Page 8 of This is a Kissing Book

Then she’s clicking away on heels that I’d much prefer to see moving in the opposite direction—toward me. She’s cute. Pretty. Hot. Gorgeous. Giving my head a shake, I toss the thought into the penalty box.

Eyes on the goal, Linc.

As I enter the building, the lingering scent of cherry blossoms and almonds leaves me with the distinct impression that I missed an important opportunity. Dancing in the doorway with a pretty woman?

Head in the game, dude.

As I board the elevator for the top floor of the Meridian building, I straighten my tie and prepare to meet Frank Andresen.

His secretary is already here, which means the woman who invited me to dance downstairs doesn’t work for him. Or if she does, it’s in another department. Not sure why that should matter.

Get in the zone, bro.

Meeting my father at this hour is not for the faint of heart or the distracted. He hasn’t built a billion-dollar company in the art world by being unfocused. While some people daydream, he accomplishes. While others have goals for later, he executed yesterday.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the man devours his competition for breakfast instead of steak and eggs.

From his position of command behind a massive, polished antique desk—one I imagine he wishes were the Resolute Desk, complete with the moniker “master and commander”—my father watches me enter his office as if he already sensed I was in the building. Everything in the space is oversized and imposing, from the executive chair that could swallow a normal person to the conference table that stretches along one of the two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows like a landing strip. Even the silence has weight, broken only by the barely audible hum of climate control keeping everything at the exact temperature required for preserving priceless art, along with the ticking of a grandfather clock that kept time in the White House until 1861. It was one of my father’s many gifts to my mother when they were courting. Ironic that it’s in here.

He glances at it and then at me again. “Abraham.”

“Dad.”

He starts to get up, but I quickly cross the room and extend my hand. “No need for formalities. In fact, you can call me Linc.”

I’ve lost count, but I’ve told him this no less than ten thousand times. At least.

“Abraham is your given name. Abraham Lincoln Andresen.”

“Even Mom called me Linc.” It’s not that I’m ashamed of it, but literally every male on my mother’s side was named after our late, great ancestor.

“Your mother indulged you—” He hesitates, which is unusual. Actually, the man has never faltered a day in his life. He glances at the clock. “She loved you.”

Love? That’s a word I’ve never heard him speak. I expect him to pull off a mask, action movie style, or turn to ash like a vampire. Deadlines, productivity, and profit margins are all part of his vocabulary, but love?

Definitely not.

Not that I’m looking for him to express anything of the sort, but it’s unexpected, and I’m still slightly off-kilter from the door encounter with the woman downstairs. Time to rewind. Actually, to the woman with the sweet voice, my call got lost in the Meridian phone tree before Frank Andresen interrupted the other day.

As if noticing my wandering thoughts, my father pulls me back to his purpose. He spends the next thirty minutes outlining my role—to learn what running a corporation means, the benchmarks I’ll need to meet, the departments I’ll oversee, why sentiment has no place in leadership, and how this is my final chance to prove I’m worthy of inheriting his empire.

We settle the identity question with something of an “undercover boss” solution, but not because he’s having me spy on anyone. At least I don’t think so. I’ll use my mother’s maiden name. The father-son connection stays private, as does my NHL career—optics for the first case. His indifference for the second.

“Why not promote Maxine Drecken?” I ask, referring to the acting chief operating officer.

A shadow crosses his expression. “Son, I’m thinking about your future.”

So why does the woman with blonde hair from the doorway downstairs float into my mind?

5

JULES

Unpopular opinion: I like Mondays. It’s a fresh start to the week. Anything could happen, even small miracles. So after a weekend of being held in suspense—certain HR made a mistake about the new role—when the Meridian Holdings app notifications pinged at zero dark thirty, indicating I had a personal message, I thought it was a correction.

I also secretly hoped Andresen felt bad about keeping us late on Friday and was giving us the morning to sleep in.

No such luck.