Sure is.” I nod, wondering how I stumbled upon such a perfect woman.
“This place just keeps getting better and better.” She grins. “It’s perfect whimsy material.”
I think I’m starting to understand the whimsy—a whimsical wander taken wherever your feet and conversation go. “You want to swing into the lake?”
“We want to swing into the lake,” she corrects, already jogging toward the rope and tearing off her clothing to reveal her bathing suit, which is most definitely not a full-coverage burlap sack “swimming costume.”
I test the rope’s strength, telling her about how pale my mother would turn every time I’d swing on it.
“I bet you were a wild thing as a child,” she says.
I chuckle. “Yeah. You too, though.” I can imagine her riding her bicycle until dark, climbing trees, and generally causing her mother the same kind of worry I did mine.
She shakes her head. “Nope. I was a super cautious kid.” With that, she launches herself over the water with a whoop of pure joy, her laughter echoing across the lake before she splashes down.
When she surfaces, hair plastered to her head and grinning like a child, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Your turn!” she calls.
I grab the rope, pausing when I hear the telltale buzz near my ear. A bee hovers by the oak branch, fat and lazy in the summer heat. My hand instinctively goes to the backpack where I stashed an EpiPen, but the bee drifts away toward the wildflowers along the edge of the woods.
“Are you coming or what?” Jules hollers.
Seems as if I survived another close call. This could’ve ended up with a trip to the ER and a very different kind of afternoon. Perhaps my luck is turning. Maybe Jules is my good luck charm.
“Yeah,” I call back, grinning and trying to remember the last time I did something just for fun. Hockey is fun, but it’s also work, pressure, and expectations. This is something else. Jules is, too, and I like it, like her. A lot.
The water is shockingly cold, but Jules’s laughter warms me from the inside out as she swims over. We tread in place for a moment. Her gray eyes shift like storm clouds, giving way to a sunny day. The way she’s looking at me right now makes me feel it shining warmly on me. For me. Us.
Instead of thinking about what’s next, I don’t want to let go of this. Right now.
Our lips meet in a kiss that I’m certain heats up the lake a few degrees. I never want today to end.
After our picnic lunch, we spend the afternoon taking turns on the rope, floating on our backs, having splash fights that leave us both breathless with laughter.
Later, we return to the blanket we’d spread out on the small, private beach and eat watermelon.
Jules lies on her back, arms resting on her belly, looking up at the clouds. “Thank you,” she says quietly.
“For what?”
“For bringing me here. For …” She turns her head to look at me. “For making me feel safe.”
Her sincerity makes me want to give her that and more. I drop a kiss on her smooth shoulder, then lean on my side, propped up on my elbow. “Thank you for showing me what whimsy looks like.”
A laugh ripples through her as she draws me to standing. Lifting onto her toes, she presses a kiss on my lips.
It’s gentle at first, testing, but then something shifts and we collide—not crashing exactly, but meeting with an urgency that catches us both off guard. The lines we’d drawn further blur and fade until there’s nothing between us but want and warmth.
Her fingers run up my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake despite the late-summer sun. When she reaches my shoulder, she pulls me close and we sink together as the kiss deepens.
Since the moment we met, I was keenly aware of her presence—impossible not to be—but I was afraid to acknowledge the effect she had on me. Tried to pin it down. Trip it up. There’s no denying it now. It’s an overwhelming pull that I can’t deny or ignore anymore.
My hands find her waist and I pull her in, eliminating even the whisper of space between us. Her breath tickles against my cheek as she tilts her head, allowing me to deepen the kiss.
Pulses pound.
Hands explore.
Angles shift.
We pause to catch our breath, faces close together, not willing to part just yet. She kicks her feet off the ground and I hold her suspended. This simple gesture tells me she trusts me, fully, wholly.
On impulse, I spin her around in the pleasant breeze, her hair whirling around us, but we don’t separate. If anything, she holds on tighter, her arms wrapping more securely around my neck as the world spins lazily by.
I slant my head and kiss her, and her head falls back as I trail down her neck. Soft, sweet, tasting like fresh water and the summer afternoon. My hand moves to cradle the back of her neck, and she sighs against my lips as we continue to kiss.
When we break apart, she stays close, her forehead resting against mine.
“I could get used to this,” she whispers.
“Me too.”
We spend the rest of the week wringing every last drop of sunshine out of each day.
Jules also reads more of my mother’s journals while I catch up on team emails and try not to think about preseason starting soon.
We cook together, take long walks around the lake, play board games, do a puzzle, and swim, making the outside world feel very far away.
But reality has a way of intruding.
“Linc …” Jules’s voice cuts into my thoughts.
I look up from my laptop to find her standing by my mother’s desk, holding an open journal.
Brows pulled together as she slides her finger along the page, she reads aloud, “‘The missing letters might finally complete the story of how our family came to possess the collection that launched Meridian Holdings.’”
My attention perks up. “She wrote that?”
“You didn’t know?” Jules studies my face with sharp eyes that miss nothing.
“Reading the journals was an emotional experience,” I admit.
Gaze gentle, she carefully adds, “Linc, what if your father never sought the letters because finding them would expose some kind of dishonesty in how he acquired the original collection that launched his business?”
Hearing her say it, I recognize that the thought had lurked in the back of my mind.
“Do you think that could be why Drecken sent those guys to stop us?” she asks.
I let out a long, shaky breath.
She answers her question, “I think the investigation’s outcome could affect a lot of people’s livelihoods. Including mine.”
Instead of letting her say more, I step toward her and kiss her with a desperation I can’t hide. I need to memorize this feeling before everything changes—the way she melts into me, how she responds so hungrily. The sugar sweetness in her eyes when she looks at me.
This pang of longing makes my lungs collapse. Fog clouds my heart and my head until there’s nothing but her. Every touch sends me into a trance. Every look. Every time I breathe in her flower blossom scent.
I’m afraid to let go, so I pull Jules closer, wishing I could freeze this moment, keep us in this bubble where the only thing that matters is the way she feels in my arms.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, she brushes her nose against mine and leaves another kiss on my lips as if to say, she feels it too.