Page 33 of Never Bargain with the Boss
Cameron sighs heavily, rolling his eyes like he’s searching for patience and calm, and I’m not sure if it’s to deal with me or this Hannah character. Chances are, it’s me. To his daughter, he says, “You are not being sensitive. Hannah hurt your feelings, and feelings can’t be wrong, only actions can be, and what she said was rude.”
He sounds like a self-help book, or one of those psychobabble internet memes, but in a sweet way. He cares about Grace’s feelings, and judging by the rigid set of his spine, he’s working hard to maintain his poise amid his anger.
“I guess,” Grace mutters, not sounding like she believes that any more than Cameron does.
I have extensive experience with adolescent girls and their savagery is downright terrifying sometimes. I don’t want that to be the case for Grace, who is sweet despite her occasionally absent filter. But friendships are nuanced in ways that are difficult to explain, and even more difficult to navigate, especially at Grace’s formative age. How these complicated relationships are dealt with can make or break a girl’s confidence, so I need to step carefully and guide delicately. However, that doesn’t mean avoiding the obvious. Sometimes, facing it head-on is the best course of action.
“The first comment was rude. The second one was bitchy. Are you sure she’s not a mean girl?” I ask bluntly.
Grace’s head falls forward, and though I can’t see her face, she seems to be laser-focused on picking her cuticles. “She’s my friend,” she virtually whispers.
I give Cameron a look, because my heart is breaking into pieces for his little girl. His eyes reflect the same pain. I lift a brow, silently questioning whether he’s okay with me addressing this. I’ve already overstepped once, and this is something he’s already handled, but it’s not done. Not with Grace still hurting.
He looks at me for a long moment, the uncertainty plain as day, but with a slight warning, he dips his chin, giving his permission. I think it’s mostly because he’s so desperate to help Grace that he’d do anything, even let me and my big mouth loose in the desperate hope that it’ll be for the greater good.
“Both can be true. Hannah can be mean and be your friend, if that’s what you want,” I say gently. “But the company you keep tends to rub off on you, so you should choose wisely.”
Cameron inhales sharply at my harsh statement even though I tried to deliver it as kindly as possible, his piercingly blue eyes virtually yelling at me. Grace sniffles, so I lean in, hugging her shoulders.
“It’s okay. Friendships are hard sometimes, but you’ll figure things out. Just be true to you.” It’s not the best pep talk I’ve ever given, but sometimes the truth doesn’t come with rah-rahs and pom-poms. It comes with hard lessons that hurt, then scab over before leaving a scar of the lesson learned. “I’ll braid your hair anytime you want me to, though,” I vow, knowing it’s a small consolation. “In fact, I’ll even teach your dad how to do it so he can help you too in case I’m not here on a day you want it done.” I catch Cameron’s eye, daring him to disagree.
“That’s not necessary?—”
“Sit over here so you can see.” I pointedly glance at the couch beside me, telling him exactly where I want him.
His reaction to being not only interrupted, but told what to do, is obvious and only adds to his already tense state. The tic in his cheek returns, his eyes go cold, and his lips are nearly white with how hard he’s pressing them together.
He’s not a man who follows orders. He’s the type who gives them, knowing they’ll be obeyed. That he’ll be obeyed—by Grace, by people at work, and usually, by his employees at home. Like me. And I will obey him in most things. But this is for Grace. She needs this distraction while what I’ve said ruminates in her mind, tossing and turning.
Like I told Cameron when he was dangerously close to commenting on that skirt, words have power. And the ones I just said are no different. But they’re not bombs that blow up immediately. They’re more like a slow leak, hopefully changing the topography of Grace’s thoughts as they sink in.
“Please,” I mouth silently, begging not for me or him, but for Grace.
He rises and stalks toward me, eyes flashing like warning lights. When he lowers himself to the couch beside me, I swear he measures the distance between our thighs with a glance like he can’t bear to be near me. But this is not about whatever tension was building between us over the weekend. This? It’s all about the little girl in front of us who’s going through her first hard lesson of hurting.
“Watch and learn,” I tell Cameron, purposefully lightening my tone to ease the pall hanging over the room.
I spray the other section of Grace’s hair with the spray bottle and make quick work of French braiding from her temple, over her head, to the nape of her neck, my bracelets jingling in the otherwise silent room. “Don’t worry about that part. Just start with two low ponies here and then braid regularly.” I point at Grace’s neck, where the braid switches from a French to a regular one. “You have three sections—left, center, and right. See?”
He nods jerkily, staring vacantly at Grace’s hair. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s mostly staring at my bracelets. I think he hates them. He’s always frowning at them, especially in the morning.I’ve taken to switching up my bracelet stacks to see if there’s one in particular that bugs him or just their existence in general. It seems to be the latter.
I demonstrate for him, crossing an outer section over the middle and alternating sides, and he watches. Or I think he does. “Keep it tight each crossover and take your time. You want to try?” I freeze, holding my hands in place so that I can replace my fingers with his to give him an opportunity to practice, but he jerks back.
“That’s okay. I can see what you’re doing. Thank you.” If you looked upcurtin the dictionary, there’d be a picture of Cameron Harrington frowning at you from the book’s thin pages. He even gets up, putting several feet of space between us as he goes over to pick up his phone from the table. Except it didn’t make a noise and the screen’s been dark. It’s an excuse to get away.
But from me or the braiding? Does he have some sort of braid phobia or something? Maybe a previous pony attack that made braids revolting?
“Oooh-kay,” I drawl. I finish the braid, tie it off, and then tap Grace’s shoulder. When she looks back at me, I tell her earnestly, “All done. Your hair is beautiful—curled, in braids, or in any other style you want to wear it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, even if they’re a friend, okay?”
Her teeth dent into her bottom lip where she’s chewing uncertainly, but she hears me. I just hope shehearsme.
When she nods, I smile encouragingly and say, “Go check them out.”
Petting her braids, she runs out of the room, escaping the lecture I’m sure she feels like she got from both Cameron and me, but she calls back over her shoulder, “Thanks, Riley!”
We stare at the door where she disappeared, but like we’re on the same schedule—ha! Me, on a schedule—our eyes simultaneously find each other.
Quiet as a mouse, I whisper, “I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to Hannah. Allsupernice, I swear it. Sweet as can be.” To make sure he knows I’m being sarcastic as hell, I feign a few shadow boxing moves and snarl my lip in a very Elvis-like way.