Chapter 25
JULES
My mom used to call me Little Miss Chatterbox when I was a kid because I asked so many questions, shared my thoughts at length, and was fascinated by my detailed dreams that I always just had to share.
I’ve since learned to keep the oddities of my sleeping brain’s imagination to myself. However, I am wide awake on this Chicago summer night and I cannot speak.
Actually, it’s almost three a.m.
With the snap of his fingers, er, the placement of them, Linc made my birthday wish come true.
No one has ever written me a song before. No one has ever looked at me the way he is looking at me right now.
“Thank you,” I finally manage, my voice embarrassingly thick with emotion.
Alone on the street, we’re wandering back the way we came, our joined hands swinging slightly between us. Though this time I’m not sure it’s for safety or security purposes.
I jiggle my hand in his and say, “Just doing this so I absorb some of your tickling the ivories skills.”
His laugh is husky. “Haven’t heard that expression in a while.”
“I’m here to amuse.”
Thankfully, the darkness hides my pink cheeks because I don’t have any excuses for that other than that I’m touched by Linc’s gesture, the words in his song, and what I think the last ones were.
“… didn’t imagine we’d spend this time, wishing she could be—”
I’ve gone through the alphabet twice. Countless words rhyme with time, but perhaps it was just a close match.
Like mine.
“What do you want for your birthday?” I ask as we pause at a crosswalk. “And don’t say nothing—you can’t spontaneously write me a song and then pretend you don’t deserve something amazing in return.”
“I already got the confetti. Thanks, by the way. I’d expect nothing less from you than having to clean up a mess of colorful paper off my desk.”
I laugh. “You’re welcome. But seriously. If you could literally have anything for your birthday, what would it be?”
“Are you a genie, prepared to grant me three wishes?”
“No, just one. A belated one.”
He clicks his tongue. “Stingy.”
“But seriously, the sky is the limit.”
“Good, because I have no interest in going to space.”
“Pfft. Some billionaire you are.”
Linc chuckles. “Billionaire’s son.”
“I stand corrected.”
We pause on the sidewalk and he brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers lingering against my cheek. “What do you get a man who has everything?”
I study his expression, trying to read between the lines.
Searching his eyes, I see spots of vulnerability, a loneliness that expensive suits and a trust fund can’t fix.
He doesn’t want or need material things at all.
He wants connection. To be with someone who sees past the Andresen name and the corporate heir facade to everything underneath.
“Just now, I thought you meant stuff. Rich boy problems and all that.” My smile softens and I bite my lip. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?”
He shakes his head.
“And if that trip to space is off the table and we’re not going to be having a tropical resort fling, we’re running out of options, leaving just you … and me … trespassing.”
“You’re such a little weirdo,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from smiling. “I think I’m going to keep you, Buttercup.”
“What?” My voice goes up an octave.
He winks. “You heard me. That’s what I want for my birthday. To keep you.”
I stare at him for a long moment, heat flooding past my cheeks and all the way to my toes. Then I laugh, bright and surprised despite the butterflies performing aerial stunts in my stomach. “You can’t just say things like that and wink like you’re some kind of … of…”
“Devastatingly handsome corporate executive?”
“I was going to say cocky action film star, Viking, gladiator—”
His hand goes to his chin. “You’ve never seen me with a beard.”
“True, I’m just speculating, given your stature. Film star, Viking, gladiator, professional athlete.”
“What did you say?” he asks carefully, almost as if offended or … something.
I look down at our joined hands, genuinely confused. “You’re strong, like you’re used to being physical and your hands—Oly noticed the calluses. They’re not desk-job hands. Are you a secret pickleball professional?”
Linc’s expression falls into shadow. “What about breaking and entering hands?”
“Maybe breaking hearts,” I tease, not really sure where the conversation was going, but wanting us to get back on the laugh track.
As we walk through the empty streets, I find myself studying him from the corner of my eye.
There’s definitely more to Abraham Lincoln Andresen than expensive suits and quarterly reports.
The way he handles himself, the confidence in his movements, even how he boosted himself onto the table at the laundromat earlier—it all suggests he’s comfortable with physical space in a way that’s different from, say, Nate, who has the same desk-jockey lifestyle.
Linc glances over and catches me staring, and his smile is so warm, so full of the good kind of trouble that I decide some mysteries can wait.
“So,” I say as we approach the gallery, “about our little research expedition …”
“You mean unlawful entry?”
“I prefer unauthorized art history inquiry.”
He stops walking and turns to face me fully. “Jules, are you sure about this? If we get caught …”
“We won’t get caught.” I inject confidence into my voice because this might be one unknown that I can solve. “I’ve been thinking about it non-stop.” Well, between revisiting our almost-kiss, the way his hand closes around mine, and the song he played for me …
I add, “If there really is a second piece that accompanies Echo & Answer, it might hold the key to everything you’re looking for.”
His face crimps as if he’s not quite convinced. “What makes you so sure?”
“For one, the title is in two parts. Echo and Answer.”
I pull out my phone and show him the low-quality and semi-blurry photos he took on the fly.
“Don’t get too excited. We have to stay focused.
But look at this corner here. See how the brushwork is slightly different?
Like someone painted over the original. And the way Lincoln is positioned—he’s clearly looking at something or someone in the next frame. ”
“Or outside the frame.”
“Yes, but see this shadow?” I point.
Linc studies the images and the gradual nodding of his head tells me he’s growing more interested despite his reasonable reservations.
“How much do you want to find those letters?” I tip my gaze to his.
He’s quiet for a long moment as if thinking about something significant. “More than I probably should.”
“Then we do this. I’ve already scoped out the security situation and mapped out the best entry point …”
“Entry point?” He looks genuinely alarmed. “Jules, we can’t actually break in. That’s—”
“We’re just photographing for research.”
He stares at me like I’ve suggested we rob a bank. “You’re serious.”
I bounce on my toes. “I have a plan. We get in, I examine the painting properly, take detailed photos, and we’re out. Twenty minutes, tops.”
“And if there’s an alarm?”
“Did you notice how divided the rooms were in the gallery? There is a section outside the system.”
“How did you obtain the security schematics?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Probably not.”
So I tell him anyway. “Nate was not at all vengeful after being laid off from his job at a data backup and storage company. He may have accidentally let me view some info. Okay, so the motion sensors shift through the various galleries, leaving a time gap.”
“Should I be concerned that you seem oddly knowledgeable about this?”
Thinking about my father’s untoward dealings, I give him my most innocent smile. “I promise never to use my sleuthing skills against you.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and I try not to notice how the gesture makes it stick up in adorable directions. He slides his hand into his pocket and retrieves his penny.
Taking a deep breath, he says, “Heads we proceed. Tails, we abort the mission.”
I watch as he tosses the coin into the air and catches it with ease before revealing which side it landed on.
“Let’s do this.”
I think he’s holding his breath until he finally says, “Okay, but we do this smart. No unnecessary risks.”
“Obviously. I’m many things, but reckless isn’t one of them.”
“Says the woman who just proposed breaking into an art gallery.”
“Proposed is such a formal word. I prefer ‘enthusiastically suggested.’”
He laughs despite himself. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Not if I can help it.”
The way he looks at me then—like I’m brave instead of foolish, like my crazy ideas might actually be brilliant—I feel a bit honey-drunk.
“Come on,” I say, tugging him toward the back alley. “Let’s go before I lose my nerve entirely.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing behind the gallery with a plan.
A slow drip of adrenaline courses through my veins.
I’ve felt this once before and understand how my father became addicted.
Linc boosts me up to a window that I easily open, hoping he doesn’t question my lock-pick skills later.
Let’s just say I went from being months away from completing my degree to getting an entirely different education.
“I don’t think you’ll fit through here,” I call down.
“You can’t go alone.”
“Sure, I can. I’m smaller and sneakier. Plus, it’s your turn to be the lookout.”
Linc’s expression tells me he wants to argue, but I’m already slipping through the window before he can stop me.
Inside, the gallery is eerily quiet and emergency lighting splashes the walls red. I slip off my shoes to avoid squeaking on the polished floors and pad toward the south wing on my tiptoes, phone flashlight dimmed to its lowest setting.