Chapter 10 Jules
JULES
The elevator ride to the top floor runs at half speed like a poorly calibrated vinyl record.
Where is an executive with his badge when you need one?
Oh, right, sending out a company-wide email inquiring about my whereabouts.
Why does he need me, anyway? My inner romantic reads into the phrasing and I very quickly put it in the time-out chair. Next stop, the naughty step.
Between floors thirty-three and thirty-nine, then down the long hallway, my thoughts jump from him reprimanding me for leaving the office, to gradually worsening scenarios.
Maybe someone saw me take those fancy gel highlighters from the supply closet recently.
It wasn’t stealing, exactly, more like gathering supplies for when I’m working from home.
Sometimes my colleagues ask for my help with their projects.
It’s not my fault, which often results in longer hours, some of them at home.
Perhaps Sullivan discovered I don’t actually have my degree.
I knock on his office door, thankful my shoes aren’t squeaky today.
“Come in, Julian.” Mr. Sullivan stands behind his desk, rolling up his shirt sleeve as if preparing for a fight … or to tease me with his toned forearms that could’ve been chiseled from marble by a master craftsman.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Sullivan?” Concurrently, I ask my cheeks to remain their normal shade because … forearms.
“Call me Linc,” he says without looking up.
That explains L. Sullivan, but not what the office girlies downstairs were saying about him supposedly being Mr. Andresen’s son. They must’ve been mistaken.
Mustering boldness, I say, “Then you call me by my name. Juliana.”
“Okay, Julana.” He works on the other shirt sleeve now, folding the fabric neatly.
My eyes glaze over, then I give my head a shake to come out of this stupor. I speak slowly and with emphasis when I say, “It’s Juliana.”
Jewel-EEE-ah-na! It’s not hard unless you’re a dumb butt.
He finally looks up, and I catch the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “My apologies, Miss Lindley.”
The way he says my last name with confidence suggests he does indeed know my correct first name. His voice is like a whisper to awaken the butterflies sleeping in my stomach.
“I have a new project for you,” he continues, tapping the papers on his desk and showcasing firm muscles against tan skin.
“What about the Gettysburg painting authentication?” I ask, referring to another task he saddled me with.
“We’ll be doing both.”
Of course, he’d double my workload. I bite back my initial response and settle for, “Lucky me.”
His lips twitch. “I need you to research its provenance.” And then he starts to mansplain the concept.
“I know what provenance is,” I interrupt, then immediately regret it when his eyebrows rise.
“Do you?”
“The ownership history of a piece. Documentation proving its authenticity and legal ownership through time.”
“Good.” His tone is patronizing enough to make my teeth clench. “Then you’ll understand the importance of being thorough.”
Rifling through the papers, he mentions wooing an obscure investor, a postmaster named Eli Ligget from Indiana, and tracking down handwritten letters that may or may not exist. It’s confusing, scattered, and seems like he and another exec made a bet, and whoever lost had to take on the project.
Though I vaguely recognize the name from my Eaton Boyd research.
“Any questions?” he asks when he’s finished.
“Only about eighteen hundred,” I mutter, starting with why he looks so good in those glasses and ending with whether he’s always this impossible or if it’s just a special gift he reserves for me. Instead, I go with, “When do you need this completed?”
“By the end of the week.”
“This Friday?”
“Is that a problem?”
“That’s tomorrow.”
“Oh. Right,” he says as if he’s been boating with his buddy and lost track of time. I happen to know he hasn’t been on the water since he broods at his desk all day or staring down at the sheet of glassy liquid below the building.
“By the end of the month, then.”
“That’s in two weeks.”
Shall I lady-splain that these types of projects take time? Lots of time, especially if I’m the only one working on it.
“Would you like help?” I can’t read his sarcasm meter.
“Not from you,” I blurt like a ball rolling downhill.
A shadow crosses his features. “You know what? You’re a real peach, Yulia.”
My lip juts out as I try to decide whether I should be offended or lean into the sass and his repeated misuse of my name.
Glitter, Juliana. Use the glitter!
But I don’t. I possibly do something worse. “If that’s the case,” my voice drops, “then bite me.”
The words are like typewriter keys striking paper, leaving behind ink that cannot be deleted by the simple pressing of the backspace button. My heart stops, restarts, then tries to pound its way out of my chest.
Those are fighting words, and we both know it.
Instead of backing down or apologizing, I square my shoulders and meet his gaze dead-on.
And wouldn’t you know it, the guy’s lips quirk, and he says, “Bite you? Gladly.”
The silence that follows is so charged I’m surprised the smoke alarm doesn’t go off, telling us to evacuate the building.
Instead, I skedaddle to my desk. It’s only when I’m seated that I realize I’m trembling and the full weight of what just happened hits me.
I just told my boss—possibly the son of the Meridian CEO—to bite me.
In a tone that could generously be described as flirtatious and accurately be labeled as career suicide.
What have I done?
I’m convinced I’ll be fired before the end of the day. I refresh the company app. Keep my email inbox updated. But I’m still employed when I ride the Blue Line to my studio apartment.
My phone buzzes with a text from my mom just as I’m fishing my keys out of my bag. After greetings that include a vague “work is fine” recap, she asks if I’ll be able to make it to her and Brad the Dad’s anniversary dinner in September.
I’m about to respond when Screechy and Grumbly—the couple next door—start their nightly argument through our paper-thin walls.
Tonight’s topic appears to be a criticism of how to best dispense toothpaste—from the bottom of the tube, obviously.
One of them presses from the middle, sending the bulk of the paste in the wrong direction.
I consider telling Mom about Linc Sullivan, the disaster that is my professional life, and the fact that I may have just flirted my way out of employment. Instead, I go with a promise to try to make it home for the anniversary party.
After we end the call, I’m settling in with leftover pizza and my streaming queue when my phone buzzes with a notification from the company app. My blood freezes when I see the sender: L. Sullivan.
This is it. I’m unemployed. I read the message.
L. Sullivan: Need you to review the Fairfax Collection files tonight. Send. notes. Meeting with a client first thing Monday morning.
Frozen, I try to ignore the text bubble as my pizza grows cold in my lap. The Fairfax Collection is in a different department. A Friday night work request sent via the company app is verboten.
This is either a power trip of epic proportions or he’s testing to see how far he can push me before I break. Maybe he wants me to quit. Perhaps he’s a sucker for finding his stapler jiggling in a dome of gelatin.
I’m not above petty pranks.
The man brings out the worst in me. The sarcastic, rebellious side that got me in trouble throughout high school and college. The part of me that my mother gently referred to as “spirited” and my professors called “challenging.”
I type and delete at least four responses, ranging from acquiescence to suggestions about where he can file his request. Finally, I just get to work.
After working all day Saturday and after church the following day, I meet Oly for our standing monthly brunch at Toast, a hipster joint that takes the concept of avocado toast and elevates it to an art form.
I order the “Renaissance” (multigrain bread with ricotta, honey, and fresh berries). Oly goes with her usual “Minimalist” (butter and sea salt, because she claims it lets her taste the bread’s true essence).
“You look tired,” she says as we sip our jumbo lattes—you could swim in the mugs they have here.
“Good morning to you, too.” She’s not wrong. I hope the caffeine is fast-acting.
Oly has been my best friend since college, back when we used to spend entire weekends sharing clothes and staying up until what she called the wee hours, analyzing every interaction we’d had with whatever guy had caught our attention that week.
Things are different now that she’s married.
I’m happy for her, but I miss our marathon debrief sessions.
After we get our food, I pop a raspberry into my mouth.
She says, “Talk to me.”
I tell her about the job change, about Linc and his impossible demands, and the way he makes me feel like I’m constantly on the verge of saying something I’ll regret—or outright running my mouth. I conclude with the weekend work request, er, demand.
Her nostrils flare, righteously angry on my behalf. “The absolute nerve of some people.”
“Right? And the worst part is, he’s …” I struggle for the right words.
She inclines her head. “Attractive?”
She knows me so well. “Insufferably so.”
She sing-songs. “You’re in trouble.”
“I despise him and he abhors me. That’s the way it is and how it will always be.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“I may have also taken something from the office,” I add quietly.
“Juliana Lindley!”
“It was just gel highlighters … and some Post-its. Turns out I put them to good use.”
Oly gives me the look—the same one when I’d suggest skipping class to go to the Art Institute or when I’d spend my meal plan money on books instead of food.
It’s not like I forged my diploma or anything. Oh, wait. I did do that. However, no one can know that tiny detail if I am going to avoid having to move back in with Mom and Brad the Dad.
On Monday morning, I drag myself into the office like I’m at the prison gates, starting a life sentence.
Linc is already at his desk when I arrive, looking annoyingly fresh and put-together in a way that suggests he actually gets eight hours of sleep instead of lying awake wondering if his research assistant is a fraud.
“The Fairfax files, Julissa?” he asks without preamble.
I grumble and then hand over the folder, trying not to notice how his fingers brush mine during the exchange or the way his aftershave makes me want to lean close … and yeah, like the little weirdo that I am, press my nose to his neck and inhale.
The office girlies are right about one thing.
Linc is handsome in an effortless way that has probably gotten him out of trouble for his entire life.
Dark hair and deep blue eyes behind a pair of glasses that make him look distinguished.
I imagine that he’s picture-perfect right out of the shower. Not that I would ever think about that.
Only problem, and it’s gigantic—along with his ego—it turns out his personality is awful.
Thankfully, he’s gone most of the day, but returns just before it’s time to clock out. He says, “The Fairfax files were thorough.”
I pause at the door, hand gripping the frame. My back to him. “Is that a compliment or is there a but coming?”
His gaze drifts up and down my body. Or he’s worried about the finish on the wood framing as my nails dig into it.
Warmth rises up my neck and wraps around my cheeks like a hug from behind, but that can’t be right. There’s no way this man is appreciating my assets. Though I am wearing my favorite skirt.
Peeking over my shoulder, his gaze lingers on my legs—last I checked, they’re nothing special. He’s probably calculating the quickest way to push me out a window.