Chapter 22 Jules
JULES
The venue is a gallery in River North composed of small rooms with dark wood and dramatic lighting. They must’ve spent a fortune on placards instructing visitors not to touch or take photographs of the art or artifacts.
It’s quite a contrast to the rooftop party. Here, people in expensive clothes mill about with wine glasses in hand and speak in hushed tones about the items on exhibition.
“This is incredible,” I whisper as we walk past a display case containing actual Civil War logbooks.
“Stay close,” Linc murmurs, his hand finding the small of my back. “Don’t want you to get lost in here.”
Which, of course, is exactly what happens after we meet several men Carmen would call silver foxes, none of which are Frank Andresen.
One moment I’m following Linc through the crowd, and the next I’m standing alone in front of a display of vintage garments, wondering how I managed to lose a six-foot-plus man in a suit. I wander through several rooms, growing increasingly worried, when two security guards approach me.
“Miss, are you supposed to be here?” one asks, not unkindly but with an authoritative suspicion that makes me instantly feel guilty. Must be genetic.
“I’m with someone …” I start.
“And who might that be?”
Before I can answer, a voice behind me says, “She’s one of my employees and a guest of my son.”
I turn to see a man who looks like Linc will in thirty years—same strong jawline, same intelligent eyes, but with silver hair and an air of authority that could command armies.
My mouth goes dry.
“Mr. Andresen,” I manage, offering my hand. “Juliana Lindley. It’s an honor to formally meet you.”
His handshake is firm, his smile warmer than I expected. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Lindley. Abraham has mentioned that your support in the office has been unmatched.”
“He did? That doesn’t sound like something he’d say.”
Mr. Andresen chuckles. “You’re right. But I pay attention to what goes on across all floors in my building.”
I nod, concerned about what he means by that in light of the discrepancies we’ve been researching. “He spoke very fondly of his mother, your late wife. She sounds like an amazing woman.”
His gaze softens, but he quickly blinks it away. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.”
We chat for a few more minutes about the exhibits, and I find myself relaxing despite the intimidating circumstances. Frank Andresen is formidable, which I knew, but there is a hidden gentleness underneath that reminds me of Linc.
Two men I told myself I hated. Hatred based on assumptions, hearsay, and the simple fact that they had authority in my life.
Upon reflection, I think I wanted to rebel against having a boss—against the idea that someone had power over me.
But now, after getting to know Linc and watching him drop the grumpy boss act (mostly), I realize there will always be a hierarchy.
I can’t spend my life angry that I’m not at the top.
That’s counterproductive. I just need to earn my way up—actually earn it, not expect it to be handed to me.
If that’s what I want, anyway. Maybe the top isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. I’ll get back to you on that.
Mr. Andresen says, “I should excuse myself and return to the party. I believe my son is probably frantic looking for you.”
After we part ways, I wander through a gallery room, admiring the presentation of the artwork, doubtful we’ll find what we’re looking for, which we’ve only ever read descriptions of, never seen.
Linc rounds the corner, slightly breathless and relieved. “There you are.”
“Here I am. Almost got kicked out by the security team and I met your father.”
He gawks with concern.
“All is well and your dad told me the funniest story about you.”
“By funny, do you mean embarrassing?” he asks as we enter another gallery room.
“You betcha,” I joke. “It was about the time you got your head stuck between the banister spindles when you were eight and the fire department had to rescue you.”
Linc stops walking. His expression turns to one of amusement and he wags his finger. “That didn’t happen to me, but is that one of your core memories?”
“Thankfully, my brothers were too young to remember.”
“You looked very concerned for a moment, which makes me wonder what’s in your personal catalog of humiliation.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m delightful.”
“That too.”
I go still and stare at the wall, but not in front of a piece of art. Rather, the thermostat. Is it hot in here? I fan my face because I think we’re flirting.
Linc must not know how that little conversation just torched my cheeks as he leads me through several more rooms until we reach a smaller, more intimate viewing area.
“Linc,” I breathe, grabbing his arm. “Is that it?”
Hanging on the far wall, softly lit and completely unmistakable, is the painting from the Fairfax Collection. The one that’s been missing.
“Would you look at that? I thought it might be here, but it was more like a faint hope. Where have you been hiding?” Linc asks.
I keep watch while Linc breaks the very visible “No photos” rule and discreetly snaps a few pictures of Echo & Answer, depicting a battle scene in the Civil War. Abraham Lincoln fills the foreground, backed by rich colors and incredible detail. It’s a window into history.
“We need more information. Can you—?” Linc starts.
He goes quiet when a security guard’s radio crackles.
We both freeze.
I catch fragments. “… suspicious behavior in the south wing … requesting backup …”
My eyes widen. We’re going to get thrown out, or worse, I’ll get fired since Linc’s father is here. I’m prone to instantly spiraling into worst-case scenarios. Must be my guilty conscience. Thanks, Dad.
Linc tilts his head toward another exit to the room. “We should—”
We walk briskly toward the opposite end of the gallery, attempting nonchalance despite the fact that we just broke the “no photography” rule. I can hear the guard’s footsteps behind us and more radio chatter.
“This way.” Linc pulls me down a narrow, dark-paneled corridor lined with smaller exhibits.
We can hear multiple sets of footsteps now and urgent voices. My heart is hammering so hard I’m afraid it’s echoing off the gallery walls.
Linc tugs us into the shadows of an alcove with a large Civil War battle scene painting just as the footsteps get closer.
The voices are right around the corner now. “Check that corridor … two suspects, male and female …”
His eyes meet mine, and I can see him calculating options. Then his gaze drops to my lips, and his expression shifts. His eyes get heavy.
“Trust me,” Linc breathes.
Before I can ask what he means, he cups my face and leans in. His lips hover just above mine—so close I can feel his breath warm against my skin, can count his eyelashes, can see a twinkle in his eyes that reminds me of the glitter bomb.
But who are the bad guys in this scenario? Us for being where we don’t belong in the gallery? For being closer than a boss and an assistant should be? For being from different worlds?
And yet, there is no denying the space between us flashes and crackles with summer storm lightning. After the count of three, the thunder of our heartbeats follows.
His lips part.
My breath catches.
His thumb brushes across my cheek.
I forget about security guards and missing paintings and every rational thought I’ve ever had.
We’re frozen in this moment of almost.
It’s a breath before the plunge.
My heart is beating so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
His forehead touches mine.
I can practically taste the mint in the air.
One tiny movement forward from either of us and …
Footsteps pass by us, but I barely register them. All I know is Linc. How his gaze skims mine. The way every nerve ending in my body tingles from his proximity.
The voices fade, but neither of us moves. We stay suspended in this almost-kiss, this moment that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, leaving me dizzy and wanting.
“What was that?” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
His lips curve into a devastating smile, the one that makes my knees wobbly and unable to function. “That was to leave you wanting more.”
I blink at him, still trying to catch my breath. But then reason returns and my brain comes up with an obvious excuse to explain the mental malfunction I just had—there is no world in which Linc Andresen would actually want to kiss me.
Piecing it together, I tap the air with my finger.
“Very convincing … camouflage. Smart to let the guards think we were just two people making out in the alcove. Nothing to see here. Move along, please. Don’t tarry.
We’re consenting adults. But if anyone from Meridian HR asks, we’re not boss and employee.
Nope. Never saw this guy before. It was a lark, I tell you!
A lark!” I cannot make my mouth stop babbling.
“For the record, I never hated you, Jules,” he whispers, his voice rough.
“Sure. Right. You betcha.” The words come out stilted because my brain is still stuck on how close we just came to crossing a line that we could never uncross.
I scramble, desperate to get my footing because I feel like I’m floating. “Okay, it’s fair to say that we’ve gone from enemies to friends. But no further. That’s the plan. Right?”
Even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. We’ve already gone further. That almost-kiss changed everything.
“Are you entertaining that tropical resort work fling scenario?” he teases.
“No, Abraham! Nothing of the sort.”
But it has certainly crossed my mind. More than crossed—it has a flight booked and the bags are packed.
That night, I lie awake staring at the ceiling, my thoughts volleying between the almost kiss and the painting we discovered. Every time I close my eyes, I can almost feel Linc’s lips on mine, can remember the way his rough hand felt against my cheek.
But when I’m not reliving every second of what could have happened, I’m studying the crude cell phone images we managed to take before the security guards appeared. Something about the painting nags at me, beyond just its unexpected presence.
I swipe through the photos on my phone, zooming in on different sections, trying to identify what’s bothering me. The brushwork, the colors, the signature in the corner … it’s a low-quality blur.
And then it hits me.
I sit up in bed, heart racing with an entirely different kind of excitement.
What if there’s another painting?
I grab my laptop, suddenly wide awake and ready to do research. Somewhere in the back of my mind, beyond the mystery and the thrill of discovery, one thought keeps circling back: Linc and I almost kissed.
Sure, it was to throw off the guards. But despite all my protests about staying professional, about being just friends, about it being a convenient decoy, I really, really want to kiss for real.