Текст книги "The Boss's Daughter"

Автор книги: Aubrey Parker

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“What?”

“You want me to test you? Fine. Do you know Brandon Grant?”

Of course she won’t. But this will shut her up, and we can get back to talking about sensible things. This is the problem with Phoebe: She walks into everything with assumptions, and it’s her conversational opponent’s job to defeat her or lose gracefully. Ironically, this same trait is an asset at Très Chic, where beating her customers into acknowledging her superior sense of fashion increases both her reputation and commissions.

A small smile cracks across her dark-painted lips. Her brown eyes light up. “Of course I know Brandon.”

And she does, too. I can tell the difference after so much time knowing Phoebe. The devilish way she’s looking at me now makes me uneasy, though – as if she knows something about my inquiry that I’m not eager to admit. Or, worse, as if she knows him from firsthand experience.

I started this. I try to make my voice casual. “How?”

There’s a long, drawn-out moment wherein I can tell Phoebe is trying to torture me. In that second, I’m sure she’s slept with him. She’s kissed those lips. She’s felt those strong hands on her skin. She’s gripped those arms – arms that even through his suit, I knew would be hard and tan from his time building houses.

But then Phoebe’s head tips, and she kind of lets go. Abigail has returned with Phoebe’s coffee and flinches, as if she thinks Phoebe is about to faint.

After Abigail is gone, Phoebe sips her black coffee and says, “I know him through his sister, Bridget.”

“Oh.”

“Foster sister, actually.”

“He was a foster kid?” For some reason, this doesn’t make me feel bad for Brandon; it immediately elevates him in my mind. Now he didn’t just climb up from construction to potential veep. Now he’s almost a rags-to-riches story. You couldn’t get more all American than that. You couldn’t be more respectable, having mined all you had from nothing.

Phoebe nods. She takes another sip. “Bridget is going to be one of my customers.”

“What does that mean?”

“She was window shopping all the time, so I started talking to her. I decided I liked her style. She’s tough. So I stole some stuff for her. But she told me to piss off. Those are the words she used: ‘Piss off, Phoebe. I’m not some sort of charity case.’ She was superinsulted. But she’s doing some big audiobook right now?”

Phoebe says it like a question. I don’t respond, so she waves it away. I recognize the formation of another trademark Phoebe Reese open loop. I’ll probably never learn about the big audiobook, how she does them, how someone makes big money “doing” an audiobook, or why she’ll one day be a great customer.

“Anyway,” Phoebe says. This is how Phoebe ends a conversation.

“My dad’s considering Brandon as his new vice president.”

“He’s hot, isn’t he?” Phoebe says out of the blue.

“He’s cute.”

Phoebe points at me with the finger of inspiration and says, “You should hit that.”

“Oh. Okay.” I laugh.

“Seriously. I’d hit that.” She puts her fingers on her chin then shifts her jaw to the side, thinking. “A few years ago? – yeah, maybe it was a few years ago – your dad was building Forking … Forking Paths?” She raises her eyebrows to see if that’s right, but I have no idea what projects Life of Riley has built while I’ve been away. “Anyway. It’s right on my walk to work. They started up front, building the model home they use to show people around, I guess? And all the guys were out working with their shirts off. And then I spot this lumberjack guy. Your boy.”

I want to say he’s not my boy, but the words give me a thrill. As does the description I know is coming.

“They’re all sweaty, you know? Oiled up like … like strippers or something.”

We both giggle, and the next table looks over.

“I got that view for a little while then the crew moved into the interior homes. So I changed my walking route. I just walked until I found him.”

I want to ask what his chest looks like. What his arms look like. But really, this isn’t something I should be indulging. He might be my father’s vice president. Do I want to be that girl, ogling the man in charge? So much for making it on my own; everyone would assume I was angling for something if they caught me drooling.

“Anyway, yeah, I know him. Ha.” And that’s when I remember that this started as a challenge, with me positing that Phoebe didn’t know everyone after all.

The moment pops like a balloon. She’s moved on, now stirring three packets of sugar into her coffee. She drank half of it black, and now wants it sweet. But not just sweet – diabetes sweet.

I laugh. I look around a little, spotting the servers one by one. I let a minute pass, ready to talk if Phoebe tries to start a new topic. But she doesn’t, so I choose my time then casually speak.

“So I should hit that,” I say, quoting Phoebe, trying to make it sound like I think the idea is ridiculous. But it’s the very idea of my finding it ridiculous that’s crazy, seeing as I was eighteen the last time Phoebe and I hung out. I did tend to drool over guys a lot back then. I still kind of want to, honestly. But that’s exactly what Dad expects me to do, and drooling over his up-and-comer isn’t the best way to prove myself as a pro.

“You said he’s moving up in the company, right? So, yeah. Hit it. You’ve got access.”

“I don’t hook up with guys because I have ‘access.’”

Phoebe makes a little pfft sound.

“Besides, I just got out of a relationship. It’s time to just be me.”

“You don’t have to be him,” Phoebe says. “Just hit it.”

But that’s not me, and Phoebe knows it. I want to ask more, but that’ll make this more obvious. I’ve said enough. I’ve shown my interest. I’m not here to be boy crazy. I’m not here to be a flighty little girl. I’m here to be a professional.

If my father thinks he knows who I am, it’s my job, right now, to convince him I’ve become someone else. Someone capable of being responsible and level-headed. The kind of person who doesn’t change her walking path every morning in search of bare-chested men to ogle.

But before saying anything else, I look down into my cream-colored coffee, stirring slowly, and seem to see Brandon Grant in its depths. Stripping off his vice-presidential, powerful, ambitious shirt and picking up a hammer, a saw, anything that makes his muscles flex and his skin gleam with perspiration.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brandon

GIVING BRIDGET THE MONEY SHE needed hurts more than I’d have thought. Not only does it empty my bank account and dip into the cash I have on hand, it also reminds me just how thin I’ve stretched myself.

If I’d had real parents, I suppose they’d have taught me the value of money from both ends. I hear this is how it works from guys like Grady and Shaun, both of whom grew up with allowances and curfews. I’d have learned that money shouldn’t be spent frivolously because it comes from hard work, not privilege. No worries on that lesson; I got that one in spades. But I’d also have learned to spend within my means and not buy anything I can’t afford. I did less well with this one. One company offered me a credit card at age twenty, and I used it to buy stuff that I couldn’t always afford but needed – like food, toothpaste, and clothes. Then someone else offered me a card, and I bought more, drifting further from necessary. Credit lines were always small, and I never lived far above the poverty line, but I still managed to rack up some hefty balances.

After depleting my account and wallet, I stopped by a convenience store for a gallon of milk and accidentally tried to pay with my maxed-out card.

When I realized my mistake, I pulled out my second maxed-out card.

I got it right on the third try, but the two incorrect attempts made me think to check my balance when I got home. What I found made me pull out a calculator. Yes, I think I can make it to payday, but only just. And then I’ll still have to watch my ass for a while if I expect to fill my account in time to empty it again for rent. So much for at least having the safety of credit cards.

Giving Bridget that money didn’t just cost me $800. It cost a lot of dignity.

I slouch down on the couch anyway, trying to make my body casual. If someone were to barge in here, what position of arms and legs and torso would make the newcomer decide in an instant, “Now here’s a man who doesn’t give a shit”? What would make them know, just by looking, that I’m above it all, without a care in the world?  I try to form that shape, hoping to convince myself.

It’s cool. Even if I have to be late on rent, I can be late, right? They won’t kick me out if there’s a two-week delay – just long enough to get my next paycheck?

And if that fails, I have friends. I don’t want to ask anyone for money, but if I had to, I could. And if they didn’t have money to give me – because, really, it’s not like I know Caspian White – I could always, if I got kicked out somehow, crash on Shaun’s couch, couldn’t I?

Of course I could.

I try to pretend that these thoughts are comforting. I try to pretend I’ve analyzed my situation to its logical worst-case scenario and found it not terrible, or irredeemable. I don’t owe thousands to loan sharks coming to break my legs. I’m in debt to the credit card companies, but that’s normal in the Western world. I’m fine. Yes, it had occurred to me more than once lately that I was living redline, and that was before Bridget’s loan. But I’ll be okay. I make a decent wage, and now that I’ve paid some shit off, I can start letting it pile up. Small piles, but piles nonetheless.

I look around, sighing.

I don’t want to keep living in a place like this. Yes, I could save a few bucks here and there if there weren’t any more emergencies and if I stayed at the Regency. But do I really want to live on the edge of Little Amsterdam? Do I really want to feel one step above a flophouse? Do I really not want more?

I build nice houses in Cherry Hill all day long – originally as a carpenter, and now as a team leader. I watch the walls of large floor plans go up board by board. I watch my crew set trusses that span wide rooms, create vaulted ceilings and two-story great rooms with skylights. I survey the work of electricians who’ve wired five bedrooms. When a home is nearly finished, I inspect the tile work in spacious kitchens and multiple-head showers floored in slate.

I spend all day with my mind inside houses of my dreams then come home to this.

I don’t want to, but I find my thoughts moving to our model homes. To our options packages. To our price sheets.

I ignore the truth that I’d have trouble qualifying for a mortgage and ballpark the down payment it would take to move into one of my many work homes, plus the monthly mortgage. That’s enough to depress me. It makes me want to go to a bar. To see if I can find some company. It’s not hard to find women. It’s hard that none stick, and I don’t want them to. The way I feel now, I won’t drink lightly or make smart decisions. I’ll find a girl who’s like junk food – good for a moment, but nothing more. We’d both leave satisfied … but we’d leave, for sure.

I want to do it anyway. I want to forget for a while then deal with feeling bad in the morning.

The only thing that stops me is that spending even a few bucks on a single beer seems horribly irresponsible.

I wonder if Mason’s daughter hits the bars. Not the ones I usually visit, of course, but the upscale ones in Cherry Hill or Old Town.

I wonder if I could justify going out, if I could go to one of those bars. I don’t have my suit anymore, but I remember the swagger. I could pass for one of them. I play below my station anyway. I’m not a hammer monkey anymore. If I didn’t end up digging into jobs as much as I shouldn’t, I suppose I’d qualify as a white-collar guy. I don’t wear fancy shirts to work, but most have a collar since my last promotion.

How expensive could drinks at the Old Town bars be, really?

I wonder if Riley is much of a drinker.

I wonder if I found her, if she’d be friendly enough to talk for a while.

Then I wonder why I think she’d need to be drunk to have a conversation me. But maybe that’s not what I’m wondering. Maybe I’m wondering if she’d go home with me, since that’s where this whole going out chain of thought initially started.

I sigh. I can’t afford it. There’s a roof over my head and beers (but not company) in the refrigerator. My friends aren’t people who like to chat on the phone, so I’ll have to be alone with my thoughts. I can do it if I try. I can be an optimist. Hell, I am an optimist. I did a good thing today. I helped my sister, unlike the time I didn’t interfere and left her with Keith. Now she’ll be able to get her surgery in the time frame she needs. It won’t interfere with her work. She should do well with this new audiobook trilogy and the work that will inevitably follow. I’ll endure two weeks at critical then recover slowly but surely.

Or, if I get the job I went in for today, I’ll recover quickly.

Mason didn’t tell me the salary he had in mind for his VP of Land Acquisition, but it has to be nice. Companies don’t pay their vice presidents thirty grand a year. They pay them six figures at least. Maybe moderate to high six figures. And what would I be able to do if my salary suddenly tripled or quintupled? How quickly would I leave this shithole? How instantly would my problems be over, debt paid, credit cards clean, and worries erased?

With a salary and a cushion, I might be able to consider buying a Cherry Hill home in six months. A half year from the bottom to my ideal version of the top, setting my own toaster on those imported tile countertops.

Holy shit, would that be amazing.

I wonder if I’ll get it. I wonder if Mason will promote me. Three years ago, I was hanging sheetrock; now I’m touring headquarters and contemplating a job that might pay $200K or more. I’m definitely a rising star, as humble as I usually think I am. And although I know I’m not the only candidate, I get the feeling I’m one with a decent shot.

I wonder how I can make Mason James like me more. I wonder how I can suck up enough to get that position because, holy hell, would that solve everything.

The phone rings. To my surprise, it’s Margo, who Mason described as his Gal Friday. She wants to know if, instead of heading to the Stonegate project tomorrow, I mind dressing down and heading to an area not far from Reed Creek instead. It’s a place I recognize because I used to hike around Reed and the hills beyond.

She wants me to scout the land. It’s the kind of thing an acquisitions guy might do. Maybe even the vice president.

I grab a pen and my electric bill, preparing to take notes on the back of the envelope.

“Sure,” I say. “Where specifically?”

Instead of giving me an address, a vague description, a parcel number, or GPS coordinates, Margo tells me that I’ll get everything I need on arrival.

Margo seemed plenty smart enough to realize what’s wrong with this request, so I give her a few minutes to recognize it without my pointing it out. But once she’s closing the conversation and preparing to hang up, I interject.

“Hang on,” I say. “I still need an address or something, at least.” Maybe I’ll get all I need when I get there, but how the hell am I supposed to arrive without knowing where I’m headed?

“I don’t have it on hand,” Margo says. “Sorry. I’m away from home.”

“But … ”

Margo laughs. “Oh, right. I guess I forgot something kind of important.”

I ready my envelope and pen. Vague directions, here we come.

“She’ll pick you up. That way, you’ll have the survey equipment, which is in one of the company trucks.”

“Who will pick me up?”

“Mason’s daughter. Looks like she’s the new intern.”

I’m already thinking about the promotion to vice president. I was just wondering how to make Mr. James like me better than the other candidates. And for some reason, Margo’s words are a wrench in the works. I feel nervous in a blink. Jittery. Like I might start sweating, even though it’s cold in here.

“That sounds fine,” I lie.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Riley

I WEAVE DOWN FROM CHERRY Hill to Old Town, trying to stay awake.

Margo told me to pick Brandon up at Hill of Beans coffee shop, which struck me as strange since Margo made the rules and set the pickup time for 7 a.m. I assumed I’d be going to his house, but for some reason she said he’d be at the coffee shop. I told Margo yesterday that I’d want to stop for coffee anyway and that I’d just pick him up and then drive through Starbucks, which is on the way and doesn’t require us to get out of the truck. But she said Brandon had been specific: He wasn’t there to pick up coffee. He was there because he’d already be there, implying he’d been there for hours.

I wonder if I really want to spend my morning with someone so eager. I hate playing into clichés, but it’s true that I got used to staying up late and sleeping in at college. I sprang up and out of the house with a smile so that Dad would see I’m capable of holding a normal schedule, but I started to droop once inside the truck. I haven’t had my coffee either. Getting dressed took all the time I could eke out of this morning’s wee hours.

I could have moved faster if I’d just pulled my hair back, rubbed on some deodorant, and gone out in whatever I could dig quickly out of my still-unpacked boxes. But I didn’t sleep that well and dragged myself out of bed at just after six. It seemed proper to shower. It then felt proper not just to pull my hair back, but to take ten minutes to dry and tame it. My decently prepped hair looked funny without makeup, so I put on a low-key, five-minute face, mainly trying to hide my tired eyes. By then it was sunny out and I knew the day would be warm, so I said what the hell and put on a light sundress. Choosing my sandals took the rest of my time, and now, as I pull to a stoplight, I catch my reflection. I flash the mirror a toothy smile and realize that it all seems fake. I look like a moderately cute zombie.

And in that instant, I feel ridiculous.

I’m not in my little car. I’m in this huge truck. It has double wheels in the back, and I’m constantly afraid I’m going to sideswipe the people around me. The mirrors stick out too far, and I had to open the window while driving to manually adjust them. It blew my hair everywhere, and I haven’t been able to tame it. Now I look stupid. I’m a tiny girl in an enormous truck, in a sundress and strappy sandals. Why didn’t I just wear jeans? There’s survey equipment in the back, and I have to assume we’ll be tromping about since the goal is to investigate a large swatch of land.

I should have brought a picnic basket. That would fit my look so much better.

I pull the enormous Life of Riley truck into the Hill of Beans parking lot. Like everything in Old Town, Hill of Beans is in a hundred-year-old building along a street never intended for modern traffic. Everything is too narrow, and I have to thread this behemoth between buildings to reach the back lot. By the time I’ve parked, I already resent Brandon. I’m tired. I really will have to get out of the truck, as opposed to hitting Starbucks, which has a nice, wide drive-through and sits on a more contemporary street.

But as I’m about to unbuckle, the passenger door opens and Brandon is climbing into the cabin, drink carrier in hand. He settles then takes one of the two cups and extends it toward me.

“Do you drink coffee?”

I look down. It’s like he’s given me a million dollars. Or a puppy. Or an orgasm in a paper cup. I take it eagerly, resisting the urge to pour the desperately needed fuel down my throat.

“Yes! Thank you.”

“I didn’t know if you’d want it with cream or what, so I got a bunch.” He shakes a small paper bag he’d balanced in the carrier. I take it and doctor my coffee. He’s managed the perfect recipe: three little creamers, two packets of Equal, and a stirrer. Literally nothing goes to waste.

I sip the coffee. I know it’s all in my head, but the first tablespoon that drips into me is like liquid energy. I feel instantly better. More alive. I give him a genuine smile, hopefully not too much like a cute zombie.

I turn to look properly at Brandon. He’s worn a dress shirt and slacks. It’s not nearly as fine as yesterday’s suit, but he certainly looks like a pro.

He looks at me and says, “Margo told me to dress down. Didn’t she tell you to dress down?”

I actually look away. I almost say, Oh, you mean this old dress? Instead I say, “You don’t seem dressed down.”

“Dressed down more than you.” He’s looking me over. His eyes spend too much time on my legs.

“You’re not dressed down at all.”

“We might have to hike through weeds.”

“Good thing I’m in a summery dress, perfect for skipping through meadows then.” It’s not a bad answer. But Margo did tell me to dress down because we’d be off site and trekking through undeveloped land. I think her specific advice was to wear jeans and boots. I’m not sure why I didn’t listen. I must be exhausted.

Brandon shrugs. I catch a flash of his blue eyes before he looks away.

He sips his coffee. I catch myself looking at his arms, wondering back at the things Phoebe said about watching him shirtless.

“Don’t you have a bag?” I ask.

“Bag?”

“Weren’t you working?”

It takes him a minute to understand, but then he looks away again. I’d assumed he’d come here with something – a computer, papers to peruse, something he’d be working on before I’d shown up. But he has nothing.

“I just wanted to get a cup of coffee,” he says.

“I told Margo it’d have been easier to drive through Starbucks.”

“I wanted Hill of Beans.”

“Is this on the way? Starbucks is on the way. I could have picked you up at your place.”

“Jesus!” he snaps. “Starbucks? Really? How about supporting our local businesses?”

I blink. He’d seemed so quiet yesterday, but today the guy’s touchy. Maybe he’s not an early riser, either.

I don’t respond. I’m annoyed by his holier-than-thou dig at my sense of town pride, but I guess I can give him the benefit of the doubt.

I press the brake, wishing he’d be chivalrous and offer to drive but not willing, after that burst of snippiness, to ask. I have the seat almost all the way up and can still barely reach the pedals.

As I start the arduous process of turning around in the small Hill of Beans back lot, I catch Brandon looking at me. I jockey back and forth, exaggerating the difficulty with much sighing and grunting so he’ll get the point and relieve me. He never stops watching.

By the time the truck is fully turned, annoyance has replaced fatigue. Brandon not offering to take the wheel now feels like an affront, and every second he refuses to help is like giving me the finger.

“What?” I snap.

Brandon’s head flicks away, his gaze now out the windshield.

“Nothing.”

“You keep looking at me. Is something wrong?”

“No.”

But I’m sure there is. He’s been assessing my dress, which has ridden up on the truck’s seat. He’s seeing my insensible footwear. He’s probably noticing the way I did my hair and put on some makeup. I don’t wear much jewelry, but I’m sure that right now my small silver hoop earrings look overly delicate. I must seem naive to him – a girl out of her element.

I’ll bet he even talked to my father. In fact, that’s probably what all of this is about. I told Dad I was ready to start work at the company I hoped to one day take over, but instead of being proud of me and explaining Life of Riley’s profit model, he essentially patted me on the head and gave me a token job suited for ill-prepared, silly-little-rich-girl college kids recently home from school and deluded about their futures. He says I’m an all-purpose intern so I can learn the ropes from the bottom, but let’s face it: I’m here to fill space. To stay occupied. To have something to do during the day, before I go to the clubs and dance all night with cute guys who my silly little brain can’t help but giggle endlessly over.

Dad probably sent me to pick up Brandon so he could keep an eye on me.

Now, Brandon, don’t expect too much from her. She’s just back from school and is feeling all bright-eyed and overly optimistic. She’ll want to help, but make sure you watch her if she tries. Supposedly, she has her degree in business, but let’s face it – that’s just because the college board knows me. Keep her safe. Make sure she doesn’t twist an ankle out there. The ridiculous little thing will probably do something absurd, like show up for a survey in sandals and a sundress. 

My jaw has been sliding back and forth, assessing Brandon as he looks through the windshield. I watch him swallow, as if he’s afraid of me.

Finally, I slide the transmission into drive, and we pull out of the lot, onto the street, turning toward the lands outside Old Town, between the historic center and Cherry Hill.

“Why do you wear that beard?” My voice sounds angry in my ears. The question is clearly loaded – spoken as more than an idle query – but I don’t care. If he and my father are going to discuss me behind my back, I’m allowed to be bothered. And if he’s not going to offer to drive the truck like a man, I’m allowed to be gruff. I keep both hands on the big wheel. I want to drink more of the coffee, but now it seems tainted.

“I just like having a beard.” His eyes flick toward me then away. I don’t like that gaze. But I also kind of want him to keep doing it.

“It makes you look like a lumberjack. What successful person has a beard?”

“Richard Branson.”

The question was supposed to be rhetorical. I’m irritated that he answered, especially so fast.

“If you really want to get the vice presidency, you should shave it.”

“Why?”

“It’s unprofessional.”

“It’s hair.”

“It doesn’t look right for a vice president.”

“Now you’re judging me on my appearance,” he says. “What if I were black?”

“That’s not remotely the same.”

“Sure it is.”

“No it’s not! I am not racist!”

“You’re just beardist.”

He’s really annoyed me. He’s really, really, really annoyed me. I need to stay angry. I don’t like being called a racist. Not that he called me one. But he made the analogy. In order to point out that I’m a total beardist.

I catch movement in the corner of my eyes and look over to see him looking at me – but this time, at my face.

“Fucking dirty beardist,” he says, deadpan.

That makes me laugh hard enough that I almost rear-end the car in front of us. But it’s okay. Because after that, things are better, and we ride the rest of the way to Reed Creek in amicable quiet while the sun slowly rises behind us.