Chapter 14
JULES
The elevator dings, startling me. Turning forward, my nose is within two inches of a man’s armpit, forcing me to lift my head again.
Linc is still there, looking down at me, close enough that I can see the chips of slate in his blue eyes.
His gaze flits from my eyes to my nose to my mouth and back again because there’s nowhere else to look.
My pulse slows, blipping like a sonar tracker.
As if seeking a target, we remain this way until we’re the only two people on the elevator.
We haven’t moved as passengers have disembarked.
We don’t create space between us when we could step back to our respective corners in the carriage like a boxing ring.
I cave under the pressure, break from the tension.
With him looming over me, I tell myself I’ve miscalculated, and this is my boss reminding me of my place beneath him.
It couldn’t possibly be anything else. Not when we clearly hate each other.
Though no one who’s ever hated me looks at me with a burning smolder in his eyes.
I fight the urge to unbutton the top button of my blouse and wave my hand like a fan for air circulation.
My voice barely above a whisper, I say, “For your information, just because we had a bonding moment earlier and you demonstrated that you’re not a robot under that suit, doesn’t change anything.”
Wearing a crooked smile, he straightens and faces the doors.
Doubling down, I add, “We’re not going to have a wild fling where we throw caution to the wind in a storage closet, then fall fast and hard on a sultry night while at a fancy resort during a business trip.”
“You seem to have given this some thought, and there I was, planning our getaway to Cabo.”
“Never. We’d be kicked off the island.” I steady myself by tuning into my pulse against the mechanical hum of the elevator.
“Shall we test the theory? There’s a work conference on the calendar. I bet you’d look great in a muumuu.”
I exhale sharply, about to snap at him for taking his friend’s sunbathing comment too far—but then the comment clicks. A muumuu? A muumuu! An oversized sack that conceals everything. Of course, that’s what he’d think I belong in.
The elevator dings for the thirty-ninth floor. Linc presses the button to hold the doors closed and turns back to me.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“I just want to know—why not, Julia? Why not us?” His voice drops low, his breath grazing my ear and sending a dangerous ripple through me.
“Because it’s against the rules.”
Leaning closer, he says, “I bet you’ve broken rules before.” He arches an eyebrow, suggesting I’m not as innocent as I look.
I keep my best poker face, refusing to reveal he’s “warm” if we were playing the hot and cold game. But then it hits me. This man isn’t used to women resisting him. Oh, I get it now. He’s used to women swooning. Falling at his feet. He’s not used to hearing no.
I wouldn’t touch him if he were the last man in the building. “If you must know, I think that you’re emotionally muted.”
“Explain.” He leans closer.
“You operate on a low frequency, like a vintage gramophone—everything comes out flat and distorted. Like you’re one genuine feeling away from anaphylactic shock.”
He glances at the floor and then up at me. “Just because I don’t wear oversized sunglasses and put a bunch of weeds on my desk—”
“Wildflowers,” I whisper-hiss, tilting my chin up. “They’re whimsical.”
“They’re giving me hay fever.”
“Then go home.” My smile is sugar-sweet and razor-sharp. “And don’t come back.”
His answering smile is pure nocturnal predator. “Not. A. Chance. Julieta.”
The elevator doors slide open. I don’t waver. We don’t budge, locked in our stare-down again. “I have three brothers. You have no idea how long I can go,” I grit out.
“To the end.” He growls.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I lose track of my pulse. It’s likely dangerously high. Is that a health risk at this elevation—up here on the thirty-ninth floor?
Flushed and eyes narrowed defiantly, I slowly back out of the elevator. We never came into contact, having maintained at least a sliver of space between us, but it’s like I can feel Linc’s hands all over my body.
The doors slide shut, sealing him inside since he has a board meeting on the top floor. I remain, staring at my reflection in the polished steel, wondering how my grumpy boss became someone who could knock me completely off balance with just a look. A long smoldering look, but still.
That evening, I’m trying to focus on the Fairfax files authentication project when Screechy and Grumbly start arguing. Tonight, it’s about the thermostat. They may as well be in the room with me.
“Sixty-eight degrees is freezing!” Screechy’s voice carries through the walls. “I’m not paying for you to live in an icebox!”
“And I’m not paying to live in a sauna!” Grumbly shoots back. “Some of us don’t want to melt into the furniture!”
I sigh and stare up at the ceiling. Time for another diplomatic intervention.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve negotiated a compromise (seventy-four during the day, sixty-eight at night), mediated a separate dispute about lighting, and troubleshot their Wi-Fi.
I tell myself that even though things with Oly are different now that she’s married, I’m, okay. The office girlies are still a few floors down at work and I have the reliable companionship of Screechy and Grumbly.
See? I’m not alone. But maybe, in the depths of the night, I am a bit lonely. Things can look a little stark in the city when I can’t even see the stars in the sky.
This is my life. Always fixing other people’s problems while my own pile up on my desk.
Speaking of which … I pull out my phone and open the company app. I need access to the Fairfax archives if I’m going to make any progress on this authentication, but that requires approval from a certain boss with executive privileges. I message him.
Me: I need authorization to access the Fairfax archives for the Fairfax authentication. Can you approve it?
I hit send before I can overthink it and correct my grammar, add punctuation, and use the word please. It’s almost ten, but Linc is probably still up, getting ready to go to a party or club. He can give me access remotely. Easy peasy.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
L. Sullivan: Missing me already?
I snort out loud. The man’s ego is as big as the building we work in. Like father, like son is a cliché for a reason.
Me: Like a sunburn misses the beach.
Me: Like a printer misses paper jams.
Me: Like an afternoon misses naps.
L. Sullivan: Okay. I get it. Authorization approved. Go home, Jujubee.
Me: Don’t tell me what to do, Lincoln Log. Also, I am home.
L. Sullivan: It’s Friday night. In that case, go have some fun.
Me: But my big, bad boss wants this completed ASAP.
L. Sullivan: Your big, bad boss wants you to take the night off.
Me: Is that so? I now have that in writing. But how do I know your account wasn’t hacked and this isn’t a bot?
L. Sullivan: You want verification?
My phone chimes again, and in place of our banter bubbles, a selfie of him comes through.
He’s just gotten out of the shower—hair still damp and tousled, no shirt visible in the frame, just bare shoulders and that infuriating smirk.
My phone suddenly feels too hot in my hands, and I have to set it down on my bed before I drop it.
L. Sullivan: That’s your boss reminding you that you’re off the clock. Also, here’s a friendly reminder to get some sleep. Headed there now myself.
Wait. He’s not at a club? A party? Linc going to sleep at a reasonable time on a Friday night does not compute.
Maybe he’s right and I should take a break. I’ve been staring at these documents for hours, and my eyes are starting to cross. Also, I’m thinking nutso thoughts about him … I have to fortify my defenses!
Me: That’s not what I meant about verification and you know it.
L. Sullivan: But it’s what you got.
Me: Your ego is showing, Linc.
L. Sullivan: Among other things.
Me: This is highly unprofessional.
L. Sullivan: Good thing it’s after hours.
Me: You’re insufferable.
L. Sullivan: Yet here you are, still messaging me.
Me: I hate you.
L. Sullivan: No, you don’t.
Me: Good night, Abraham.
L. Sullivan: Sweet dreams, Buttercup.
I tell myself the little flutter in my stomach has nothing to do with Linc.
It’s most likely indigestion from the can of soup I had for dinner, which was a few months past its “best by” date.
He probably just got home from a lavish dinner with multiple courses and mistook me for someone he’d flirt with.
On Monday morning, I’m already at my desk when Linc arrives, surrounded by mountains of documents.
I’ve been here since seven, caffeinated and focused, following a thread in the Fairfax case that’s been nagging at me since Friday night—in addition to the messages with Linc on the company app.
Hopefully, it doesn’t track how many times I looked at the attachment he sent … of him.
“Morning, Julipop,” he says, setting down a coffee for me.
I glance up, and something in my expression must give me away because his casual demeanor immediately shifts to alert.
“I think I found something,” I tell him.
“Related to the Fairfax Files?”
“There are some irregularities in the provenance of several high-value pieces associated with the collection scheduled for auction.” I gesture to the papers spread across my desk like a forensic investigation.
He grunts.
“I’m not sure what it means yet, but the documentation doesn’t add up.”
His expression grows serious. “What sort of irregularities?”
“It seems someone has been very creative with their paperwork.”
I look up at him, and for once, there’s no antagonism between us. Just concern and the shared realization that there could be something suspicious going on. Something clicks into place. It’s subtle but unmistakable—like finding the right frequency on an old radio.
“Show me what you’ve found,” he says, stepping behind me and craning over my shoulder.
As I scroll through the spreadsheet, pointing out the records, dollar amounts, and dates, Linc asks reasonable questions.
Whatever he’d planned to do when he arrived this morning is put on hold as I reveal the discrepancies in the paper trail. He removes his suit jacket, folds up his sleeves and paces the room, taking in all of this information.
“There is one piece missing from the Fairfax collection. It’s called Echo & Answer. There is no record of it in the digital archives. Nothing online. No idea of what it looks like. All we know is it was last seen and sold as part of the Douglas Kinnard estate,” I say, recapping what we know.
Linc drops his hands on my desk, framing me inside his massive arms. The banded muscles and veins form a tapestry on his forearm as he reads the content on the computer screen over my shoulder. “Are you sure that was the painter’s name for that particular piece?”
“That’s what it says here.”
Forcing back tingles inside, I continue to show him my discoveries.
As I explain the discrepancies in dates and signatures, I catch myself noticing things I shouldn’t. The way Linc leans forward when he’s concentrating. The subtle scent of his cologne teasing my nose. The contours of his lips when I glance back to see if he’s tracking all of this.
There are potentially forged documents in front of me, and I’m thinking about my grumpy boss’s forearms.
Focus, Juliana.
Outside, clouds gather for what looks like a summer storm. They’re the kind that make me want to curl up inside with tea and a good book while rain pounds against the windows.
But also the kind that makes me grateful I’m not alone.
“This could be bigger than just the Fairfax Collection,” I murmur, studying the scan of a signature that’s supposedly from 1943 but looks suspiciously fresh.
For better or worse, I’m familiar with these things, given my father’s background.
“How much bigger?” The intensity in Linc’s voice suggests this matters to him more than just professionally.
Much like in the elevator, when I look up at him, we’re barely a breath apart. My inhale catches and my voice is unsteady when I answer. “I don’t know yet. But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”
Concern pierces his eyes and then they quickly darken. “Actually, it might be better for you to stay in your lane.”
“But you requested—”
“An executive summary will do,” he says with finality.
My lips bunch together in frustration. I’m just doing the job he asked me to do. Deep research, investigating art history the way a detective would a crime, is where I thrive. He teased me with it and now he’s taking it away? I could scream.
An executive summary? I’d like to exec-u-cute him. No, he’s not a cute exec. What is wrong with me? I just want to wring his big, muscly neck. Mangle his lips with mine.
Cheese and crackers! I’ve gone mad.
Giving my head a rough shake, Linc ghosts a smile my way as if he has executive access into my brain with that badge of his.
I have a new thing I hate: the blush that sweeps across my cheeks under his gaze.