The One I Want

As if two plus two finally equals four, he asks, “We’re still talking about Mr. Christiansen, correct?”

My spine stiffens, and my arms fall to my sides. “Mr. Christiansen?” I ask slowly for the people in the back. That’s me. I’m the people in the back. The image of brass letters rushes to the forefront of my mind as the words—It’s a great day to invest in your future with Christiansen Wealth Management—tickles my tongue.

I suck in a harsh breath and then say, “I have to go.” I’m already running for the elevator when I stop to add, “Thanks, and good night, Gil.”

“Night, Juni.”

Pressing the button, I then turn back again. “Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

“You know I won’t.”

“Not even if he asks about me. Promise?”

He stands, joining me at the elevator. “Juni, you know I can’t lie. I’ll do almost anything else, but my mom—God rest her soul—made me promise to always be honest.”

I glance up to see what floor the elevator’s on and then turn back to him. “You know I wouldn’t normally ask this of you, but at least give me time and a little heads-up if he comes snooping around. Will you do that for me?” When he gets trapped in an internal debate, I add, “I know it’s asking a lot of you, but please? No lying. Just a heads-up for me if he finds out?”

“I can do that,” he replies without hesitation this time.

I wrap my arms around him. “Thank you, Gil. I appreciate it.”

The elevator dings, and the door slides open. When I step in, I face him again. “I just need time to think.”

“I understand.”

I nod and give a brief wave before the door closes again. As soon as I land on my floor, I run into my apartment. Dropping the keys on the side table, I ignore the clang of metal when it hits a glass tchotchke. I don’t pay any attention to the blinds still hanging wide open. Even the ticking of the grandfather clock in the back room doesn’t bother me.

I’m on a mission, and nothing is going to sidetrack me.

Grabbing my laptop, I sit in the chair by the window and cross my legs. I settle the machine on my lap and log in. There’s a slight shake to my hands as I type Andrew Christiansen into the search bar and press enter.

I quickly click images. I’m not here to learn about his past life. I just need to confirm he’s not who I think he is. A CEO will have photos put out—professionally.

The average Andrew—and I say that acknowledging there’s nothing average about this Andrew—won’t have as many. Of course, social media plays a big part—Uh!

My hand covers my mouth as I take in the screen full of images.

Andrew surfing.

Andrew shaking hands with George Clooney.

I right-click save that one to analyze later.

Andrew in an LA movers-and-shakers, under-thirty magazine spread.

Andrew . . .

Andrew . . .

Andrew named chief executive officer of Christiansen Wealth Management.

I sink back and stare out the window.

Andrew isn’t just a sexy new neighbor who I find mildly (humor me here) attractive and majorly frustrating to figure out. Andrew is Andrew Christiansen.

My new boss.

10

Juni

“I’ve been given no choice.”

The door opens wider. “I didn’t catch the ultimatum.”

“Oh, there’s no ultimatum. I’m just quitting my job before there is one.”

“Are you not going to walk Rascal anymore?” Mr. Clark asks, scratching his head. Rascal whimpers at my feet. “Do you want me to pay you more money, Juni?” He ducks into his living room, leaving me standing in the doorway with the leash in hand. “I have a two-dollar bill around here somewhere.”

“I didn’t even know they made those anymore?”

He laughs to himself as he pulls the urn off his shelf. “I used to get them at the club.” Looking back at me, I’m given a mischievous grin. He waggles his thick eyebrows, and then adds, “The ladies’ club, if you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do know what you mean.” It’s an image I’ll spend the rest of the day trying to rid from my brain. I continue, “I don’t need more money or any money for that matter. I walk Rascal for free, remember?” Rascal yaps. “I was talking about my day job. Also, put the urn back. You don’t want to spill Mrs. Clark on the rug again.”

He holds up a finger. “Right.” Standing in front of the shelf, he kisses it, and says, “You always did like the sunshine, my darling,” before placing it in a spot of sunlight. My heart melts as I hold my chest. Ninety-three years young and was lucky enough to be married to the love of his life for seventy of those.

When he comes back to the door, he asks, “How’d Rascal like his walk?”

I smile. His memory may be fading, but his heart is always in the right place. “I’m taking him now. We’ll be back in a little while, Mr. Clark.”