Prologue
Andrew Christiansen
It’s a list.
As if I have nothing better to do with my time, I now have five more things to check off a list. There’s no getting out of it because my mom made me, a grown man, pinky swear before I left California, and I always keep my word, or in this case, my pinky swears. So here I am with ridiculous to-dos as if I didn’t already have enough on my plate.
Lie in the grass in the nearest park at 9:17 AM on a sunny weekday.
Eradicate negative vibes from the apartment on the sixth Thursday after arrival.
Perform in front of an audience. (Work doesn’t count, Andrew)
Read Shakespeare on the steps of the New York Public Library just after midnight.
Number five . . .
“What is my mom thinking?” I can’t even bring myself to read number five without scoffing. It’s like she doesn’t know me at all. If she did, she’d realize that’s the last thing on my mind.
I review it once more before tucking the list under a magnet on the side of the fridge. I’ve gone over this list more times than I can count. Would she know if I didn’t follow through? I ask myself that question every time I read it.
This week is not the time to drop this guilt trip on me. I can’t believe I’m even considering it. I can’t. “Sorry, Mom.”
Maybe next week.
Or not.
1
Andrew Christiansen
Two weeks and a few days later . . .
What am I doing?
Why am I ruining a perfectly good shirt with grass stains and the scent of the outdoors?
How did I get talked into this?
Cookie Christiansen. My mom has me acting like a fool in the middle of Manhattan. I’m the CEO of a billion-dollar company, dammit. Why do I even entertain her New Age nonsense?
Guilt made me do it. That and not wanting to disappoint her.
I lie in the grass, staring up at the blue sky. The occasional cloud floats by, but it’s a beautiful spring day. Sure, it’s not LA, but if I close my eyes and let the sun warm me, I’m almost tricked into believing I’m back home again. Maybe that was my mom’s plan.
When I open my eyes, I check the time. 9:14 on a sunny Monday. I have three minutes to go. This may be utterly ridiculous, but the longer I lie here, the easier it is to forget that I’m supposed to be at work right now. Probably in a meeting, but I push those thoughts aside and inhale deeply, making the most of it.
Closing my eyes again, I release a breath as visions of sitting on the shores of the Pacific Ocean back home, long drives in the convertible I had to leave behind, and game days with friends on Sunday afternoons return.
Stress from work rarely allows me time to enjoy the present. After officially launching our Seattle office two months ago, I shifted my full attention as CEO—pro tempore—to expanding Christiansen Wealth Management beyond the three offices. Although headquartered in Los Angeles, the New York market has the greatest growth potential. Once this office is bringing in the numbers we’re used to seeing in LA and then grows beyond that, I can expand into a southern city like Dallas or Austin.
This world is full of wealth. It’s my job to find these whales and bring them onboard. My father’s eyes are on me, and Corbin Christiansen never accepts less than excellence. That’s what I intend to give him. Sometimes, I feel the weight of his legacy—a vision implemented with enormous success—is on my shoulders. Sometimes—no . . . always—all eyes are on me, not only to make this company bigger but better than my father did.
My younger brother, Nick, chose a path that led to his professional and personal happiness. I’ve not been given the same luxury as I continue to sacrifice my personal life for this company. For my family.
So, this distraction by my mom does nothing to help me reach my goals. Giving her crazy ideas five minutes of my valuable time is already giving her notions more credit than I should.
Ridiculous.
Ocean.
Convertible.
Friends.
I get my thoughts back on track, releasing the tension and closing my eyes again. Reaching out, it almost feels possible to touch the water again, surf at sunrise, or even sit in solitude after a long day.
Agh!
My stomach tenses as my eyes fly open. Reflexively, my head digs deeper into the grass as I’m met with two dark, round eyes surrounded by a lot of hair and a yap. “Um, what are you doing, dog?”
Perfectly content to stand on top of me, he pants and then sits, comfortable in his lack of training. Not sure if he’ll bite me, I look to the side. Is anyone looking for this dog? It barks again, not scaring anyone, least of all, me.
“What? What do you want?” I look around, wondering where his owner is. “Where’d you come from?” I ask him, narrowing my eyes as I continue lying on the ground like an idiot. There’s no way one of these prissy dogs would survive on the streets. Its white, brown, and black coat is too clean to make me think this dog is anything less than pampered on the daily.
Since it’s staring at me like I have a pocket full of treats, I hold my hands up. “I have nothing for you. Now scram.”
“Hey!”
I turn and see a woman in a baggy sweater flapping against her sides and a skirt pressed to her shapely legs as the excessive fabric flows behind her. Arms covered in the chunky knit material flail in the air, and I may be wrong, but it appears she’s holding a leash in her hand. “Hey! Grab the dog. Please—”
Her words are swept away with the wind, causing me to miss the last part. The dog woofs again, though, and I put two and two together, swiftly taking hold of him. His tail wags, and then he leans in to lick my face. His breath stinks.
Another good washing is in order to rid the smell of saliva from my face. Great, another delay in my day.
Since the dog seems to consider us friends now, I sit up and then stand, tucking the dog under my arm.
The woman slows her pace as she approaches. She may be out of breath, but relief brings a smile to her face. Dipping forward, she squeezes her side and then holds up a finger. “I need a sec.”
Despite the body she’s trying to hide under those baggy clothes and her white Converse, I think it’s safe to assume she’s not a runner. I point at the dog. “Is this your dog?”
“Yes,” she says through huffing breaths. Finally standing upright, she smiles at the dog. “Oh my God, you saved me.” She tickles the dog’s little head and goes nose to nose with him to whisper, “Who’s a little rascal? You are.”
She’s quite stunning. Her green eyes with a hint of brown are bright with happiness (so what if it’s because of the dog. I’m not threatened by the fuzzball). Her dark blond hair is twisted on top of her head with wild strands loosened from the run, and her lips have a gentle covering of pink that matches her heated cheeks.
She reaches for the dog, but I should really ask a few questions and keep him firmly anchored to my side. “Hi,” I start, wiggling my nose in hopes of evading the stench of the animal. At this rate, I’ll be taking another shower when I get home.
“Hi.” She grins and then wraps her hands around the fuzzball’s body, but when I don’t release it, she asks, “Are you going to give the dog back?”