Usually Jenna was so even-keeled. Her brittle attitude alarmed me, so I needed to keep a closer eye on the situation with her sisters in arms, regardless of whether it was my job. “Where’d you hear these rumors about disbanding the temp workers?” I held up my hand. “Forget I asked. I know you won’t reveal your source. But I would ask, if you do hear anything else, to let me know so I can make sure Personnel handles it fairly.” I disliked Anita Mohr, the head of Personnel. Human Resources fielded more issues involving her than all other employees in this building. But she was my uncle Archer’s pet, so she had a weird immunity.
“Will do.” Jenna stood. “That was all you needed to talk to me about, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll remind you there’s a meeting at three in the boardroom.” She paused after opening the door. “And Maggie seemed really excited that your father has some kind of big opportunity for you.”
I gave Jenna an arch look. “As my admin, the least you could do—”
“Huh-uh, boss. You’re on your own with the craziness that is the Lund Board of Directors. Buzz me if you need anything else.”
I glanced at my watch. Even for a Friday, it was too early to start drinking.
*
Maggie, who’d been my father’s secretary for the past twenty years, was in deep conversation with my mother when I entered the anteroom to the boardroom. They both looked up and looked guilty as hell.
My eyes narrowed. “Who’s in your crosshairs now?”
“It should be you,” my mother cooed. “You are, as they say here, treading on thin water.”
I knew better than to roll my eyes. My mother defined over-the-top, but any show of disrespect resulted in threats yelled in Swedish. Selka Jensen had come to the United States from Sweden over three and a half decades ago to work as a fashion model. She met my dad, fell in love and abandoned the land of lingonberries and Ikea. So it made zero sense that she still spoke with an accent that sounded like Zsa Zsa Gabor doing an impersonation of Natasha from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. And she mixed up idioms—on purpose, I suspected—so she could remind people she wasn’t from around here. But she was a fiercely loving mother, a tireless supporter of community causes and devoted to my father above all else. It was a little freaky anytime I caught them making out like horny teenagers—thirty-five years of marriage hadn’t cooled their ardor. They’d provided the blueprint for what a marriage should be, which was a blessing and a curse. A curse mostly because Mom constantly reminded me of my single status.
“You mean skating on thin ice?” I corrected.
“Yah.” She bussed my cheek and then playfully tapped it. “My smart, handsome, successful son. Why is there no woman coming around to put smile on this gorgeous face, mmm? What good is all of this”—she gestured to the front of my body—“if you have no one to share it with?”
“I asked myself that exact same question.”
“And?”
“And I came up with a reason. Eighty of them, actually.”
She frowned. “You joke.”
“No, I work eighty-plus hours a week.”
“Mom, stop harassing him,” my brother Walker said from the doorway. “Uncle M wants to get the meeting started.”
“Fine. But I haven’t forgotten where we are in this discussion,” she said as she sauntered past me.
I focused on Maggie. “Tell me about this opportunity my father is going to present to me.”
Maggie laughed. “I like me job, boy-o. I’ve no desire to get on the boss’s bad side.”
Hearing my mother’s accent always brought out Miss Maggie’s brogue. I wasn’t opposed to playing dirty to learn the truth of the “opportunity” about to be heaped upon me.
She wagged her finger in my face. “Save whatever charmin’ words be spillin’ from that silver tongue of yours, lad. I’ve been immune to the Lund charm for nigh on two decades.”
I set my palms flat on her desk and leaned in. “I’ve not got the charm gene, Miss Maggie, and you damn well know it. As a businessman I prefer to use incentives instead of flattery.”
“And what kind of incentive would you be flatterin’ me with, Mr. Lund?”
“A bottle of Midleton whiskey, distilled in County Cork. A rare bottle, lass. One wee nip and you’ll swear Saint Peter himself came down and poured the heavenly spirit into your soul.”
Maggie whapped me on the arm. “No charm, my arse, Brady Lund. Although your attempt at a puttin’ an Irish lilt in that Yankee voice is laughable, I’ll admit you’ve piqued my interest.”