Chapter 4 Linc
LINC
Dropping the coin safely into my pocket, the sun shines blindingly off the glass of the nearest door. I don’t want to make a spectacle by using the main entrance. Bīri?? wasn’t wrong about me being a nepo baby. Not that I’ve ever taken advantage of my father’s billions.
Then again, the car and place I have on Lake Shore are thanks to him. Though if I had my way, I’d stay in Ottawa or join Bīri?? on the river—his sister married an American, and she and some of his relatives live here too.
My hand closes over the handle of the side entrance door, but it doesn’t draw open. It could be locked, but through the glare of the sun on the glass, someone with long hair is on the other side. Again, I try to pull, but at the same time, she must be pushing.
In upscale buildings like this, there aren’t “push/pull” stickers to help those who don’t know how hinges operate. However, I’ve used this entrance numerous times and am certain the door opens outward.
Again, we’re both pulling—me inward, her outward—creating a ridiculous tug-of-war with a glass door between us.
Squinting my eyes through the reflective surface, I catch a vague impression of movement. Blonde hair catches the morning light. She seems confused about what’s happening. And I’m already irritable because I have to be here.
“Lady, it’s not like I’m trying to prevent you from exiting,” I mutter.
She must realize what’s happening and steps back. With an exaggerated flourish, she gestures toward the door to indicate that I go first.
When I pull it open, she steps forward when I do. We do an awkward shuffle, both of us deking in the same direction.
My father is here at dawn, and it’s only shortly after. The sooner I get our meeting over with, the quicker I can implement my plan. Not that I quite have that worked out. This foolish delay is throwing me off.
I expect her to say something snide like, Whatever happened to ladies first? Instead, with an amused smile, she asks, “Shall we dance?”
I stare at her blankly. My mind is already forty floors up in the corner office where my father is waiting, probably checking his watch and cataloging my failures. I don’t have time for cute strangers and their sidewalk comedy routines.
She huffs and her expression shifts from playful to annoyed. She mutters, “Sheesh. What’s with the major zero fun given vibes? It’s Monday!”
I indicate that she goes. I should say something. Instead, I just stand there like an idiot, caught off guard because that shiver slides over me again. I’m certain it doesn’t have anything to do with the cool early morning air or the climate control of the building.
“Tough crowd.” Her full lips form a slim line as she breezes past me.
As she hurries by, I get a brief look at her. Blonde hair with hints of strawberry and light freckles scattered across her nose like flecks of gold.
Then she’s clicking away on heels that I’d much prefer to see moving in the opposite direction—toward me. She’s cute. Pretty. Hot. Gorgeous. Giving my head a shake, I toss the thought into the penalty box.
Eyes on the goal, Linc.
As I enter the building, the lingering scent of cherry blossoms and almonds leaves me with the distinct impression that I missed an important opportunity. Dancing in the doorway with a pretty woman?
Head in the game, dude.
As I board the elevator for the top floor of the Meridian building, I straighten my tie and prepare to meet Frank Andresen.
His secretary is already here, which means the woman who invited me to dance downstairs doesn’t work for him. Or if she does, it’s in another department. Not sure why that should matter.
Get in the zone, bro.
Meeting my father at this hour is not for the faint of heart or the distracted. He hasn’t built a billion-dollar company in the art world by being unfocused. While some people daydream, he accomplishes. While others have goals for later, he executed yesterday.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the man devours his competition for breakfast instead of steak and eggs.
From his position of command behind a massive, polished antique desk—one I imagine he wishes were the Resolute Desk, complete with the moniker “master and commander”—my father watches me enter his office as if he already sensed I was in the building.
Everything in the space is oversized and imposing, from the executive chair that could swallow a normal person to the conference table that stretches along one of the two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows like a landing strip.
Even the silence has weight, broken only by the barely audible hum of climate control keeping everything at the exact temperature required for preserving priceless art, along with the ticking of a grandfather clock that kept time in the White House until 1861.
It was one of my father’s many gifts to my mother when they were courting. Ironic that it’s in here.
He glances at it and then at me again. “Abraham.”
“Dad.”
He starts to get up, but I quickly cross the room and extend my hand. “No need for formalities. In fact, you can call me Linc.”
I’ve lost count, but I’ve told him this no less than ten thousand times. At least.
“Abraham is your given name. Abraham Lincoln Andresen.”
“Even Mom called me Linc.” It’s not that I’m ashamed of it, but literally every male on my mother’s side was named after our late, great ancestor.
“Your mother indulged you—” He hesitates, which is unusual. Actually, the man has never faltered a day in his life. He glances at the clock. “She loved you.”
Love? That’s a word I’ve never heard him speak. I expect him to pull off a mask, action movie style, or turn to ash like a vampire. Deadlines, productivity, and profit margins are all part of his vocabulary, but love?
Definitely not.
Not that I’m looking for him to express anything of the sort, but it’s unexpected, and I’m still slightly off-kilter from the door encounter with the woman downstairs.
Time to rewind. Actually, to the woman with the sweet voice, my call got lost in the Meridian phone tree before Frank Andresen interrupted the other day.
As if noticing my wandering thoughts, my father pulls me back to his purpose.
He spends the next thirty minutes outlining my role—to learn what running a corporation means, the benchmarks I’ll need to meet, the departments I’ll oversee, why sentiment has no place in leadership, and how this is my final chance to prove I’m worthy of inheriting his empire.
We settle the identity question with something of an “undercover boss” solution, but not because he’s having me spy on anyone.
At least I don’t think so. I’ll use my mother’s maiden name.
The father-son connection stays private, as does my NHL career—optics for the first case. His indifference for the second.
“Why not promote Maxine Drecken?” I ask, referring to the acting chief operating officer.
A shadow crosses his expression. “Son, I’m thinking about your future.”
So why does the woman with blonde hair from the doorway downstairs float into my mind?