Chapter 12 Linc
LINC
As I enter the office, instead of welcoming me with a “good morning,”—not that I ever greet Juliana that way—Juliana says, “So it was true. You’re Andresen’s son.”
I hold out the paper coffee cup.
Her lips drop with a frown. “This isn’t Medieval times. I’m not your cupbearer. Nowhere in my job description does it say I have to test your coffee to make sure it’s not poisoned. Believe it or not, there are people in this world who love me and don’t want me dead.”
I blink a few times, mouth agape. The comment was delivered so dryly, I can’t tell if she’s joking. “It’s coffee for you.”
Her head bobs slightly. “Oh. Well, thank you.”
She reluctantly takes it and curls her fingers in such a way that they don’t come into contact with mine. Peering up at me, she asks, “Did you tamper with it?”
“What? Why would I?”
“You’re under oath, sir.”
A ghost of a smile floats onto my lips. “No, Goolia. I did not.”
She flashes me a playful, sassy look. “If I die, the blood is on your hands.”
“For the record, someone who’d do something like that probably wouldn’t admit it.”
She pouts as if hating that I’m right. Eyes narrowed with suspicion, she sniffs the coffee, which is more cream than anything caffeinated—how I noticed she likes it.
“You trained me to be wary,” she says.
I know the feeling. I suppose it was only a matter of time before people found out I’m the son of the company president. Dad wants to keep it quiet and certainly doesn’t want to advertise that I’m a jock, either—his words—rather than the reality that I’m a professional athlete.
I turn to go into my office, then pause. Lips tight, I answer her question, “About being an Andresen, it’s an unadvertised fact. Let’s keep it that way.”
“That explains a lot.” Her eyes flash.
Nancy’s reminders of my mother softened me, but now it’s like Juliana just aimed a ray gun my way, lighting up our ongoing, slow-burning bickering. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re competitive about everything and obviously not at all happy to have a veritable summer internship.”
“My father is hard to say no to.” Especially when he insists this is what Mom would’ve wanted for me. But Juliana doesn’t need to know that.
She juts her chin toward the door and the hall where I’d been chatting with Nancy. “You’re charming when you want to be.”
So she did overhear.
“But I get the sense you’d rather be on the boat with your buddy.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“So is this tough love? You’ve been on one long party barge bender and now your father wants you to take life seriously?”
I almost burst into laughter. Party-barge-bender?
Far from it. My life has consisted of years of early morning practice, dryland training, and intense games.
Disciplined diet. Managing every minute of my day.
Then again, Bīri?? does have a Viking Motor Yacht, set up for fishing and wakeboarding.
It’s large, as he likes to point out, but it’s not a barge.
Juliana must think I’m a rich kid screwup.
I cannot hide the smirk on my face because nothing is further from the truth.
Unlike some guys, hockey skills didn’t immediately come to me.
I wasn’t born with a stick in my hand and skates on my feet, but I loved the feeling of playing—and winning—so much that I worked my butt off to make it onto a college team.
Then the NHL was purely something I earned after essentially throwing away any semblance of a social life and turning my focus entirely to the ice, the puck, and the purpose of getting it into the goal.
“A spoiled billionaire brat. I bet you’d like that to be true,” I say.
She shrugs and shakes her head slightly as if not sure how to respond …
for once. I’ve observed Juliana enough to know she’s not a genuinely mean or rude person.
Quite the opposite, actually, but there is something about the two of us in the same space that sets the room on fire while the other fans the flames.
Squaring my shoulders, I ask, “What’s your impression of me?”
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a painting with a questionable attribution. “Do you want the diplomatic version or the honest one?”
I can’t help chuckling lightly. “Try me.”
“You’re a trust fund man-boy who thinks value is something you can buy and sell.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, no malice. Just brutal honesty. “You probably have an MBA purchased with a generous endowment and three different pairs of boat shoes.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Four, actually.” I don’t, but the way her eyes flare makes me want to hear more.
“Of course you do.” But there’s the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You see dollar signs where I see stories. You’re here because Daddy made you, not because you care about preserving history.”
“And yet you helped me out with said daddy in the lobby when Bīri?? wanted to take us boating.” I lean against her desk. “Why?”
And why do I like her raw honesty—even if slightly off base—to all the “pick me” puckering up from most of the women I meet.
The smile disappears. “Because even a privileged chucklechump deserves basic human decency.”
I bark a laugh. “Chucklechump?”
“You asked for honest.”
“Chucklechump?” I repeat. “That’s a new one.”
“Chuckle because you approach everything in life like it’s amusing and chump because I was trying to think of a word that wouldn’t get me sent to HR. In my defense, you asked me to be honest. If you are going to apply disciplinary measures, that’s my defense.”
I brush my thumb over my bottom lip only so I don’t burst into laughter. “No detention for you today, Miss Lindley.”
I’d had her full attention and she quickly looks away as if ready to get back to work, but this is just getting interesting. I study her face, looking for cracks in that pretty facade. “So what would it take to change your mind about me?”
She arches an eyebrow. “So you’re saying that I’m wrong?”
I shrug nonchalantly because why would I care what she thinks of me? Why do I?
Lifting her chin, she says, “Show me you care about something other than profit margins and naps.”
“Sounds like a dare.”
“Do you choose to accept this mission?”
It cannot be helped, I laugh again. How can she be so funny and insolent at the same time?
“Your turn. What’s your impression of me?
” The words seem to tumble out before she can catch them as her face immediately shifts—eyes widening slightly before she presses her lips together, like she’s trying to swallow the question back down.
Instead, she takes a sip of coffee. Her cheeks flush pink and she suddenly finds something fascinating about the papers on her desk, shuffling them unnecessarily.
Rocking back on my heels, I fold my arms in front of my chest, trying to think as my father would. He’d say Juliana is idealistic and impractical—someone who prioritizes the story behind the art over factual details and makes decisions based on emotion rather than business sense.
“I mean—” She clears her throat, smile wavering in a way that suggests damage control. “Not that it matters what you think, obviously.”
But the vulnerability leaked through for just a split second, and we both know I caught it.
“You really want to know?” I ask, softer now.
She lifts her chin and pulls up the drawbridge—I imagine there are crocodiles in the moat surrounding her castle. “Forget I asked.”
“Too late.” I drop my hands down on her desk and lean forward, capturing her gray eyes.
But the harsh, corporate exec script falls away.
Instead, the truth escapes. “You’re passionate about things on your heart.
Whip-smart in a way that makes me feel like I’m constantly playing catch-up.
And you have an ability to see beauty in old paintings that makes me wonder what else I’ve been missing. ”
She goes still.
“But you also drive me absolutely insane because you act like I’m some kind of corporate villain.” To be fair, that’s the role I’ve been playing.
“Not a villain exactly.” She speaks quietly, still not meeting my eyes. “More like …”
“What?”
Finally, she looks up. “Exactly what I expect from the thirty-ninth floor.” The disappointment in her voice hits harder than any insult could have.
“Oh, and I helped you out in the lobby because my father left me with a pile of debt rather than a successful empire. Maybe try caring a little. You have no idea how much you’ve been blessed. ”
My breath skids and my throat tightens because she must carry around an acorn of grief, too. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She nods somberly. “Yours too.”
“It was a long time ago.” I look away because even after all this time, I still miss my mom.
“What was her name?” Juliana’s tone is gentle instead of the sharp, adversarial one used in our back-and-forth banter.
My defensive posture melts and I smile like I would at a friend.
And just like that, something shifts between us.