Текст книги "The Boss's Daughter"

Автор книги: Aubrey Parker

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CHAPTER NINE

Brandon

I HAVE NO IDEA WHY Riley wore what she wore for this job. I hate it. I hate it because the fabric falls perfectly on her small frame – inch-wide straps hanging from sun-kissed shoulders, the rise and fall of her body evident from the way the dress lies against her skin, the way the seat belt separates her breasts and gravity causes the dress to sway downward between her knees. In the morning sun, her blonde hair shines like gossamer. Her profile is beautiful. She has a small nose and ripe-looking lips that are somewhere between pink and red.

If I saw Riley in a bar, I’d definitely talk to her. If she weren’t my boss’s daughter, I’d definitely try to take her home.

But she is my boss’s daughter.

And if I saw her in a bar and took her home, that would sink my chances of rising at Life of Riley. It might even end everything for me at the company, and leave me with three years down the drain.

But still, I can’t stop peeking over at her.

I loved what happened with her face when she laughed a moment ago. Her smile is wide, white, and all teeth. It should look odd, but it doesn’t. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. And when she laughed, that wide smile split in the middle and her blue-green eyes narrowed to slits. It was such an innocent, almost helpless exhalation of emotion. A tiny moment of bliss. I’d done that to her to her, and I wanted to do it again.

I look over now. She’s so small behind the wheel of the huge truck. I should probably be driving, but I can’t make myself stop gawking at how she looks over there. There’s something primal at play, watching her handle the largeness and boldness of it all, juxtaposed with how young and sweet the outfit makes her look. As if she were shooting a gun in that pretty little dress, or cranking a giant machine.

But she catches me looking again, and I remind myself to keep my eyes forward. She’s off limits – there’s no point in thinking anything other than the most professional thoughts.

Which is why I’m so annoyed that she wore what she did. There are sure to be dicey places in the land we’re about to check out, but it’s summertime in Inferno Falls, and that means there will be a lot of tall grass, too. She’s going to walk through that grass, and I’m going to look over at her and see this perfect vision of feminine purity: the girl in a dress walking a meadow. Maybe there will be little wildflowers. And maybe she’ll pick some and slip them behind her ear. Maybe she’ll gather enough for a bouquet, and I’ll have to watch her walk toward me, toward the truck, flowers clasped in front of her, her legs long, hair flowing, smile full of youthful wonder.

I don’t want to see that.

I want her in jeans.

Baggy jeans.

Dirty jeans.

Maybe smelly jeans.

I want her in a big, stained work shirt. I want her hair in a ratty mess. I want her feet in clodhoppers. I want to see her picking her nose, wiping wax from her ear, throwing up drunk. I want to be repulsed. But then the truck is stopping, and I look over to see her turning to step out. I catch the swish of fabric. The shift that brings her hem up too high. The long, graceful swing of toned legs. The turn of her head, swinging hair, her face turning as she exits with another one of her big smiles.

I sit in the cab for an extra second. The door closes, but instead of waiting for me, Riley is already moving into the undeveloped property, and I have to watch the dress move on her body.

I get out. I nearly step into a puddle, ruining my good pair of shoes. And that’s when I realize that I should have done as Margo suggested. I should have worn old jeans and boots and a T-shirt, but for some reason I couldn’t. Same as how I couldn’t let Riley pick me up at the Regency and see where I live.

I tell myself I did those things because impressing Riley is the same as impressing Mason, and that seeming pro in front of her will raise my standing with her father.

I almost believe it.

In front of me, she turns. “I know this place.”

I look around. I definitely don’t.

“Reed Creek is over that way.” She points. “My friends and I used to explore it. Follow the water. See where it went.”

She starts to walk away. I think she might be headed somewhere, but she’s just craning around for a better look. This land is on a hill, but it’s not a remarkable hill in itself. It strikes me as the perfect kind of land to develop. Done right, building here will enhance the look of this place rather than appear as a blight. As I’ve moved up at Life of Riley, that’s been a goal of mine: to improve what needs improving, but leave things as they are if best left alone. Over and over, I’ve seen wonderful bits of land filled with ugly houses, so I don’t want to do the same. If I get the vice presidency and find myself in charge of Land Acquisition, I’ll be specific about our chosen sites. This property, for instance, is near Reed Creek, land that I’d never dare disturb. It’s beautiful down there. This? It’s just sort of nothing.

“I know Reed.”

“But this land?” Riley looks around then points in the opposite direction. “We used to play horses out here.”

I don’t know what that means, and I must look it because she laughs.

“My friend Eva and me. She lived just there – ” She points a third time. “And so when I went to her place, a lot of times we ended up here. Well, not here, but down there, just past that ridge. How far does this land go?”

I tell her I don’t know. I’m not a surveyor. If I get the job, I’ll probably try to learn a bit more, and I’m sure there’s a GPS thing they use, but for now I use the transits as telescopes. There are surely boundary pins out there somewhere, but I don’t plan on stumbling through the grass to find them. I’ll ballpark it. If the company and seller are serious, and if I end up being the man in charge, I’ll return with a crew and do this better, more accurately.

“Probably off of the land Dad’s looking to buy, then,” she says. “Down there somewhere. And Eva, she was really into horses. There’s this old abandoned barn down there. Charming, not creepy. And so she put signs in it, naming her invisible horses. One room was the tack room. Where her bridles and lines and halters and stuff would hang one day.”

“My sister used to want a horse,” I say. But I feel dumb. I’m just making noise. This is Riley’s story, and I know almost nothing about horses beyond their having four legs. But Bridget used to pretend, although without the benefit of a genuine barn. The so-called home we shared as siblings was in the armpit of a city.

“I wish I had a sister,” Riley says.

“She’s not really my sister,” I blurt, though I have no idea why.

Riley looks at me.

“She’s my foster sister.”

And I really don’t know why I said that. I went all the way to Hill of Beans so Riley wouldn’t see my apartment. I parked my beloved but beat-up truck on the street so she wouldn’t see that, either. And now I’ve said the F-word, blowing it all. Because who has “foster” in their history other than poor people?

Maybe she’ll assume I’m doing better now. That I overcame a rough past. But no, I can see on her face that she already knows. Someone told her. And I feel exposed, as if I’m a phony and she’s seeing right through me.

But instead of commenting, Riley turns back to look across the land. I don’t know why, but the gentle way her dress billows as she spins works to break my heart.

She laughs, still looking away. “I guess it never dawned on me until now.”

“What?” I ask.

“Do you know Ticket to Ride?”

I shake my head. Then I realize she can’t see me, so I say, “No.”

“Riding stables,” she says. “It’s across the valley. Not here at all. But Eva owns it. I never made the connection to that old memory. She’s older than me, and she bought Ticket to Ride just before I left for school.” Riley looks toward me, and there’s that smile again. “I guess she got her wish to have horses after all.”

I’m a little uncomfortable, so I walk back to the truck, grab a scope, and start looking around. Riley comes over even though I’d rather she stay where she was. Her proximity makes me uneasy. She’s radiating something that makes my skin prickle like a panic response. My chest feels full, but my head is spinning.

“Are we going to walk it?”

“I am. You can come with if you want. Or stay here.” As much as I find myself wanting to be near her, I hope she’ll choose the latter.

“Oh. Okay.”

“In a bit. I want to just peek around a little first. Try and imagine this place with houses.”

“Sure.”

I’m looking through one of the scopes when I see her from the corner of my eye. I turn to her.

“Is this place … ” I pause, not knowing how to say this other than in the most ridiculous but honest way. “Is it sentimental for you?” I finish.

She snaps out of whatever is holding her. She smiles right at me, and something sighs inside. “Oh, no. The barn was down the hill, and it was knocked down years ago. I don’t know that we ever came up anywhere near this far. It’s just that … ”

“What?”

“The creek,” she says. “I haven’t been back to the creek since I’ve been home.”

Part of me is relieved because the development plans definitely doesn’t include anything on the creek. I’m sure I’m not the only blossoming land developer with a conscience, but I might be the only one with this odd, nostalgic feeling for land. I don’t like it when places that carry old memories are bulldozed without thought. I’m even bothered by knocking down trees because you never know who might have climbed them, built forts in their branches, or hidden behind them during hide ‘n’ seek. If I had my way, I’d try to acquire land that wasn’t already wooded, and build around existing trees whenever possible. My crews would hate me for making their jobs harder, but we’d save on landscaping and have ambiance that few new communities could ever hope to offer.

I hold the scope up to my eye again when I notice her starting to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to see the creek.”

I let her walk a few more steps before turning to follow, knowing it’s the wrong direction if I’m here to survey the land for the company, knowing I should move away from Riley rather than toward her, knowing that heading somewhere quieter with her is a terrible idea.

But I’m hardly thinking.

Her dress sways in front of me like a metronome. I follow like a man in a trance.

CHAPTER TEN

Riley

I CAN HEAR BRANDON’S FOOTSTEPS behind me, but I don’t turn. A bit farther down, the grass was mowed at least once in the spring, and the worst of the brush is kept low. The air smells like lavender, and the sun is warm. There’s the slightest of breezes, and I can feel it swirling in interrupted gusts on my legs.

I wonder why Brandon is coming. I assumed he had work to do higher on the hill, and I just wanted to kill time while he did his whatever with scopes and paperwork. Margo’s assignment for me – as a mere intern – was to gather the gear and give the new prospect a ride. I’d take further directions from Brandon. And if he had things to do that didn’t involve me, I’d visit old memories.

Not the one with Eva. Those are behind us, in the direction we didn’t go.

The other memories.

It takes longer than I anticipate to reach the meadow’s edge. I’m not exactly an expert at reading topographical maps, but I did glance at what Margo gave me and know the property in question doesn’t border the creek. We parked at the land’s edge. I walked away, leaving the area that Brandon came to investigate.

We’re tromping across someone else’s land … maybe a few someones because it’s five solid minutes of plodding before I find my bearings.

Five minutes of heading the wrong way, away from the job, with Brandon mindlessly following.

Five minutes of quiet, wondering what he’s thinking back there. He has to know it’s the wrong direction and that time is wasting, but he says nothing.

Five minutes without any questions. Five minutes of trust. Five minutes in which only the crushing of grass tells me I’m not the only person in the world.

I said I was going to the creek.

He dropped what we came here to do and is following me, as if this was the point all along.

The grassy area ends on an apron of tall pines. Here, because of the carpet of soft needles underfoot, there’s almost no undergrowth. Once I feel that cushion beneath me, the direct light vanishes, and it’s all muted, slivers of reflected light leaving the place in shadows like I remember.

I see the same small outcrop of rocks.

Two trees, not pines, are wound in a braid. I remember them, too.

And I can hear the creek ahead. It’s not a big stream, but the section through here is rocky and moves at a decent clip. The sound is burbling and rushing, perfectly telegraphed through this relatively sparse section of woods. I can almost see it in my mind.

I can almost remember some of the bigger rocks on the shore, the way their shapes form a big funnel, or a slide.

I can almost remember the rope swing someone built to sway above it, and how nobody but a fool would try to use the decayed old thing even back when.

I haven’t been here in forever, and yet I remember every step.

We must have parked in the field below then come up through the same pine apron from the other side.

But this section? I’m sure we used to come through here. I see it all, as if nothing has changed.

We finally arrive at the creek. By now, its chattering voice is like a third person – and that’s all the more apparent given that neither Brandon nor I have spoken a word. And it’s exactly as I remember.

We usually sat over there. That’s where the blanket went.

That’s the rock I called my throne.

Oh, God. Why did I come here? It wasn’t on the tour. I lived in Cherry Hill without returning to the creek for nine years before I went off to college. It’s like I deleted this place from my mind – not because it was bad, but because it was wonderful, full of favorite memories.

Brandon comes up beside me. I don’t precisely see or hear him. It’s more that I can feel him standing there, the way you can sense a small space even if you have no real way to know you’re in one. His presence is strong and solid. I find myself wanting to slip my hand into his. It’s almost an ache.

The quiet moment lasts for a few heartbeats, and it’s like we’re witnessing something sacred that shouldn’t be disturbed.

“This is a nice place,” he finally says. It’s a throwaway comment. He’s only speaking to make noise because I’ve been walking like a girl in a trance. He must think I’m psycho. Or maybe he thinks, like my father, that I’m a silly little girl – walking off on the job because the impulse struck me.

I move to the big rock. To the place where we always laid our blanket. The ground here is almost clean thanks to the needles. They’re like a blanket themselves. I want to sit on them, but instead I rest on the rock. That’s almost a normal thing to do, whereas squatting in the dirt is probably a bit much. But still, I lean forward and brush the needles, as if the memory is still here.

I look up at Brandon. He seems mystified. He doesn’t want to ask why we’re here because clearly it’s this place we’ve been headed for all along … and yet to him, it’s another stop on an anonymous tour. His confusion is charming enough to break my mood. And yes, I’m glad he’s here. It changes things enough that I won’t get lost, that I won’t let this place be more than pine and dirt and water, which is all it is and all it ever was.

“You said you used to hang out at the creek,” I say.

“On and off. I moved around a lot.”

“With Bridget?”

“No. Both times she and I lived together, it was thirty miles down the highway. There wasn’t much nature around. But I was always close enough to come by myself.”

Looking at Brandon, I can tell that his memories are different from mine. Reed Creek was a place of soft fantasy for me. For him, I’d guess it was a place of escape. Maybe he ran here to be away. Maybe he was chased.

“Where did you grow up? Which places?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

I won’t pry, even though I want to. In my world, people don’t answer questions like that. Maybe there’s nothing worth hiding. Or maybe we’re numb to what should be hidden, and share too much.

I study the creek’s visible section from end to end. We’re still on the near bank, but not far down it’s easy to cross the water without getting wet. There are large rocks in the middle, and there used to be a downed tree that might have fallen to pieces by now.

“I used to come here with my mother,” I say.

Brandon turns to look at me.

“Right here. Mom was a nature girl. Practically a hippie. You know how they say opposites attract? That was my mom and dad.”

Brandon is looking right at me. Directly into my eyes. That thing about opposites attracting, it felt like a dangerous thing to mention. Because Brandon and me? We’re pretty opposite. He’s tall, and I’m short. I’m blonde, and his hair is dark brown. I’m bubbly, and he’s so quiet and closed, he’s almost standoffish. I grew up rich, almost from birth, and he might have crawled on dirt floors.

But if he was in foster care, I guess we have at least one thing in common. And it’s hard to hold his gaze without my eyes misting about it.

“Dad wanted the nice, polished home as soon as we could afford it. But Mom would have been happy in a tent. Dad was all business. Mom wanted fun.” I feel a bittersweet smile reach my face. “I guess I’m a mix of them both. From Dad, I got capitalism. Mom made me a troublemaker.”

“You don’t strike me as a troublemaker,” Brandon says.

I’m looking at the pine needles. Remembering our blanket. Remembering how uncomfortable Dad always seemed on Mom’s hikes. Remembering how he always tried to keep his dislike of the picnics to himself, and how Mom and I always laughed at his expense because it was so obvious anyway.

“She used to torment him by taking us on nature walks,” I say, ignoring Brandon’s comment and its curious edge. “But he was never forced. She didn’t guilt him into it. She didn’t even ask him to go. That’s what made it so much fun for her. My mom knew that if she announced a hike, he’d go. Because that’s how he is.” I look up at Brandon. “You should know that, if you’re going to work with him. He has a reputation for being hard, and I know people think he’s ruthless. But he’s not. He’s the kind of man who, when his wife wanted to take his daughter on a hike, would drop everything and go. Because he loved her.”

I’m still sitting with Brandon standing beside me. I can see the odd workings of his features and know he wants to ask me what this is all about. But I know he won’t. He’ll let me volunteer what I want to say, and that will be that.

But melancholy has settled around my heart, and I don’t want to say any more. I don’t want to be here, and now sort of wish I hadn’t come. Seeing this special place changes nothing. It won’t bring my mother back, or heal what’s missing from my father’s life.

I stand and turn. It’s time to go. I don’t like that something in me was drawn here. I avoided this place for thirteen years, so why return now? And why with this man beside me? The emotional mix is confusing. It hurts. I feel weak, and a small, quiet part of me – the part that was glad Brandon was here just a minute ago – somehow wants …

… what the hell does it want from him, here, now?

That’s a question I don’t want to answer.

We shouldn’t have come here. I have no idea why I did. I have no idea why, if I felt the need to relive this tender memory, I allowed him to follow me. I have no idea what I expected. Was he supposed to make it all better? Was he supposed to rewind the clock and lick my wounds?

This isn’t who I am.

Or who I want to be.

And if my father knew I’d blew off our errand to come here, it would validate what he’s already thinking. Not only am I neglecting the simplest job; I’ve dragged his new man to a tender spot by the creek in the way I might have let a boy take me to the cliffs to make out before telling Dad I was desperately in love.

I’m not eighteen anymore.

I’m not a nine-year-old girl, lost without her mother.

I’m three or four steps back toward the meadow when a strong grip wraps my arm like a bracelet. Brandon’s hand is large enough to almost encircle my arm below the elbow. This is about a gently as one person can restrain another, but still my first reaction is to wrench myself away. I don’t. Instead, I meet his eyes with a hard stare that lasts a half second. After that, I might cry.

I hate how torn I am. Just yesterday I felt totally in control – a new woman with a college degree, ready to show her hometown that she’s a proper adult, and handle the reins of her family business. But now I barely know which end is up, and it’s my fault, like the worst kind of childish self-sabotage.

“Are you okay?” Brandon asks me.

“We should get back. Margo said she wanted me back at the office by nine, and it’s a half-hour drive.”

Brandon watches me for a long moment. If we were a couple – if we were the man and the woman who’d laid their blanket here, with our own little girl between us – I think he’d challenge my obvious denial. But we just met, and it would be as inappropriate for him to pry as it would be for me to do what something within me wants – to lean in and let him hold me for a moment, to make this burst of memory leave. Because he could. I think about Mom all the time, but only every great once in a while does something grab me like this place has.

A saboteur’s thought flits through my mind (Did you bring him here so you’d break down and need his comfort?), and then it’s gone.

“I’m fine,” I say, my tone softer.

But really, I’m not.