Chapter 19 Linc
LINC
Jules and I haven’t discussed the rooftop party in the days since, but I’ve been studying the discrepancies she brought to my attention like they’re game film before playoffs … and analyzing the comment she made at the party.
We hate each other.
We hate each other? That seems extreme. Harsh. Speaking for myself, I don’t hate her.
But does she truly despise me? I shift in my seat as if I’m fresh off the ice, stewing in sweaty athletic gear.
If she thinks I hate her, she’s mistaken.
Admittedly, I came across as pretty aggressive at first. Didn’t want to be here.
Still don’t. I could walk away, but it’s easier to fantasize about it when I’m on the thirty-ninth floor than actually staging a walkout, dishonoring my role, disregarding my father’s legacy.
I just have to stick it out … and do my best not to think about my cute assistant.
While I’m here, I’m going to find the lost love letters and I may as well try to do something useful.
Turning back to the spreadsheets, the numbers don’t lie—if we’re right, Jules uncovered something that could seriously damage Meridian Holdings.
But there’s still more digging to do because it could be as minor as a staff member forgetting to add a comma, cross a t, or dot an i.
Or someone could be stealing money.
The question that keeps me up at night isn’t who, though.
My initial instinct was to protect Jules because everyone knows what happens to whistleblowers, which is probably the real reason why I told her to stay in her lane.
The corresponding thought was that my father is involved.
If it’s true, that’s certainly not something to be trifled with.
Looking back, my warning could’ve been delivered more delicately.
When I’m not thinking about that, I’m preoccupied by the Echo & Answer painting. It’s missing from the Fairfax Collection, but where could it be?
Then there’s the nagging thought of whether all of this is connected.
Doubtful, but the letters, though important to my mother, would fetch a high price at auction. As far as I know, Mom was the only one looking for them. But could someone else be too?
I’m hunched over spreadsheets when Jules materializes at my desk, fidgeting with the loose string on her shirt.
I’ve come to know her various laughs—nervous, amused, giddy.
Her smiles—obligatory, shy, genuine. That she always adds one unexpected flourish to her otherwise professional outfits—a sparkly pair of earrings here. A pair of patent leather pumps there.
She’s like an artist who just can’t help but add one more brushstroke to make the masterpiece pop.
But the fidgeting right now suggests she’s about to say something completely unexpected.
“I’m the cheer to your blah,” she announces, setting down a paper cup of coffee.
I look up. “Hardly.”
“The cream to your black coffee.”
Delighted by the gesture because I’d been considering sneaking a nap, I take a sip. “There are grounds at the bottom.”
“There are not. It was from a fresh pot.”
I snicker. Just trying to get a rise out of her, see her blush … smile, even if it’s a harbinger of revenge.
She shifts from foot to foot. For the past few days, she’s been doing weird little things, which, after being in her house, are very on brand. The woman is unique, delightfully quirky. A breath of fresh air when she’s not acting like she hates the ground I walk on.
Yesterday, I’m certain she was rooting through my desk drawer.
Sorry to disappoint, but the only things I keep in here are a notepad, pens, paperclips, a letter opener, a spare phone charger, and a tin of mints.
Like an art thief leaving behind a calling card, I found a tiny rubber duck with a bowtie.
I noticed she had several on the windowsill in her bathroom.
After my discovery, tit for tat, I went through her desk drawer.
I am not one to be outdone. There, I found a small stack of fortune cookie fortunes.
All optimistic and each with lucky number eighty-three on the back.
Odd. Her desk also houses several types of lip balm, gloss, and lipstick, along with a lot of chocolate. Lots.
I added a fake plastic spider to her stash of paperclips.
Now she’s hovering like she wants to tell me something, but can’t figure out how to start. Or she wants to inform me that she’s leaving. Or … I’m not sure what.
Jules keeps me on my toes. This would be a great time to skate a few laps, blow off some steam. Get iced up.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I ask without looking up from my computer’s monitor.
Despite the connection I thought we’d established—I sat on her couch, drank a root beer, told her I’m related to our sixteenth president—we’ve slipped back into our grumpy boss and cheerful assistant roles.
She pulls a penny from her pocket and starts tossing it, but then fumbles and it spins on my desk before lazily showing heads.
The movement draws my attention to her hands, then I drag my gaze up her body.
Today, she’s wearing a pale yellow blouse with shiny white buttons and a black pencil skirt that fits her like a dream.
I get minor bumblebee vibes and remind myself that I’m allergic to all apiformes.
“Well,” she says, still fidgeting.
Now, she’s making me nervous, or at least that’s what this unusual feeling in my stomach must be.
I draw my penny out of my pocket and flip it. Heads, I go back to work. Tails, I toss her over my shoulder and carry her around the office until whatever it is she wants to tell me spills out of her.
Jules fidgets with a length of her hair, twirling it around her finger. Gripping the coin hard so I don’t reach out to feel if it’s as soft as it looks, I leave nail marks in my palm.
The power goes out in my brain like during a summer storm.
The logical part that categorizes, analyzes, and keeps everything in neat compartments goes offline entirely.
All I can process is the way her teeth worry her bottom lip and how badly I want to smooth away that little crease between her eyebrows.
She presses her lips together as if afraid to elaborate.
Then I tell her about the two possible outcomes of my coin toss.
“You wouldn’t do that, would you? Surely, it’s against HR rules.”
I get to my feet and stalk toward her.
She backs up as a slow grin broadens across her face.
I inch closer.
She blurts, “Okay, I told my friends Oly and Nate that my boss is related to Abraham Lincoln and they don’t believe me.”
I blink, slightly confused, though this is Jules, Queen of Quirk. “Why would you do that?”
“Because before that, I told them I met Iva Katz. Ever since we were kids, Oly has been a huge fan. Let’s see, her favorites were ‘Secret Liaison,’ ‘Heart Signals,’ ‘Arcane Skulls,’ and ‘Honey Bunny Bon Bon.’ Such an eclectic catalog.” She smooshes the sentences together.
The cold and familiar feeling of being used forms a brick of ice in my stomach. “Are you—?”
“And Nate thought it was cool that I met Aiken the Demo King. They wanted the whole backstory.”
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by curiosity about how her mind works. “Did you mention the painting?”
“Of course not.” She looks genuinely offended. “That’s our thing, Linc-y baby.”
I exhale a breath and want to be annoyed at her for using Iva’s nickname for me, but I initially refused to use her proper name. Now, I’ve landed on “Jules” or Buttercup. I like that too.
Also, might I detect a hint of curiosity? Ridicule? Jealousy? A cocktail of all three? My gaze skates over her, searching for a clue.
She bites her lip. “So, um, they want proof you’re real. We could video chat with them, but …” She trails off, then glancing at the penny in her hand, she adds, “Actually, it was a pickleball bet.”
“A what?”
“Pickleball. It’s like tennis but smaller.” She pinches her fingers together.
“I know what pickleball is. But what’s a pickleball bet?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s the Fourth of July this weekend and they’re having a party. All you’d need to do is show up, play one game, then be gone.”
I can’t tell if she’s serious. With Jules, that’s always the question. She’s an original, first edition. I’ve learned to expect the unexpected. On Monday, her lunch was in a hollowed-out coconut because “Mondays in the summer need a splash of tropical pizzazz.”
“Do you have any plans Saturday afternoon?” she continues, rushing the words together. “You’d only have to play one game and then you could dip out. No need to stay for fireworks.”
I should say no. Bīri?? invited all the guys down to go boating. Plus, I don’t know Oly and Nate. I’m not big on social gatherings with strangers and I prefer hockey over pickleball.
But Jules looks at me with a hopeful, slightly desperate expression that’s near irresistible.
I rake my hand through my hair and find myself saying, “After the rooftop party, I do owe you.”
“So you’ll do it?”
I nod.
“Really?” Her body seems to coil as if she’s holding something back.
“Yes.”
That simple word unleashes this woman and she bounces on her toes before launching herself at me, arms spread wide, before they engulf me. Her hug is all-encompassing warmth. No sooner do my arms close around her than she’s gone, abandoning me to the Antarctic. Freezing cold with a pang of longing.
She jolts back. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I didn’t mean—”
Our gazes tangle together and then a sharp intake of breath—mine or hers, I can’t tell—breaks the spell.
My mistake. We’re not alone.
Veronica, Drecken’s assistant, stands in the doorway, eyebrow arched as if preparing to report us for indecent behavior.
I clear my throat. “I missed my trip to the tailor. She was taking measurements.”
Jules narrows her eyes in my direction.
Veronica clicks her tongue. “Sure. Well, Ms. Drecken wants an executive summary of all of the accounts that you’ve been reviewing.”
Jules turns sharply. “Is that typical protocol? In my experience, those are submitted directly to Mr. Andresen.”
Veronica narrows her eyes. “Which department did you come from, Miss, um, sorry, I forgot your name? Silly me. You’re new here. I can’t expect to remember or for you to know a thing about executive protocol.”
“Actually, I drafted Mr. Andresen’s guidelines for that very thing.” Even as Jules says this, she seems to shrink.
“Was that task assigned directly to you? Seems unconventional,” I say.
Jules shifts slightly as if the task landed on her desk from someone else who didn’t want to do it.
Time to intervene. “I’ll see to it that the summaries land on the correct desk.”
Veronica sniffs. “I’ll let Ms. Drecken know that’s your intention.”
When the echoing of her high heels disappears down the hall, I ask, “Is that true about the summaries?”
“Unless the CEO changed it. It could be that he passed off the task to the acting COO.”
“And who passed it off to you?”
“I’m not a snitch.”
Then I was right. However, my father isn’t the sort to delegate that kind of thing.
Seems slightly suspicious. Not that I should care.
But we’ve been poking around obscure files.
Maybe that raised a flag. “Listen, if she or the other assistant asks you for anything else directly, please let me know. Directly.”
“Yes, sir.”
I pull out my phone and ask for Jules’s number.
She stammers about HR rules, but then I lean in and whisper, her loose baby hairs tickling my cheek, “I reviewed the discrepancies. You’re on to something.”
Her eyes widen with surprise.
“Plus, there’s the matter of the pickleball bet.”
She texts me the address immediately, as if she’s afraid I’ll change my mind.