Page 57 of This is a Kissing Book

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.