Page 29 of Never Bargain with the Boss
“To let your inner tiger… ahem, I mean,Tyra… out to play.” I’m not sure that was actually a misspeak. It seemed quite intentional. So does the finger she teases along the bottom edge of her shirt before pointing at Grace’s skirt. If she’s explaining what she means, I’m still not understanding. I haven’t done a sewing project today, or ever, so I have nothing to showcase like them.
But Riley has plans for me.
She digs around in her bag of goodies from today, and I groan, first at the curve of her hips right in front of me, and then again when I deduce what she’s up to. “No way. They haven’t even been washed,” I argue, using the no-further-discussions tone that’s served me well in numerous boardrooms.
But when she holds up the godawful plaid pants and gives me a pleading look, I’m done for. Hell, she’s got me wrapped around her finger as much as Grace does. And that’s dangerous for us both. “Please.”
I knew I was fucked before she said that, but it’s a sure bet now. “Fine. Give them here,” I say, sounding annoyed even though I’m barely irritated.
For some reason, Riley’s eyes home in on my cheek and then the tiniest smirk steals her lips, like she knows I’m exaggerating my exasperation, which is unnerving. She doesn’t know me well enough to read me that easily. No one does. I redacted the pages of my soul and closed that book a long time ago. Or so I thought.
In the downstairs bathroom, I don’t allow myself the stroke I desperately want and I definitely don’t look at myself in the mirror, too afraid of what I’ll see—an old man who knows his priorities, and it’s not playing dress-up with a too-young, too-sexy nanny and his impressionable daughter. Instead, I choose to ignore it, living in the moment instead of the past or the future for just a small second.I deserve that, I tell myself, trying to sound convincing and failing. The past and the future are where my heart and my head stay, respectively.
When I come back out, Grace and Riley are sitting next to one another on the couch, staring at me expectantly. I don’t know what comes over me—it must be a spell or maybe I’m coming down with the flu—because when I see their excitement, I strut like I’ve never strutted before.
Straight-faced and stoic, with one hand in the pocket of the ridiculous pants that are at least six inches too short and with a waistband three inches too big, I stride across the room like they’re bespoke designer-wear. And all the while, Grace and Riley cheer and clap for me like I look amazing.
It’s silly. It’s fun. It’s completely ridiculous.
And I can’t remember the last time I felt like this… light.
That evening,long after our fashion show has ended and we’re back in regular clothes—which for me is jeans, for Grace is pajamas, and for Riley is sweats—Grace proclaims the early morning is catching up with her and informs us that she’s gonna head to bed. I think it’s more likely the copious amounts of leftover pizza she consumed for dinner, but I go upstairs to tuck her in.
Afterward, I’m cleaning up from dinner, putting plates into the dishwasher when Riley comes in. “I’m gonna make some tea. Want some?” She opens the cabinet, takes out a mug, and holds it up, waiting for my answer.
I don’t drink tea. For a long time, my daily nightcap was a heavy pour of scotch, or sometimes two, that I’d sip while feeling sorry for myself because of the unpredictable turn my life had taken. Eventually, I’d realized that I needed to cut back, for Grace’s sake, and for the last couple of years, I’ve limited myself to an occasional scotch with dinner or a tiny bit more when I have to deal with my family and their never-ending shenanigans.
“Sure,” I answer, not because I want tea but because I want the excuse to talk to Riley. I feel like I owe her an apology, or an explanation, or something after today. I swear I nearly had an apoplectic meltdown when Grace put that skirt on, and if Riley hadn’t been there to stop me, I probably would’ve given my daughter a complex about her body, her choices, and herself before I was done and not even known that I was doing it.
I’m a good father. I make sure of it. But what Riley said and did today? That was on a whole different level, one I’ve never known existed. But now that I do, I have an entirely new goal to strive for, and if there’s one thing I’m skilled at, it’s meeting and exceeding my goals. I take that shit seriously.
I also give myself a stern talking to about the fashion show moment that flashed hot and then turned down to a bare simmer over the rest of the evening. This little tete-a-tete needs to remain polite and professional, with nothing remotely inappropriate said or done on either side. Rules and responsibilities are the name of the game.
You think she’s wearing a bra beneath her sweatshirt?
You know she’s not.
Motherfucker. Shut that shit up right now, Harrington. Get your head out of your ass, or more accurately, out of her shirt, and focus on the proper things—thanking Riley for today.
She grabs another mug, fills them with water from the fridge, and then puts them into the microwave, setting it for two minutes. Leaning back on the counter, she shrugs. “I know it’s not ideal, but I never had a kettle and got used to microwaving the water.”
“It’s fine by me.” I’m not sure I’d know the difference, anyway.
We wait, with only the whirring sound of the microwave to break the silence. When it beeps, Riley jumps to open the door and carefully removes one cup, then the other. “Chamomile?”
I nod in agreement, and she drops a tea bag into each mug.
“Want to sit out back?” I flip a switch by the sliding door, and the porch is illuminated by dim lighting.
She follows me outside, and I slide the door closed behind us, letting her choose a seat first. She curls up in the corner of the big sectional couch, tucking her legs underneath her and snuggling in. I choose the opposite end, sitting as far away as I can. For both our sakes.
She blows on her tea, peering at me over the edge of her mug, and I take a sip. It’s hot, scalding my tongue and burning all the way down my throat. The little flash of pain helps me focus and I admit, “Today was a good day. Thanks to you.”
A tiny smile tilts Riley’s lips up, and she teases, “So you didn’t ask me out here to yell at me?”
I huff out an unexpected laugh. “No, definitely not. If anything, I owe you an apology and my undying gratitude.”
“Today was no big deal,” she says with a shrug, though she seems relieved that I’m not shouting at her, which shocks me because the thought never crossed my mind. I’ve been thinking quite the opposite, that I don’t think we could go back to lifewith anyone else as our nanny. “I appreciate your letting Grace go shopping with me. I am sorry she woke you up” —her eyes unconsciously drop to my chest, and I wonder if she’s thinking about this morning the way I am— “and forced you to go along. You could’ve used the sleep, and I’m sure you had other things to do.”