Chapter 23 Linc
LINC
When I get to the office, I find a manila envelope on my desk. Stamped across the front is the word Confidential.
My pulse kicks up and I wonder if this has anything to do with the discrepancies Jules found.
I open the metal tab and then turn it upside down to release the contents, but instead of documents or say, photographs, confetti sprinkles into my hand.
Most of them are little shards of colorful paper, but a few shiny metallic pieces read Happy Birthday.
Only one person on the planet would do this.
Jules must’ve taken note that I was turning twenty-nine when she looked at my license.
After I clean it up, I’m back at my desk, wishing I’d spent a little more time paying attention during class while in the business program at college. Who am I kidding? I lived for hockey. Still do. I don’t regret placing my focus there, rather than learning how to review quarterly reports.
But it doesn’t help that my brain keeps replaying last night frame by frame.
Jules pressed against the gallery wall.
The way her breath caught when I was so close to kissing her.
How she smelled like cherry lip balm and trouble.
I asked her to trust me. She did. Even when everything in her posture suggested that trusting people doesn’t come easily to her.
Pretending to kiss was cover. A distraction from the security guards who suspected we were taking unauthorized photographs. They weren’t wrong. Instead, it stirred something inside.
“Abraham.” My father’s voice cuts through my daydream like a referee’s whistle. He’s standing in my doorway, looking every inch the corporate titan in his charcoal suit. “My office.”
I follow him upstairs and down the hall, past the intimidating oil paintings and polished wood. His corner suite overlooks the Chicago River, and he settles behind his massive desk like a king holding court.
Truth be told, I’d rather be one of Frank Andresen’s subjects than Aiken the Demo King’s, but I digress.
My father steeples his fingers. I make a mental note never to do that. “Interesting evening last night. I had the pleasure of meeting your assistant.”
“Jules is excellent at her job.” The words come out more defensive than I intend.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Jules, is it? How … familiar.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “She’s professional. Competent. The office runs better with her around.”
At least she knows what she’s doing, unlike me, who blazed in here thinking I’d play the hard-hitting corporate exec, when in reality, any games I want to be involved in are on the ice.
“I’ve noticed.” He leans back in his leather chair, studying me with a similar intensity to when he evaluates million-dollar acquisitions. “She seems quite taken with you.”
“We work well together.”
“Abraham.” He uses the Dad tone that has always made me stand up straighter. “We don’t mix business with our personal lives. HR exists for a reason.”
I open my mouth to protest, to insist there’s nothing personal happening, but the lie sticks in my throat. After last night, pretending Jules means nothing to me would be like pretending there aren’t stars in the sky.
“Understood,” I manage.
He nods, apparently satisfied, but as I’m halfway to the door, he adds, “And Abraham? It won’t do well to dig too deep into certain … historical matters. Some stones are better left unturned.”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your mother had many admirable qualities, but her obsession with the past wasn’t one of them.”
The words hit like a slap shot to the ribs.
Mom’s journal, her research, and her absolute certainty that the lost Lincoln love letters existed are what keep me here.
He always dismissed it all as a romantic fantasy, so much so that our search for them became a secret.
But now there’s something darker in his tone, something that makes my stomach twist.
He turns back to his computer, dismissing me. “Focus on learning the business, son. Leave the mysteries to the past.”
My instinct to stomp out of his office is juvenile, so I square my shoulders and turn to leave like an adult, intending to defy his orders.
Then he calls, “Oh, and Abraham, happy birthday.”
I falter, surprised he remembered. “Thanks, and it’s Linc.”
I walk back to my office on autopilot with my father’s warning echoing in my head. Sounded like he already knew exactly what Jules may have discovered. The way he mentioned Mom’s research like it was hazardous instead of hopeful.
Not for the first time since I started this internship, I wonder if my father might be hiding more than just business strategies.
The rest of the day drags like overtime in a scoreless game. Jules and I exchange professional pleasantries when we pass in the hallway, but there’s a hum of electricity between us now, an awareness that makes me buzz.
Every time she glances up from her desk, every time she strides through the hall, with every breath she takes … I remember the way she felt in my arms. The way she looks at me with those sugar eyes. No, I’m the one who is left wanting more.
By evening, I’m wound tighter than a goalie before playoffs, so I do the one thing I get right: go to a local rink where an old buddy works, lace up, and skate.
I stay and watch a men’s league game and then hit the ice again before the Zamboni refreshes it for the final time tonight. Happy birthday to me.
For a few hours, it feels good to be where I belong instead of pretending to be someone I’m not.
It’s nearly ten p.m. by the time I get home and out of the shower when my phone buzzes with a text.
Jules: Do you like popcorn?
I scratch my temple like she just asked a riddle. I don’t know a ton about Juliana Lindley, but the woman is clever, quirky, and I’m convinced that her lips are better than birthday cake.
Me: Is this a trick question or are you going to determine my value as a friend based on my answer?
Jules: I’m trying to settle a debate with my neighbors.
Me: Now?
Jules: Every night, they argue from the other side of the wall. I’m the designated judge, but don’t take legal advice from me. That’s my disclaimer.
I chuckle, surprised, but not by her response.
Me: Yes, I like popcorn, but my teeth are tightly spaced, so I prefer not to eat it because the little kernel things get caught and drive me crazy until I floss.
Jules: Thank goodness you floss. If you didn’t, that would mean we couldn’t be friends.
I can’t tell whether she’s serious, but I do have exceptional dental hygiene. Thanks, Mom.
Jules: Okay, so the real question is thus: salted butter or butter and salt?
How is this a question? Do married couples really fight over things like this? Also, she used the word thus. That’s so Jules. I reply in kind.
Me: The latter, obviously.
Jules: I will inform Screechy and Grumbly of our findings. Also, do you want to meet?
In the month or so that Jules and I have known each other, I’ve come to be prepared to expect her to say anything. But this catches me off guard. Before thinking, I answer.
Me: Now?
Jules: I know it’s late, but I’ve been researching. Found something you need to see.
Me: Where?
Jules: The 24-hour laundromat near my place. I still have your hoodie. I’ll drop you the address. Meet me there?
A laundromat. At midnight. Most women I’ve dated would suggest meeting at a trendy bar or an exclusive club. Jules wants to meet where people wash their underwear when they should be sleeping.
It’s so perfectly Jules.
The place is empty when I arrive, just Jules sitting cross-legged on top of a wide table, laptop balanced on her knees.
She’s wearing black denim shorts, a tank top, and low-top Converse sneakers.
It’s a contrast to her work attire and her more formal outfit from the gallery.
She’s a prism, a jewel and I’m seeing another one of her facets.
Her hair is in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through it.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, sliding onto the laundry folding table next to her.
She grins. “I figured if we’re going to discuss potentially illegal activities, we should do it somewhere no one would expect to find an Andresen.”
My eyebrows shoot upward. “Illegal activities?”
“I’ll get to that.” She angles her laptop screen toward me. “First, look at this.”
The screen shows a detailed analysis of the painting we saw at the gallery, broken down into sections with notes in bold.
“I’ve been staring at these photos for hours and I keep coming back to the same conclusion. I don’t think there is just one painting.”