Chapter 8 Linc
LINC
Bīri?? is having one of his “I’m not backing down” kind of days. It’s great when we’re up against a particularly aggro team. Not so much when I’ve just barely convinced myself that the plan I hatched to spare myself a summer of corporate bondage is the best course of action.
Planting a large hand on both our shoulders, he guides Juliana and me toward the elevators as if leading us to the dungeon.
Back in college, I trained in jiu-jitsu and could easily put a stop to this, but I don’t. The devil on my shoulder suggests I let it play out all the way to the lobby, leaving the CEO with no choice but to terminate my employment.
I don’t want to disgrace my father, but it’s better to do this “rip off the bandage” style. In the next ten minutes, I intend to prove that I’m not an asset to the company, then he can send me on my merry way.
Bīri?? presses the button on the elevator. My thoughts rewind and replay when the cute blonde in the hallway and I nearly collided. She passed off a stack of files, likely mistaking me for someone who knew what to do with them.
She seemed flustered when I flashed my executive badge, using it to hasten the elevator, as I’d seen my father do many times. It’s a ridiculous flex, but I couldn’t help taking the opportunity to practice my role as Lord Bonehead Boss of Meridian.
With my teammate standing between us in the elevator, this time, I don’t catch her cherry blossom and almond scent.
Earlier, it brought to mind a rose-colored memory of a trip Mom took me on to Washington, D.C.
It was spring and the soft breeze would blow the flower petals from the trees.
She called it “rain from heaven.” I guess she can confirm that now.
We visited numerous libraries on her search for the lost love letters that she claimed were my birthright.
After flipping through so many dusty old books, I decided that paper smells faintly of almonds.
One of my favorite memories. Two of my favorite scents.
The elevator dings for the lobby.
After we step onto the shiny marble floor, Bīri?? turns to my assistant. “I bet you look really good sunbathing, Juliana.”
I fight the urge to flick his ear. For all I know, this woman could be totally into him and feed off comments like that. Or she could be married. Though no ring.
Her cheeks turn a faint shade of cherry before her lips drop into a flat line. “While I appreciate you using my correct name,” she cuts me a glare, “I prefer full-body swimming costumes.”
“Like a wetsuit?” I blurt, not sure what to make of her response.
Bīri?? waggles his eyebrows. “I bet that leaves a lot to the imagination.”
Her expression pinches with a pout. Presumably, that wasn’t the response she intended. “Um, Mr. Sullivan probably—”
And there it is. I flinch.
“Mr. S—?” Bīri?? doesn’t even have my mother’s maiden name out of his mouth, likely wondering why Juliana called me that, when she finishes her thought, “has a lot of work for me to do so—”
“Linc,” I interject. “Just call me Linc.”
Juliana frowns. Seems like she’s not keen on skipping class, especially not with me.
I’d like to beam myself out of here as my father materializes, flanked by his assistant and Drecken.
He looks at the three of us, undoubtedly recognizing my teammate, and narrows his eyes in my direction, very likely reading this situation accurately.
“Don’t you have a project you should be working on? This isn’t summer vacation.”
That’s exactly what it is, but even Bīri?? is smart enough not to cross Frank Andresen. My father has the kind of commanding presence that can get the burliest of hockey players to back down.
I would know.
Turning to Juliana, my father says, “Are you the new assistant?”
“Yes, sir. We were just showing this man to the exit—he got lost upstairs—before we head to the reference room.” Juliana’s smile is convincing … mesmerizing. Never mind charming the ice off a rink, she could melt it.
Apparently, my father buys it. “Very well. Good day to you all.”
Bīri?? starts walking backward, slowly toward the exit, and in a low, conspiratorial tone—as if he’ll employ a network of spies if necessary—he says, “This isn’t over. I’ll be back to break you out of here.”
But I’m not sure whether he means Juliana or me.
When we’re alone, I bark, “Better get back to work, Julianne.”
She narrows her eyes and whispers, “By the way, I’ll never share my chocolate with you.” Turning on her heel, she gets on the elevator and pounds the closed button before I can board.
I’d rather go to the reference room, anyway. But the question about why she helped me out lingers as I exit onto the lower floor. It’s been ages since I’ve been down here—always with Mom.
The Research and Reference Department occupies an entire level and, on one side, contains climate-controlled glass cases displaying rotating selections from our vast collection that are under examination—ancient manuscripts, first-edition volumes, and authenticated artifacts.
Floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves occupy the other side, housing thousands of books, while another area contains catalogue raisonnés, auction records dating back centuries, and comprehensive provenance documentation.
The far end of the floor hosts workstations featuring high-resolution digital displays connected to Meridian’s global database of artwork ownership information and histories.
White-gloved archivists and authentication specialists work at examination tables equipped with advanced imaging technology, UV lights, and microscopy equipment for analyzing brushstrokes, paper composition, and ink dating.
The room maintains museum-quality environmental conditions with precise temperature, humidity, and lighting systems to protect the invaluable reference materials spanning thousands of years.
Being back here stirs up memories of tagging along with my mother—her showing me the importance of history as she sought to clarify our own. Or, the more I’ve understood, perhaps solidify her future with my father.
That didn’t quite work out as planned.
The buzz of anticipation mixed with the weight of unfinished business fills me as I stalk down one of the aisles with bookshelves on both sides.
There is a reason I entered the building this morning and it is unrelated to visiting the office upstairs.
Mom spent countless hours down here in her final months, chasing threads of our family’s history. I can almost see her at one of the tables, white gloves on, carefully turning pages of century-old correspondence.
Dad never came down here with us. I don’t want to become the kind of person who lives only for work. When I’m not on the ice, nerding out in these dusty archives wouldn’t be so bad.
Unable to shake the pull of the missing letters she searched for, I feel immensely drawn to piecing together the past.
As I venture deeper into the vast collection, like the flip of the shiny penny in my pocket, I gain a new perspective and develop a plan.
While spending the summer on the boat with the guys is tempting, if I learn enough about the family business to keep my father satisfied, maybe I can finish what Mom started.
Then I can return to what really matters to me. Hockey.
My fingers trail along the leather spines of old books until I find the section on 19th-century America and land on a thick volume about Civil War-era correspondence. I reach for it just as someone on the opposite side of the shelf does the same thing.
“Excuse me, but proper handling requires a permission ticket to access this book, and as I was already authorized—” The voice is muffled by the shelf between us, but I recognize Juliana’s sweet purr.
“I know how to handle a book,” I say, not letting go. Plus, I’m an executive. Technically, do I need authorization?
She peers through the gap between volumes. A pair of pretty gray eyes widens when they meet mine.
“What are you doing down here, Julieta?” I ask, my tone cocky.
“Cross-referencing something from the Eaton Boyd report.”
“Something unsubstantiated?” I accuse when really any questions should be leveled at me, having said the first historical name that came to mind and having no need to receive a report about the Indiana governor’s art collection during the nineteenth century. I figured it was best to keep her busy.
She bites her lip. “I was, uh, just wondering if, after Eaton Boyd died, the portrait of his wife stayed in his family or if it went back to the royal collection—she was quite the rebel aristocrat.”
“Why’d you want to know that?” I ask, voice flat because she should be upstairs doing assistant-type things—whatever those are.
Pink-cheeked and apologetic, she shrugs. “It was romantic.”
I grunt but can’t avoid the sincerity and curiosity in her gray gaze.
Then she sasses back, “It’s not like you gave me anything else to do.”
That changes now. I have a plan and Juliana will be helping me with it whether she likes it or not. But one thing is non-negotiable. She is my employee, nothing more. This has to remain professional.
My free hand finds the lucky penny in my pocket, the back worn smooth from years of rubbing my thumb over it. Lincoln’s profile reminds me why I’m here, buried in dusty archives instead of taking chances on pretty researchers with romantic notions.
“Romance.” The word tastes bitter. “People read too much into it. Make up love stories that probably weren’t there.”
I can almost see my mother wagging her finger at me, wondering why I’ve resolved to find the lost love letters if I think romance is foolish. Ask any of the women I’ve dated. I’m not a prime example of relationship material.
Juliana still watches me as if waiting for a smile, to hear a titter like I’m joking. Instead, I pop the bubble of any such notion.
“Romance is just wishful thinking, Buttercup,” I mutter.
My grip on the book doesn’t loosen. Neither does hers.
This almost feels like another kind of challenge—the opposite of how she dared me to get rid of her.