The Boss's Daughter Read online

  Contents

  The Boss's Daughter

  Copyright

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  Chapter 1 - Riley

  Chapter 2 - Brandon

  Chapter 3 - Brandon

  Chapter 4 - Riley

  Chapter 5 - Brandon

  Chapter 6 - Riley

  Chapter 7 - Brandon

  Chapter 8 - Riley

  Chapter 9 - Brandon

  Chapter 10 - Riley

  Chapter 11 - Brandon

  Chapter 12 - Riley

  Chapter 13 - Brandon

  Chapter 14 - Riley

  Chapter 15 - Brandon

  Chapter 16 - Riley

  Chapter 17 - Brandon

  Chapter 18 - Brandon

  Chapter 19 - Riley

  Chapter 20 - Riley

  Chapter 21 - Brandon

  Chapter 22 - Riley

  Chapter 23 - Riley

  Chapter 24 - Brandon

  Chapter 25 - Riley

  Chapter 26 - Brandon

  Chapter 27 - Brandon

  Chapter 28 - Riley

  Chapter 29 - Brandon

  Chapter 30 - Riley

  Chapter 31 - Brandon

  Chapter 32 - Riley

  Chapter 33 - Brandon

  Chapter 34 - Riley

  Chapter 35 - Brandon

  Chapter 36 - Riley

  Chapter 37 - Brandon

  Chapter 38 - Riley

  Chapter 39 - Brandon

  Chapter 40 - Riley

  Inferno Falls Continues in Book Two ...

  Stuff You Should Know

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  The Boss’s Daughter

  Aubrey Parker

  The Boss’s Daughter

  Aubrey Parker

  Copyright © 2015 by Aubrey Parker. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read this work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting Aubrey Parker

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  CHAPTER 1

  Riley

  By the time I reach Dad’s office, my eyes are definitely wet. There’s a sensation in my chest that feels … unsettled, as if I’ve forgotten something, or as if something bad happened during the drive that I don’t remember. But on top of all that, I’m mainly just happy to be home.

  I kill the engine, unable to decide which should bother me more: that I feel this phantom sadness when I should be happy … or that I feel happy when, all things considered, I should put more focus on being sad.

  I flick down the rearview mirror. Because the thing is long and narrow, I see a pair of hazel eyes looking back, darkened by a thin sliver of liner that Candace applied before I left, “for old times’ sake.” It broke my heart a little. We had breakfast at the old place before going home — no big deal. With my car packed the night before, I was half-sure someone would steal it while we were scarfing pancakes. And it was just supposed to be pancakes. My roommate wasn’t supposed to feel it occasion enough to do my makeup like we were going to a club. Or like we might never see each other again and this was our last chance.

  It would have been so much easier to leave without saying goodbye.

  Fortunately, the mascara is as waterproof as its claim. I didn’t really cry; I just misted up — probably because for the entire drive, I haven’t been sure whether I was actually sad. And Candace was subtle enough not to cake me up like a hooker on the prowl. I’m not great with makeup myself. It’ll probably be strange to start seeing these hazel eyes without all the extra black. Odd to see my blonde hair as it hangs, rather than elaborately done up, the way Candace styles it.

  About the time I find myself starting to wonder about my former roommate’s future, I force myself to blink back the moisture. This is ridiculous. College is over, but that doesn’t mean those friendships are. It just means that those days are done.

  Which is a good thing, right?

  I nod as if someone asked me the question aloud, give my eyes a final check, then flip the rearview back to where it belongs. I’m still nodding as I stuff the phone back into my purse then hunt for my ChapStick, which may have rolled into the gap between the console and the passenger seat. If it rolled the other way, I can forget it. Even if my Pottery Barn plant stand thing wasn’t wedged there, upended and filled with all the crap that littered my desk for the past year, it’d be lost in the abyss of gas station receipts, napkins, and broken pens that claims my car’s nooks and crannies even during normal days.

  I find the ChapStick, give my lips a sheen of wax, and smack them. Then I’m getting out, looking at my Beverly Hillbillies packing (I had to leave one of the back windows open to accommodate the corner of one of my storage crates), wondering if I should be worried about someone stealing my stuff. Then I realize that this parking lot is exalted Cherry Hill thanks to all the developments my father’s built there, and that nobody steals in Cherry Hill.

  And besides, I won’t be here long. I’m also parked beside Dad’s BMW, which makes a much better target. If I’m doing anything wrong by stopping here before heading home, it’s embarrassing the company with my overstuffed collegemobile and my admittedly left-leaning bumper stickers.

  I slide out of the car then pause to readjust myself in the driver’s side window. I fluff my hair. I try to smooth my shirt and shorts from the drive. I ask myself if I’d be hiring material at the company I’m about to enter, all other things being equal, given the way I look now.

  The answer, without question, is no. I’ve been driving for three hours, and my air conditioning hasn’t been blowing cold at all (probably because all my crap is pressed against the vents), and I can feel my shirt sticking to my back. My hair should be in a ponytail and feels gross, even though I washed it last night. Oh, and I stopped for Taco Bell. So I probably smell like Taco Bell’s version of beans.

  Again, I consider going home first. But Dad’s office is on the way, and it’s another twenty minutes to the big house where I grew up. I’ll want to sleep the minute I get there. Dad asked me to stop by, but I won’t want to run out again.

  I could let it go like everyone expects me to. I could head to the big empty house, take a shower, then lie on the couch and figure out whether or not I’m sad to have left my friends and all I’ve known for the last four years. And then when Daddy comes home, I could greet him in the bubbly way he expects, because that’s how Riley always is. Happy little Riley, who never had to work for anything because her father is Mason James.

  Nobody would fault me for doing that. I don’t have to be here, about to enter an office, smelling like beans with my sweaty shirt sticking to my back.

  But if I expect Dad to take me seriously — if I expect him to believe what I said on the phone last week — then I need to be here. Because I said I would stop by on my way to the house … and these days more than ever, I’m a girl who keeps her appointments.

  If I were anyone else, I might try to psych myself up right now,
tell myself that I could nail the interview and get this job. But fortunately, I have an in. My name is literally on the sign.

  I leave my stuffed car and tap the sign for luck as I pass. It says Life of Riley, just above a line about the luxury communities Dad’s well known for building.

  I look at my phone. It’s 12:55, giving me five minutes to get inside and be exactly on time, just like any responsible young woman who can be trusted with … well, anything.

  My challenge at Life of Riley Homes is different than most applicants.

  I don’t need to get the job. I have it already.

  But I need to make sure that the job my father gives me is real rather than nepotism — a fact no one will admit to, even though it’s plain as day.

  CHAPTER 2

  Brandon

  “What time is it?” Mason asks me.

  I’m wearing my grandfather’s watch. It’s as uncomfortable on my wrist as the dress shirt and jacket on my shoulders. It’s as uncomfortable as these stiff dress shoes. I wonder again if I should stay where I am in the company hierarchy, where I could keep wearing jeans. But thinking like that, here and now, is avoidance. Self-sabotage, according to Bridget.

  I was even dumb enough to ask Bridget, yesterday, about the whole jeans-versus-suits thing. She told me it wasn’t even a real distinction. If Mason gives me the promotion, I’ll probably only have to wear nice clothes when I’m in the office or have meetings, and the rest of the time I can dress casual like I do now. Then she told me to stop being a whiny fucker. Those were her exact words: whiny fucker. Then she punched me in the arm. The arm punching didn’t have anything to do with me self-sabotaging — she’d already berated me about that earlier. It was just because she’s a bitch. Which is why I love her so much.

  “It’s 12:45.”

  “Okay, good.” Mason grins. He’s not a jovial man, so I take this as a good sign. Mason is loud, and most of what he says is barked. I get the feeling that if you’ve known him for long enough, those barks carry a lot of affection, much like the way Bridget keeps kicking me for my own good. But for three years now I’ve been one of the grunts, and the few times I’ve been on the receiving end of Mason’s barking, it was obvious I needed to snap-to. I’ve never been talked to as an equal by Mason — probably because I never have been. Although maybe he’s always this way and I’ve been taking it personally. Maybe I’m not a fuckup. I’m here, after all, aren’t I?

  I don’t know what Mason thinks is good about 12:45, so I tag along behind him like a dog and say nothing.

  The Life of Riley office isn’t large, but Mason’s bustling manner makes it feel like a labyrinth. Most people could tour the well-appointed but contained building in five minutes, but Mason strikes me as the sort of man who prefers to solve a maze by trying every path. We went through a large room filled with cubicles ten minutes ago. There was one main hallway down the center plus all the little alleys between the cubicles themselves, but we walked each inch of every alley. I now know every person who works at HQ, from the receptionist to the guy who empties the garbage. I don’t remember anyone’s names. I’m trying to keep up and pretend these nice clothes suit me, to not look like some sort of brainless meathead who deserves to live and die in construction.

  “This is Margo,” Mason barks then grins. “Be nice to Margo. If you get the vice presidency, she’ll be your Gal Friday.”

  “Not literally,” says Margo. She’s a tall woman with jet-black hair and glasses that seem like a fashion accessory rather than a necessity.

  “Not literally,” Mason repeats. “She works Monday through Thursday too.” Mason barks laughter and I try to play along, but he’s not looking in my direction, so I feel stupid. “Nah. I mean she’s our site coordinator.”

  “Also not literally.” Margo seems good-naturedly annoyed with Mason. I get the feeling that’s a common reaction to the company’s boisterous, somewhat domineering owner. Mason has always struck me as the kind of man who loves you when he loves you but won’t hesitate to tear the head from your shoulders if you screw up. A good ally, and a terrible enemy.

  “Well then, how would you describe your job?”

  “Think of me as a project manager.”

  “Gal Friday,” Mason says, nodding, as if Margo said the same thing.

  “Fine.”

  “Anyway, Margo, this is Brandon Grant. He’s applying to be our new VP.”

  “Land Acquisition?” Margo says, and her eyebrows go up.

  “Right.”

  “So you’ve decided?”

  “I said he’s applying.”

  Margo rolls her eyes at me when Mason looks away. I get the feeling this might happen a lot but that no one lets him see it. An obvious move, but dangerous.

  “I meant, you decided we finally need someone to head Land Acquisition.” Margo turns to me. “I’ve been arguing that we need this position for years.”

  “Yes, yes. It’s all Margo’s doing.” Mason shifts his weight, moving from foot to foot, then gestures at me. “Brandon is currently project head on Stonegate Bridge.”

  Margo nods, her lips pressed together. “Nice community. Who did you work with on the land for that one?”

  “Terry.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I’d have helped you out if you’d known, but I’m stretched thin.”

  Mason seems bored by this apparent insult to Terry. He keeps looking at his watch. I think he has an appointment at 1 p.m., but that’s an assumption. We met at 11:30, and lunch took about an hour, but time has been dwindling during what probably could have been a much faster tour. Now, he seems distracted. Knowing Mason, his appointment, if he has one, could be at 1:07 instead of one sharp. No fewer than three times during lunch, he told me that if he wanted to do things the way others did them, he’d have looked for a job instead of starting a company. He told me that an intelligent person has to be flexible, able to think outside the box and, perhaps most importantly, recognize and readjust when they make mistakes.

  Mason nods at Margo, who tells me it was nice to meet me and sits. Apparently, our conversation is finished.

  But so is the tour, it seems, because the next time I peek at my watch it’s nearly one, and I’m sitting in Mason’s office without specifically remembering taking a seat. He’s still standing because that’s what Mason does, and I’m still juggling that curious mix of awed, eager, nervous, and intimidated.

  “I’ll be honest, Brandon,” he says. “Like Margo said, we’re at the stage where we really should have had someone dedicated to Land Acquisition for a while now. Until now, we’ve just had … well, you know, you scouted Stonegate. But that’s not the job of project heads, and it’s sure not the job of foremen. So we’re ripe for this, and I’m down to a short list of applicants. You’re a good candidate. I like your ambition. Most of all, I like what I hear about your integrity, which is rare, and your solid ability to make smart decisions, which is even rarer. But you’re still new to leadership and untried as an executive, and my records keep reminding me that you were swinging a shovel just two years ago. So I don’t know. There’s a few other people internally who’ve been looking for something like this — it’s a wheeling-dealing job that means getting a lot of new connections. Have you considered the connections you’d get as VP of Land Acquisition here, Brandon?”

  “Not really.”

  “Exactly. And that’s why I like you. I don’t think you’re angling for something better. It doesn’t feel like a stepping stone for you from where I’m sitting.”

  “Okay.” I’m unsure how to respond. Is my lack of ambition a good thing?

  “How long have you been with Life of Riley?”

  “Three years, sir.”

  The “sir” feels a bit phony on my tongue, but the moment seems to demand respect. Luckily, Mason doesn’t mock me.

  “You strike me as two things above all else. I think you’re loyal, and honest. Land Acquisition is a perfect position for a sniveling, oily shit, but I don’t think that’s y
ou.”

  “Um … ” Again, I’m not sure if I’m being insulted or praised, if I’m being given pros for my candidacy or hearing cons.

  He picks up a file — my file, apparently — and starts flipping papers. “You started laying bricks. We kept moving you up, though. Three years to project head is fast, given our size and rate of expansion. If I may be frank, you’ve had chances to screw us when you were shoved in to negotiate things that were above your position, and again that’s our fault because we’re growing quickly. But you didn’t screw us, even though you could have. You did your job. And you stayed where you were without complaint, content to pay your dues.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The mark of a good second man is the ability to make hard decisions. That’s even truer for the big boss, and it’ll be a few weeks before I make mine. I like you, Brandon, but don’t want to say anything either way, so let’s just leave it at that. I’ll talk to the others; you keep impressing me in the meantime. Make me believe I can’t not hire you. Does that sound like a deal?”

  I allow a smile to form on my lips as I nod. It’s a small smile, but now that I’m here, I’m wondering if Bridget was right. Maybe I don’t give myself credit for all I’ve accomplished and what I’m worth. From where I’m standing, I’ve always been a normal working Joe. At first, I mixed concrete and operated big machines, then I started working with surveyors and architects, walking land for possible purchase. I used to only talk to the other construction guys, but then I started talking to bankers and investors. I’ve taken it for granted, but the way Mason talks, that’s not how things usually go.

  “There’s just one problem,” Mason says. He sits behind his desk in what I suspect is meant as a power chair. He’s not a master manipulator but does manage to intimidate people by default, as if he has a gift. Right now, his face is serious. I don’t see any more praise or complimentary words. Now I only see gravity.