Chapter 13 Jules
JULES
My boss has a faraway look in his eyes. When he doesn’t answer my question, I repeat it.
Someone once told me that people die twice.
The first, when they pass from this earth, and the second is when their name is finally lost to history.
I have no intention of being immortalized in any way, but I think it’s important to remember our dead.
If we don’t, we could get too close to forgetting that we’re still alive.
“What was your mother’s name?”
For the first time since L. Sullivan entered my life, he looks more human. Almost vulnerable.
“My mom’s name was Marie,” he says finally. “Marie Sullivan Andresen.”
“Ah. That’s where the Sullivan comes from.” I wonder if it was to honor her, if it’s his middle name, he’s playing “undercover boss,” or if he really doesn’t want to be associated with his father.
That hardly tracks because a guy like him would want to shout that he’s an Andresen from the rooftops for clout, to leverage the name and the connection at every opportunity. Right?
Linc tells me a bit about his mom, including how she taught him that a mighty oak tree was once a tiny acorn.
Thinking about my own mom, my voice is tender when I say, “She seemed like a special lady.”
His eyebrows lift with surprise.
I add, “I’m not being sarcastic.”
“She was. She loved books, romance stories especially. Used to say they reminded her that love is worth the risk.”
“She was right.”
He blows an exhale through his lips as if disagreeing. “She was crazy about art—in museums and nature. Whether it was a long line for a new exhibition or the first blossoms of the season, she said it was proof that beautiful things are worth waiting for.”
“Once again, I agree. Wise woman.”
This is not the cocky consultant I’ve been sparring with all these weeks. It’s like someone just switched out the painting I was studying for a completely different piece—same frame, entirely new picture.
He continues, “She was a woman of great faith. Not the preachy kind, but the lived-out kind. She helped me believe things would work out, even when they looked impossible.”
“I would’ve loved to have been able to meet her.” And I cannot imagine a woman like that married to the dreaded Andresen. Then again, grief changes people.
Linc pauses. “She would have liked you, actually. She had a thing for people who spoke their minds.”
I lean forward slightly. “Even when their ‘minds’ are telling you that you’re wrong about everything?”
“Especially then.” He almost smiles. I bet it would transform his entire, stony face.
“Is that so?”
“She used to say the most dangerous person in any room was the one who agreed with everyone.”
I nod, inspired by that insight and feeling oddly honored by the comparison to someone who clearly meant the world to Linc. For a moment, the guy I’ve told myself I hate disappears. We’re just two people talking about someone special.
He sits halfway on my desk. Before, I would’ve thought he parked himself here to prove me wrong, but now I wonder if he intends to continue this conversation. After seeing these two different sides of Linc, I’m not sure. Then again, I’ve been anything but my usual cheerful self around him.
“You give off only child energy. Am I right?” I ask.
His expression falters just slightly. “My mom had the kind of cancer that kept her from having more kids.”
My heart breaks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.” He waves me off as if allergic to pity.
Returning to familiar ground, I tease, “Maybe that’s a good thing. The world probably only needs one of you.”
Behind Linc’s glasses, his eyes crescent with mirth. “I imagine you’re the little sister type. Am I right?”
I huff but fight a smile as I cock my head. “Are you saying I’m a brat?” The man has clearly never met my family.
“I’m saying you have ‘youngest sibling energy.’ You know—charming, says and does whatever she wants, gets away with everything, and probably had everyone wrapped around her cute little finger.”
Cute, huh? My lips ripple with a smile. “Actually, I’m the oldest.”
His eyebrows climb slightly toward his hairline. “I stand corrected.”
“In addition to working nights at The Lucky Nugget Casino as a showgirl, returning home in time to get me off to school. She’d also pull the day shift at a nearby diner.
Then Brad the Dad swept her off her feet, they got married, and had triplets.
Life changed significantly after that. Although those snot-nosed goobers were annoying, we had a family.
The boys are four years younger than me, so they’re twenty-three now. ”
“Triplets? Three babies at once?” he asks as if only just now grasping the concept of multiples.
“Bryce, Brian, and Brody. The ‘bros.’” I roll my eyes, but there’s affection there too. Can’t help it—they’re annoying, but they’re family. “They work in sports now. One wants to be a coach, another’s in sports marketing, and the third thinks he’s going to be the next big sports broadcaster.”
He shifts slightly as if uncomfortable. “Let me guess—they forbid you from dating anyone. Would try to embarrass you in front of the boys you brought home. Would be obnoxious any time—”
My stomach flips. The comment makes me feel like I was walking down a set of stairs and missed the bottom step.
“It wasn’t like that.” What I mean to say is that I didn’t bring boys home. “They’re protective in theory, jokester jocks in practice. Think of them as overgrown, hyper puppies who never nap.” I give him a pointed look. “Unlike some people I know.”
“Hey, I don’t nap—”
“You literally have a pillow stashed in the drawer of the shelving unit in your office.”
He starts to defend himself because it’s not true, but then says, “Have you been poking through my things?”
“No, I’m just observant.” Affronted by the accusation, I straighten my posture.
Without advance notice, an application, or so much as a choice, I was promoted to exec assistant.
Fishy. So, of course, temptation dangled like a carrot on a stick.
I gave in and snooped around L. Sullivan’s office.
It could not be helped. Disappointingly, I didn’t even find anything interesting—not even a pillow. I made that up.
Linc pushes to standing and stretches. I watch, half expecting his shirt to lift and expose his trim waist, a tease of toned abs.
Just assuming. The guy is one big muscle under his suit, given the way the fabric hugs him.
But his shirt remains firmly tucked in. However, making a half turn toward his office, he cradles his head in his hands like he does during naptime.
I only know this because once, he left the door cracked open.
Linc’s eyes graze over me as if he’s counting every freckle on my nose, every tremor on my lips, every twitch in my fingers. I’m suddenly warm all over as two little pink flags rise on my cheeks.
He smiles.
I blink.
It’s gone. Must’ve been my imagination.
Flustered, I swiftly move on. “The bros are still obnoxious, yet somewhat lovable. They’re adults now, but when they were kids, it was exhausting.”
“I can just picture you as a mini-mommy, micromanaging them.”
“Someone needed to facilitate order. But Brad the Dad makes my mom happy, and when they met, she no longer had to work two jobs. So I put up with the chaos, broken furniture, and frogs on my pillow. Family’s family, right?”
“And your dad?” he asks.
My walls slam back up. I’m quiet for a long moment, debating how much truth I want to share with this man who somehow keeps catching me off guard.
Why am I even considering telling him this?
To show him I’m human? Maybe hoping he could act that way toward me more often?
I can’t reveal too much, otherwise I could raise suspicion about my degree.
Or maybe that’s just my guilty conscience.
Clearing my throat, I say, “He struggled with gambling throughout my childhood. It ultimately drove my mom away—that’s what brought her to Vegas.” My fingers find the edge of my desk, needing something solid to hold on to. “Later, he had a serious accident that left him needing daily care.”
“And you stepped in,” Linc finishes for me. “Family’s family.”
I nod. Despite how it felt like my father abandoned us and the pain he’d caused, I couldn’t do the same to him.
It’s like our family photo albums sit on the desk between us, raw, honest, unedited. Mostly. I can’t believe I just told Lincoln Sullivan—Mr. Privileged Executive himself—about the messiest parts of my life.
“I’m sorry—” His expression softens as his massive, hulking figure fills the doorway, backlit by sunlight. He could be someone’s Superman.
It’s a sight so stunning I almost need to shield my eyes.
But that’s not my reality. In the real world, it’s like I just took off the fig leaves and feel exposed. I stand abruptly, needing to move, to distance myself from this conversation that went too deep too fast. “We should probably get back to work.”
“Right. The Fairfax files.” He nods in my direction and then breezes into his office, leaving me with his clean, minty scent and a case of distraction that carries through until lunch.
Later, on my way back from the lobby, I crowd toward the elevator as everyone hastens to be behind their desks by one o’clock and not a minute later. The last one was crammed tight, so I wait for the next one to ding.
From nearby, I hear a familiar baritone, coming closer. Linc ends a call on his phone before he notices I’m waiting for the elevator. I’m surprised he doesn’t flash his exec badge to hurry the thing along.
We both get in first as stragglers load inside, pushing us to the back, shoulder to shoulder. Well, more like shoulder to mid biceps. Until standing this close, I never realized how tall he is. Several inches over six feet.
He smells minty and soapy, likely having hit the gym during his lunch hour. I was hoping to slip out and visit the office girlies on the thirty-third floor, but no such luck, since I had to do my “banking” for the month.
It’s a finely-calibrated juggling act of shuffling money around accounts, staggering payments, and hoping the thugs my father crossed receive payment in full and on time.
In the mass of starched shirts and silky blouses, someone is telling a story about the man in the plaza with the talking bird and how he trained it to say, “I quit” whenever someone in a suit walks by.
I think back to my dare, when I challenged Linc to try to get rid of me. The crowd presses us closer together, and when I glance up, I find his gaze locked on me. Is he remembering the same thing?
If so, I really want to keep my job. No need for anyone to get excited.
His lips quirk. I try to offer my best “please keep me” smile. But then neither of us looks away.
The elevator feels smaller suddenly, the air thicker, and not because someone had a hot dog with raw onions for lunch.
My smile falters. His expression shifts—still amused, but something else edges in.
An expert at the staring game thanks to my brothers, I expect Linc to look away first, to break whatever this is, but he doesn’t.
I forget to breathe.
Something hot and dangerous crackles between us. There should be caution tape. A warning label at least. My pulse races in a way that’s definitely not HR approved.