Chapter 21 Jules
JULES
From pizza to the people she lets into her life, Oly doesn’t give her stamp of approval easily. She’s tougher to win over than a cat being given a bath, so when she pulls me aside after everyone has left and we’re cleaning up, I brace myself.
“I like him,” she says, which should be good news.
“But?” I ask, knowing it’s coming.
“But he’s hiding something.”
My stomach twists as I wring water out of a dishrag. “What do you mean?”
“Can’t put my finger on it. He doesn’t quite seem like a billionaire’s son summer intern.”
I roll my eyes. “If you recall, this whole thing started because I told you about that crazy rooftop party.”
“Have you noticed the calluses on his hands? Those aren’t desk-job hands.”
I have noticed those hands. In fact, he left an imprint on the small of my back. His fingerprints are inked on my skin from when we high-fived and held hands. The desolation when they came apart when I essentially gave him marching orders after the pickleball game.
Dumb, dumb girl.
Nate calls from the other room, where he’s sweeping. “Dude couldn’t keep his eyes off Juliana!”
“He was making sure my sneakers stayed tied,” I insist, but even as I say it, the twisting inside turns into a fluttering.
Oly gives me a look that says she sees right through me. “He called you Jules.”
“So? He’s also called me Julie, Julia, Julianne—” I start counting off the variations on my fingers.
“But he stuck with Jules.”
She’s not wrong. He started calling me Jules and hasn’t stopped. No more silly ones like Jujubee, either. Not only that, he stuck with me all night. Made sure I had a steady stream of root beer, a clean towel after swimming, and watched me … not the fireworks.
I tell her about Mr. Man Bun at the rooftop party.
Oly shrieks and the nearby dogs, already on edge from the fireworks, erupt with barking. “He did the Darcy finger flex?”
I nod. “Patent pending.”
She grips me by the shoulders, searching my face, and whispers, “Mark my words, he’s the one.”
My throat bobs on a swallow because while I’ve always been searching for The One ?, it’s another thing entirely to possibly, maybe, potentially know who it is but not be able to connect the dots to “arriving there” with him because of the shifting tectonic plates beneath our feet.
On the way home, I try to convince myself that Linc stuck with me because he didn’t know anyone else at the party. After all, I clung to him when we were among the likes of Iva, Aiken, and their friends.
That night, after getting home smelling like bonfire, s’mores, and Linc—still wearing his hoodie, I’m drunk from his fresh minty scent—my phone beeps with a message.
Linc: Had a great time today.
My pulse does an elaborate Zumba routine—I only know what that is because Oly had me take a class with her when she still lived in the city. We also tried barre, Pilates, and sweaty yoga in a room that smelled like egg salad on a hot day. I had to leave after ten minutes.
Me: I did too. Thanks for being a good sport.
Linc: Are you impressed by my pickleball prowess?
Me: Your pickle-eating skills are unmatched.
Linc: So, it’s my turn to return the favor.
Me: Please don’t tell me you’ve signed me up for a couples’ ballroom dance class. You saw how often my shoes come untied.
Never mind Zumba. My pulse does a cha cha. Why did I write that? Why isn’t there an undo button? Suddenly overheating, I tear off Linc’s sweatshirt, but his scent lingers.
Hastily, I write back.
Me: I thought we were even.
Linc: The truth or dare variation of the pickleball game upped the ante. I’d like you to join me at a private party on Monday night.
Attend a private party with Linc? My brain immediately spirals into worst-case scenarios and best-case scenarios, which are somehow the same-case scenarios. He can’t mean what I think he does.
Me: Is it a luau? I’m only going if there are pina coladas.
Linc: You and the coconuts.
I can practically hear him chuckle. Always at me, ever the little goofball. Not tall and beautiful and elegant like Iva.
Me: I’m coco-nutty!
The moment I hit send, I cringe. When did I go from keeping things professional with Linc to … this? To being completely, authentically weirdly myself—the girl who makes terrible puns and cops to coconut obsessions?
Linc: I’m afraid it may not be as fun as pickleball. Could give us answers, though.
Me: That sounds mysterious and slightly ominous. Please don’t say Aiken will be there.
Linc: It’ll be interesting. Promise.
Me: What are the details?
Linc: I’ll fill you in tomorrow.
Me: Can I at least have time to read the fine print?
Linc: Not with those sugar eyes.
Me: Sugar eyes? This again. I assure you, I don’t understand. Please elaborate.
Me: Never mind. Don’t. Whatever it is, I’m not buying or selling.
He doesn’t answer.
Me: You can’t just drop something like that and ghost.
But apparently, he can, because mine is the last message in our thread.
The next day at work is torture. Linc has meetings until well after lunch, and I only catch glimpses of him in the hallowed halls of Meridian Holdings.
The first time we pass in the corridor, his lips quirk with a smile that makes my skeletal system forget that it has joints. The second time, he actually winks—winks!—like we have a secret. The third time, he looks over his shoulder at me as we pass, and I walk into a potted plant.
Thankfully, he didn’t see.
I’m not sure what to make of it.
Since the Fourth of July, I’ve started a rationing program, limiting how much I allow myself to notice about Linc’s … everything. Today I’m allowing myself his eyelashes—thick and dark and completely unfair on a man.
Tomorrow, it will be his jawline, masculine and strong—suggesting whatever he says will be important. Some stubble indicates he grooms but has a full life, so it’s grown out a bit before he’s had a chance to trim it. From the vantage point behind my desk, I typically have a very flattering angle.
At least, when he’s here.
It’s become a dangerous game.
When he finally appears at my desk at three-thirty, he smells like soapy mint with a hint of aftershave that now makes me want to …
lick him. No, that’s not right. Too extreme.
Too … weird. What am I thinking? But I do want to lean closer and breathe him in.
Which would definitely be an HR violation.
I tell myself that I’ll wash his hoodie tonight and return it to him.
I won’t find it next to my pillow like I did this morning.
“About tonight,” he says, perching on the edge of my desk.
Hyper aware of his proximity, I suffer from the deadly trio of pink cheeks, a fluttering stomach, and a light layer of sweat at the nape of my neck. It’s oh-so-attractive.
I swallow thickly. “Tonight?”
He waggles his eyebrows. “The private party. River North. Exclusive showing of a Civil War Collection.”
My eyes widen. “Oh. That actually sounds really cool. I thought it was going to be another hipster glamour carnival, only this time in a cave instead of on a rooftop.”
He chuckles. “But there is one thing. My father will be there.” He winces as if preparing for someone to fix his broken nose. It’s not broken, but it may have been once. I’ll have to inspect it more carefully. I appoint Wednesday nose day.
“I’ve met Mr. Andresen.” I think of the lobby when we were with Bear Paw or whatever Linc’s boating buddy was named.
“I mean, he wants to meet you, uh, my assistant.”
That makes my antenna lift. “Why?”
“Because he’s noticed some really good work come out of this office and is convinced that I have nothing to do with it. I mean, probably. When it comes to my father, that’s par for the course.”
“Does he like golf?”
“Lives for it.”
“Anything else I should know?” I recall Linc’s comments about his mother’s journal and get a very stereotypical blueprint of what life was like in the Andresen household: a demanding father.
A doting mother. A son caught in between, who tried to go his own way but repeatedly disappointed the one guy who should’ve been his biggest support.
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but makes me worry I drooled a little. Friday will be hair day.
“Yeah, actually.” He pauses as if weighing something. “My mother believed that the painting we’re looking for contained symbols—a visual code like the positioning of a fallen flag, the angle of a cannon, the number of visible stars. She described it like a map for those who knew how to read it.”
“Why not just look it up online?”
“It’s been missing. Never photographed.”
“Ah, which explains our deep dive into the Fairfax Collection.”
He nods as if his mind is elsewhere, perhaps on a battlefield of his own, one foot in the past and the other in the present. “I’ll pick you up at seven. You looked good in that little black dress, but this will be slightly more formal.”
I freeze like a department store mannequin in a window display, modeling the latest in “Corporate Professional-wear” while my brain sprints like a hamster who just took a bath in espresso, running through every word he just spoke.
Mere days ago, we were bickering about quarterly reports, and now I’m mentally cataloging how the light hits his face.
Picturing how good Linc would look in black-and-white photography.
The sharp lines of his jaw, the way shadows would fall across his cheekbones …
Or maybe sepia, all golden and vintage like those old, romantic Hollywood movie star magazine spreads Mom loves. A girl can dream.
At the end of the day, Misha, one of Maxine Drecken’s assistants, summons me, inquiring about reports that are definitely in her job description, not mine.
But like the good little worker bee that I am, I bring them to her office, but before I’m able to announce my arrival, I overhear hushed voices hissing.
“Twenty years of loyalty and he’s handing everything we’ve built to a kid who doesn’t even want it. The spoiled brat. I’ve more than earned the official role and I’m not going to let it slip through my fingers without a fight—whether Frank realizes it or not.”
A chill breezes over my skin and I hastily drop the files on Misha’s desk as she approaches, looking at me as if to ask what I’m doing here.
I point to the material she requested and then scurry away like a scared rabbit. I debate whether to tell Linc about what I overheard between the COO and her assistant.
It feels like ten years have passed before I manage to get home.
By seven o’clock, I’ve changed outfits four times and settled on a navy blue dress that hits just below my knees with eyelet embroidery along the hems. It’s professional enough for meeting Linc’s father but not so formal that I look like I got lost in my aunt’s closet.
I leave my hair down before settling on putting it up and adding a pair of pearl earrings.
That’ll have to do because Linc should be here any second. I haven’t yet decided on shoes when someone knocks on the door. A tall someone in a suit when I peek through the peephole. I expected to just meet him downstairs.
I open the door and spin in a circle, panicked. He stops my twirling by dropping his hands onto my shoulders. Barefoot, I feel impossibly short, a bit vulnerable. But that may have more to do with the bold smile on his face.
“You look pretty.”
“I do?”
I can’t read his expression which tells me we’re either going to murder each other before the night is through or we’re at the start of a side quest that’s the beginning of everything.