Chapter 15
LINC
The gym is practically empty during lunch—exactly how I like it. No small talk, no autograph requests, just the satisfying burn of weights and the steady rhythm of my breathing.
Not the unsteady kind that happens when I’m around Juliana and not the gasp of shock I tried to hide when she shared the files with me.
I had her look into the Fairfax Collection because that’s where my mother’s trail went cold. She was convinced there was a painting of Abraham Lincoln that contained hidden symbols, creating a map of sorts that would point toward the location of the lost love letters.
Thinking about this now, I feel foolish. If Juliana knew I’m searching for lost love letters, she’d laugh in my face. Yeah, I’m a gramophone all right. Clunky, dusty, boring. A guy more interested in hockey reps than wild parties. Who would rather track my macros than the latest trends.
No need for me to risk ridicule.
Seeing the discrepancies Juliana discovered, I worry she stumbled on something sinister, something that other people in the office would rather remain hidden.
No need for her to risk her job. Better for her to drop it and for me to distance myself from her—for a variety of reasons.
After forty-five minutes of pushing iron and all of these thoughts out of my head, I’m ready for my post-workout routine—a cold shower and a protein smoothie from the place across the street.
I’m waiting in line, heart rate still elevated, when I hear a voice that makes my pulse stop.
“Linc-y Linc,” the woman squeals.
I turn, and Iva Katz, in all her glamorized glory, struts toward me.
Her designer clothes in garish, clashing colors and patterns that demand attention give me an instant headache.
Her perfectly applied makeup and plastic smile—the one that once practically had me under a spell—makes me want to turn and run while others in the shop flock toward her.
Being in the proximity of my ex instantly sends a wave of exhaustion and wariness over me. I’m three people away from placing my order and consider ducking out. But I can’t get away with going home for a nap and a snack today without Juliana commenting that I’m an overgrown toddler.
I glance over my shoulder as Iva lets out a squeal. I wince as she opens and closes her hand in a wave, then flashes me the one-minute signal, indicating I wait, while she poses for a photo with a fan. Typical.
When she reaches me, she makes a big fuss like I’m the star on center stage when, really, her over-the-top, bombastic behavior and appearance keep the spotlight on her.
She wraps herself around me with a hug while I lightly pat her back, pulling away.
I hear phone cameras flashing, capturing the moment.
When I break free, keeping my voice neutral, I offer a general greeting, “Hello. How are you?”
“Fabulous, Linc-y baby. I just finished a private tour of a very exclusive art collection.” She steps closer, invading my personal space and runs her hand across my chest. “Beautiful pieces, though none as good as this delicious hunk of man. You look good. Have you been working out more?”
The question is like asking a child if they want a colorfully frosted cookie for breakfast when their mother said to eat something sensible.
I could bite, accept the compliment, and see where it goes.
But I’ve learned Iva Katz doesn’t do anything without an agenda.
Plus, cookies for breakfast will only leave me feeling sick.
She reaches for my biceps.
I step back slightly. “Same routine as always.”
Her laugh is like a tornado colliding with a hurricane.
“I couldn’t possibly endure that kind of repetition.
Bore-ring.” She bops her head. “I’ve been in three countries for filming this week alone.
” She walks her first two fingers over my shoulder.
“But enough about me. I’ve missed you, Linc-y. We were good together, weren’t we?”
I fight against recoiling. Looking at Iva Katz now, I’m trying to remember what I saw in her. Sure, she’s the kind of beautiful that photographs well and opens doors. But standing here, all I can think about is how different she is from a certain woman on the thirty-ninth floor.
Why am I thinking about my assistant … again?
“We were?” I blurt without thinking about how everything I say or do can and will be manipulated by this woman.
“We could be good again.” Her voice drops to a throaty whisper that used to appeal to my ego. “I know things ended badly, but—”
I interrupt, “I remember you deciding our schedules weren’t compatible.”
The subtext was that I was bore-ring, in her words. I also wasn’t helping her climb the social ladder as quickly as she’d hoped with my NHL and billionaire connections.
Boo hoo.
Her mask slips for just a second, revealing something calculating underneath. “That’s not fair, Linc-y. I cared about you.”
Dead air hangs between us as another fan barges into our semi-private conversation. I mutter, “You cared about what I could do for you.”
After another selfie and autograph, she returns with her bright smile. “Guess what? I’m seeing someone new anyway.”
Of course, she is and I’m sure he’d really appreciate what she just said to me. My sarcasm dial is turned all the way up.
Without my asking, she supplies, “I’m with Aiken D.
You know, the social media star? He’s got this amazing channel where he destroys expensive things for entertainment.
Cars, musical instruments, sometimes even art pieces.
” She speaks like she’s bragging about dating a doctor who saves children’s lives and rescues puppies on the side.
A few of the dudes on my team watch Aiken D, the Demo King’s stuff.
From what I know, the guy is a trust fund brat who burns through money and relationships with equal enthusiasm.
Bīri?? showed me some videos where he destroyed vintage guitars and crashed a Ferrari and a Lamborghini into each other for views.
He’s exactly the kind of person who gives wealthy twenty-somethings a bad name. The kind of guy Juliana thought I was.
“He sure sounds like a catch,” I say dryly.
She leans in conspiratorially and more cameras snap. “He is. And between you and me, he throws the most incredible parties. You should come tonight—rooftop club, very exclusive. Unless you’re still being bore-ring and responsible.”
She says the last part like I have a character defect, telling me everything I need to know about her priorities and why we didn’t work out. Iva sees stability as stagnation, commitment as limitation. She wants someone who’ll play her games and feed her need for drama.
I’m not that guy.
I used to think I was heartbroken when we split. Now I realize I was just … disappointed. In her, but mostly in myself, for not seeing who she really was—someone who wants attention rather than a relationship.
This is why I’m single. Why I focus on hockey. Women like Iva are users and I’m over being garage sale goods.
Even as I think it, an image flashes through my mind—blonde hair streaked with summer strawberry strands, a sharp wit, and eyes that see so much.
Juliana isn’t like Iva. She doesn’t want anything from me as far as I can tell.
She challenges me in a way that makes me want to rise to the occasion, not because she wants to tear me down—most of the time.
I’ll admit that occasionally my ego could use some pruning.
Giving Iva a polite nod, I say, “Thanks for the invite.”
Her smile turns brittle. “Your loss. Aiken has some fancy art pieces you might like to see destroyed if you’re still bickering with Daddy Warbucks about hockey. His mother is very connected in the art world.” She bats her eyelashes. “And the best part, he knows how to have a good time.”
“I’m sure he does.”
She gives me one last appraising look, like she’s calculating whether I’m worth another attempt. Apparently, I’m not, because she shrugs and turns away. “See you around, Linc-y. Try not to be a stranger.”
I watch her go and then place my smoothie order, feeling nothing but relief. Whatever hold Iva once had on me is gone, replaced by something else—curiosity about a woman who makes me want to be worthy of her respect.
Back at the office, I can’t concentrate. Every time I try to focus on quarterly projections or strategic initiative reports, I catch a hint of cherry blossom and almonds—Juliana’s scent—wafting from the reception area.
It’s sweet and warm and wholly distracting.
More than once, I find myself peering through the double doors, noticing the way she absently twirls a pen between her fingers when she’s thinking, how she gets a little crease between her eyebrows when she’s concentrating.
Glimpsing a little smile at the corner of her lips when she’s …
well, I’m not sure what. Certainly not thinking about me.
And why am I thinking about her so much?
The woman is brilliant. Infuriating at times, but smart and clever and beautiful, too.
At the end of the day, we both pack up, the silence awkward rather than acrimonious. The weather has taken a turn with dark clouds overhead, promising the kind of summer storm that’ll keep me landlocked tonight. So much for a sunset boat cruise with the guys.
Jules joins me in the elevator and we both remain quiet. Could be that the thick, gray blanket outside has a muffling effect.
“Looks like rain,” I say dumbly.
“Yeah. Stormy night ahead.”
And here we are, talking about the weather. Not too smooth, Andresen.
With a little wave, she gets off the elevator at the thirty-third floor as if the heated, intense moment we shared the other day while riding up, never happened.
“Have a good weekend,” I call, but the doors close before the words are out.