The Boss's Daughter Read online

  Something is wrong.

  “What’s that?” I ask, my breath going shallow.

  “That beard. I don’t know that I can have a veep with a beard.”

  I’m about to respond seriously when he laughs and stands. His hand is out, presumably to shake goodbye, when the office door rattles.

  I figure it’s Mason’s assistant, but instead the newcomer turns out to be the most breathtaking girl I’ve ever seen.

  CHAPTER 3

  Brandon

  My hand is on my beard, right above the scar, when the girl looks over. I must look like I’m thinking something ponderous, possibly pretentious. And she’s probably noticing the way this suit doesn’t fit me quite right because it’s borrowed, or maybe just the fact that it doesn’t look right because it’s me inside it. Me, who didn’t even graduate high school. Me, who has no business wearing more than a sweat-stained undershirt to work.

  I swear thirty seconds must pass while I’m looking right at her with my hand on my face, but it’s probably more like three. Then I’m looking away because the girl is jumping into Mason’s arms. He’s been so intent on watching the time; now I see why. So who is the girl? Is she a fling? Mason must be over fifty, but I’ve never heard mention of a wife.

  They embrace for a long time, and I’m considering sneaking out — or at least clearing my throat to remind them that I’m still here — when Mason lets the girl go and turns to me with a bigger smile than I’ve ever seen, or even thought possible on the man. Mason has always been friendly and even fatherly to me. He sometimes jests, but his jokes are always indirect at best, and I’m never sure if I’m supposed to laugh.

  So this is what he looks like happy. I realize all of a sudden that, even as many casual encounters I’ve had with Mason (mostly on job sites, where his passion for creation is always in bloom), I’ve never seen him a tenth as pleased as this.

  “Brandon,” he says, “I’d like you to meet my little girl. And Riley, I’d like you to meet Brandon Grant. A man with a beard unbefitting a vice president.”

  I’m not sure if I’m supposed to shake her hand. This isn’t business. Among my friends, the girls have always hugged, and the men have always shaken. I’m not going to walk over and hug the boss’s daughter, but shaking her hand seems so awkwardly formal.

  She saves me by holding out a hand first. I take it. Her hand is tiny compared to mine, and I don’t have large hands. I do have rough hands, though, and as she holds on, I’m sure she can feel every scratch, scrape, and callus. Vice president? she must be thinking. As if!

  Her fingers are gone, and there’s a half second where I’m hanging onto a limp fish. I blink then force myself to let go. I give her a tight-lipped smile and a nod. It’s taking all I have to study her, top to bottom. She’s not tall at all; I could probably pick her up and swing her around like a kid. She’s dressed like she’s just come in from trotting around town in the sweltering heat — short khaki shorts and a plain pink, slightly wrinkled tee. She has big eyelashes and wavy blonde hair. Her smile is all bright white teeth. I’ve never seen one like it — the kind of smile that looks like it’s trying hard to bottle unbridled glee — the kind of unabashed joy that proper adults, once they reach seventeen or so, are no longer allowed to show the world.

  I’m wondering if I should address the beard joke. There must be something witty I could say that moves the encounter forward without making concessions … because there’s no way I’ll shave my beard given the scar behind it.

  But I’m at a loss. I’m trying not to look at Riley, and I’m also trying not to look deliberately away. My sense of decorum has abandoned me. How can I not know where to look? The only choices seem to be staring and averting my eyes. I’ll either creep her out or offend her.

  “I thought Aunt Patty was vice president.”

  Mason levels a look at me — the kind that says I’d better not reveal the softer side of Mason James outside of this room. He says, “Patty isn’t really her aunt,” then turns to Riley. “Different VP. We’ve added a few since you’ve been away. You’ll need to catch up.”

  “VP of what?”

  “Um. Land Acquisition.”

  “Okay,” her smile hasn’t faltered. “So you’d acquire land.”

  “Yeah.” I look at Mason, hoping he’ll save me. But Mason seems to have forgotten me entirely. He’s holding the girl at arm’s length, looking her over in a way I wish I could, asking her questions about a trip she must have just made and a college she must have just come from — possibly graduated, given the time of year and her overall look.

  I’m not sure what to do here. Mason and I were supposed to be finished at one. Should I leave and let them have their moment?

  But I don’t want to walk out. I want to hear what this girl has to say. I never went to college. I never had a relationship with my parents like she and Mason apparently have. I’m fascinated for some reason, wanting to hear it all.

  And I’m trying not to stare.

  She’s not dressed up, and what she’s wearing must be the most random of tossed-on outfits. Given my suit and her father’s, she looks young and out of place — not just in the room, but in the building as a whole. Her summertime look is ready for the beach. She could be a commercial for summer itself. But what strikes me most is how great casual” looks on her. She carries a strange mix of innocence and experience, like a girl on the cusp of something. She doesn’t know it, though. She probably walks down the street having no idea about all the heads turning to watch her pass.

  Mason finally looks back, and I figure he’ll dismiss me. But Mason, like me, seems fascinated to hear what Riley has to say — though I imagine (and hope) his reasons are different.

  But Riley doesn’t speak, and I realize I’ve been intruding. I feel stupid. I should have left, but here I still am — an uneducated, unqualified monkey in a borrowed suit, harboring schoolboy fantasies about the boss’s daughter … if, that was, I had any schoolboy days worth remembering.

  I nod to Mason. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Okay,” Mason says. “Thanks for coming in, Brandon. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you, Mr. James.”

  “Jesus, Brandon. If you don’t stop calling me ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. James,’ I’ll fire you instead of considering you. It makes me feel old.”

  “Sorry.” I nod awkwardly then turn to Riley. “It was nice to meet you,” I say, not quite able to meet her eyes.

  But she isn’t as shy as I am, and for a few seconds I find myself looking directly into light-hazel depths, her face open and welcoming. I feel ridiculous having checked her out. She’s just here to see her daddy on her way back from college, and here I am — a man who’s supposed to be focused, loyal, and honest — and I blew these impressionable minutes by checking her out.

  I try to tell myself I was surprised. I didn’t know Mason even had a daughter. I didn’t know he was married. Our encounters have been amiable but all business, and Mason doesn’t wear a ring. I was caught off guard. That’s all.

  Riley makes her tone almost conspiratorial and whispers, “I’ll see you later.”

  I nod and am out the door before I register what I’ve heard.

  See you later?

  Why would I ever see Riley again … unless she’s come home for a job?

  I don’t like that at all. I don’t like that her too-wide smile unseated something inside me. I don’t like that she looked at me as if she had no idea who I am or where I come from — or that I’m a fraud. I don’t like the way her innocence clashed with the cloud that’s always kind of around me, making me wonder if I’ve been seeing everything wrong.

  If I have to see more of Riley James, I’m going to have a hell of a time pretending to be the proper executive I’m supposed to be.

  But I long to see her later all the same.

  CHAPTER 4

  Riley

  “Ri?”

  I blink and look up at Dad. I feel the smile return to my face. It
feels less natural — not because I’m not happy talking to him, but because I’m distracted. Dad’s executives and most of his employees have always felt like adults with a capital A. I grew up in this company, and think of most of the long-timers as aunts and uncles. They watched me run around these halls as a little kid then graduate to odd jobs as I grew older. I cleaned the office when it was in its old location, while Life of Riley was still a little unknown developer trailing far behind the big names building communities in Inferno Falls — names known by the entire country. I answered phones in my teens and did clerical work right up until it was time to head off to college. This company knows me, and I know it. We share the same name.

  But Brandon Grant didn’t strike me as an adult. At least not with that capital A. He had to be at least twenty-five, maybe older, but he looked as out of place in that suit as I’d look in a chicken costume. I doubt Daddy sees it, but it’s plain to me.

  He didn’t feel like an uncle, but like a generation younger, still in the family, like a brother. Yet that’s definitely not right, based on the way my heart started to flutter the second his hand touched mine.

  But Brandon isn’t why I’m here. I had four years of college and four years of high school to be flighty and boy crazy. There’s no doubt what my father expects of me now. And as he and I discussed on the phone, I’m now ready to prove my newly enhanced worth to this company … whether he thinks I’m ready or not.

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “So what do you think?”

  “Of what?”

  He nods toward the closed door. “Of Brandon.”

  There’s no way I heard that right. It’s like Dad can see right through me, even with my big, innocent smile.

  “Does he strike you as vice president material?”

  “Oh.” I keep the relieved sigh inside me. “I don’t know. You know him better than I do.”

  “He’s young, with zero executive experience. But he’s smart, and he’s had to do some acquisitions work as project head for a few sites. He’s a natural networker. He’s magnetic. People just like him.”

  Magnetic? Brandon certainly polarized something inside me, but he didn’t strike me as the kind of person my father would characterize as “magnetic” or even a “natural networker.” He seemed subdued. Maybe even awkward.

  “He seems shy.”

  “He’s usually not like that,” Dad says, his face now curious. “I think he was intimidated. We just had lunch, and I took him around the office. He knew a lot of these people from talking to them on the phone, but he usually works on site. He came up through the ranks and got his start in construction. Not as a foreman, either. As a carpenter.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “But he’s smart. And when I say ‘magnetic,’ I don’t mean loud and boisterous. I mean an understated kind of smart, and not from books. Thoughtful, I guess. He’s heading up Stonegate. On the south side of Cherry Hill. Where those little rock faces are?”

  I nod. I’m trying to listen like a vice president myself instead of a girl with a flutter.

  “It’s a tricky project,” Dad continues, “but when the architect and planner were having some little petty spat, Brandon played peacemaker then suggested much of the plan himself. Didn’t take or want credit, either; I only know because I was on site and saw him sketching through a street plan hitch and some drainage issues. Somehow, we came in under budget despite a lost week with the squabbles and tricky planning. And the best part is, even though I and a few other people have explained to him how astonishing that is — not just to come in under budget and on track, but to do so after a dispute — he just shakes it off. Thinks we’re blowing smoke.”

  “Well, he seems nice,” I say. God, I sound lame.

  Dad shrugs. “I’ve got a few other people who want the new VP slot, but my gut says Brandon’s my guy.”

  My gut says something about him, too. But I just nod and pretend this is just a boring discussion.

  The topic must be closed for Dad too, because he sort of resets, exhales, and practically claps his hands.

  “Well, now! My little girl is home. I’m glad. What should we do to celebrate?”

  “Want to follow me home and help me unpack my car?”

  “I’m not that glad.” He laughs.

  I sigh. “I’m pretty tired.”

  “Late night?”

  I wonder if this is an unintentional dig. Is he asking if I’ve been out partying? I never had a history, when I lived at home, of staying up to study and further my academic pursuits. I was a good student without effort, so I rarely bothered. I used each class in high school to ignore the teacher and do the homework for the previous class. It’s a bit unfair, now, that he’d characterize me as negligent just because school rarely required much effort.

  I try to step into my father’s shoes and see things through his eyes. He raised me mostly by himself. Of course he’d notice my social life more than the time I spent staying quietly at home. The former causes more problems for fathers than the latter.

  “Just a long drive, Dad.”

  “Want to go to the Inside Scoop? Get some ice cream?”

  That does sound good. But it also sounds like the kind of thing we used to do when I was eighteen. Or fifteen. Or ten. I’d scrape my knee, and we’d go for ice cream. So after a long drive, I guess we’d do the same.

  “No thanks. I just want to settle in.”

  “Your room is just how you left it.”

  I see a look on his face that I’ve imagined on the phone a lot recently — eyebrows up, asking a question without a question being asked. His words are like a hanging statement without a period, because there’s more if I leave him an opening.

  “I’m not staying,” I say. “I need to get my own place. I’m barely going to unpack. Just long enough to do some apartment hunting.”

  “It’s a huge house. You can keep to one end, and I’ll keep to the other.”

  “Dad, no.”

  “There’s even the private entrance. Remember? We had it put in when it looked like Grandma might come and live with us. Just close the hall door, stick to your kitchen and living room. You can pretend I’m your creepy old guy neighbor.”

  “Dad … ”

  He sort of sighs, and I watch his shoulders sag. The big, powerful Mason James, humbled. But he knows all of this. I made it clear.

  “Okay. I hear you, Princess.”

  I decide to let that one go, but I’ve done my time being the princess. I’m not too proud to take help, and it’s not like he didn’t pay for school. But I can’t live at home. I can’t be a burden. I can’t be a spoiled little rich girl, accepting all that I’m given. Not because it’s a drain on Dad, but because it’s a drain on me. There were plenty of times I believed I was a princess: the nice house, the free car on my sixteenth birthday, the nearly instant fulfillment of pretty much anything I wanted. I don’t resent or regret any of it. I love my father, and I’m grateful for all he’s done for me. But the problem with princesses is that nobody works to become one. My mother and father (then just Dad) built this kingly empire from nothing, and now Life of Riley is Inferno’s largest developer — big enough that its work influences the economy, builds schools and parks. By contrast, I got my crown at birth.

  “I’ll head over now. I just needed to stop by and pick up the key.”

  “Marta’s there. She could have let you in.”

  “Then I stopped because I wanted to say hi.” I squeeze Dad’s hand, because I think I just gave him too harsh of a shove. I need my space, but he’s still my father. “And because I thought I might need to fill out some sort of paperwork. With human resources or something.”

  That look crosses his face again. “Why don’t you wait until Monday? Give yourself a week to get settled before leaping in.”

  “I’d really rather start tomorrow.”

  There’s a pause in which he seems to be considering a few things at once: my new hire paperwork, maybe; all the things I’v
e been telling him lately over the phone for sure. Perhaps our mutual past. My future. Who I was and who, I’m sure, he still thinks I am.

  He finally sighs. “Okay. Talk to Harold on your way out. Be sure to spell your name carefully so he gets it right.”

  I laugh. Harold was one of my father’s first employees, apparently still happy as paperwork puppet master after nearly twenty years. Even if my name weren’t on the company stationery, he knew me in pigtails.

  I’m halfway to the door when Dad says, “Forgetting something?”

  I turn around. He’s holding up a small keyring. I recognize the shine, meaning they’re newly duplicated, and the fact that there are three: two for the front door’s knob and deadbolt, then one more. Almost certainly the second entrance.

  I take the keys, kiss him on the cheek, and say thanks.

  “Welcome home, Riley,” he says.

  CHAPTER 5

  Brandon

  I’m in my Tacoma, cutting through Tiny Amsterdam on my way to Old Town and my shitty apartment in the Regency, when my phone rings. I still have a few hours of work left. I’m salaried, not hourly, but if I don’t get back up to Stonegate before end-of-day to watch my guys and gals, someone will inevitably do something stupid. But I’m not going in Shaun’s suit. I’ll be eviscerated by the guys I used to work with, all of whom already rib me for becoming fancy.

  “Brandon,” says a female voice. The voice is husky, like sandpaper. The kind of voice I’ll never be able to find sexy in a woman even though everyone else seems to, given that I grew up listening to this one.

  “Bridget.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Rum Street.”