Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 11

On the back patio, I flip the switch to turn on the gas fireplace and take what’s become my usual seat in the corner of the couch sectional. It’s odd to think of it as ‘my spot’ when a bare few weeks ago, I rarely even sat out here. Usually, my evenings were spent with Grace and, too often, sneaking in a few more hours of work after she went to bed.

This new tradition of time on the patio is relaxing in a way I never imagined it could be.

All because of the company.

Riley sits down on the other end of the couch, the space feeling like a welcome and needed buffer after that moment in the kitchen. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and that’s an unusual and uncomfortable sensation. I am always moving toward a defined goal, on a predetermined mission with targeted points along the way for course correction.

But I’d been on the verge of touching her… kissing her… fucking her. And none of that can happen. It absolutely cannot happen.

I put one foot up on the table in front of me, keeping my thighs together to squeeze my dick a bit, hoping the slight pinch of pain will help it go down, and take a sip of my whiskey.

Thankfully, I don’t have to figure out what to say to Riley because Grace reappears at the back door. “They look great,” she tells Riley, stroking the end of one braid. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If they need it, we’ll do touch-ups in the morning so they look perfect for school.”

Grace’s gaze bounces from me to Riley at opposite ends of the couch like she’s choosing a favorite, and when she comes to sit beside me, I feel like I won the best sort of trophy—my daughter’s affection. She snuggles in, and I lay my arm along the back of the couch. She used to cuddle like this with me all the time. Somewhere along the way, it became less common, so I’m going to enjoy the rare occurrence.

“Come look at this,” she tells Riley, waving her over and pointing at her phone.

I glance at Riley, but she seems entirely focused on Grace’s screen and unbothered by moving closer to me. I try to feign the same sense of non-concern, but when she settles in by Grace’s other side, it puts my hand directly in contact with her back. It’d be awkward to jerk away, so I force myself to stay still, but her hair brushing over my hand and arm is not helping the situation in my pants. And that needs to change.

“What did you want to show us?” I ask Grace, praying for a distraction. Any distraction. I would watch her play Minecraft right now or buy her entire Shein shopping cart if she asked. Anything to give me a focal point beyond the softness of Riley’s pink hair and my undeniable desire to twirl a strand around my finger.

Or weave your hand into it and grip those ridiculous pink tresses in your fist.

Thankfully, it’s neither of those things on Grace’s phone, but rather a funny video of a lady singing a silly song with her baby. “This is big, big, big… this is small, small, small…”

“I want to do this with Emmett when I go to Uncle Cole’s and Aunt Janey’s next time,” she explains.

I nod, touched. “I’m sure he’d love that.” I don’t know if Emmett will actually care, but if Grace wants to sing and play with him, I’m sure it’ll be welcomed.

“Awesome! I’m going to text them and see when I can go over, ’kay?” She stands, leaving a too-small space between me and Riley, and I start to rise too.

“I’ll come up to tuck you in,” I offer, mostly to save myself from the dangerous thoughts running through my mind.

And through your dick.

“That’s okay,” she says quickly, holding out a hand to stop me from standing. “I can do it myself, Dad.”

My heart stutters in my chest. This is another one of those moments I’ve known is coming, but I thought I had more time before she’d be ready to end our bedtime routine. Thankfully, she does lean toward me for a kiss. It’s the most important part of our tradition, so I’m glad she’s at least still okay with that.

I press a kiss to her forehead, inhaling her shampoo smell. I miss when she smelled like baby powder, but the perfume scent of her head now is something else I’ve memorized. “Goodnight, honey,” I say around the knot in my throat.

“’Night, Dad. ’Night, Riley.”

She slides the door closed behind her, and then it’s just Riley and me, sitting too close, with my hand dangerously tangled in her hair.

I should move, put at least the distance of business-class seats between us, because this feels dangerously intimate. Polite and professional is how I prefer my relationships with the nannies to be, I remind myself. And my dick, who laughs at the very idea.

Hell, that’s how I like all my relationships—everyone at arm’s distance, not up in my business, and definitely not roughing up the perfectly smooth edges I’ve honed so that everyone slips off and away. It’s better that way, for me and them. But after only a short time, Riley’s attacking me with sandpaper and roughing everything up, sticking herself in nooks and crannies I didn’t know still existed. And I can’t say I hate it. I should, but I don’t.

So I don’t move at all.

“You okay?” she whispers, turning her head toward me. The small movement makes her hair brush over my fingers, and I can feel her watchful eyes dropping over me like she’s reading all my thoughts through the set of my jaw. She’s probably actually able to do that, along with all her other surprising skills. “That’s a hard hit to a Daddy’s heart.”

She understands the magnitude of what just happened. Over the years, there have been nights when I didn’t tuck Grace in, but it’s because she was spending the night at my parents’ or at a friend’s house, not because she simply didn’t want me to do it, so tonight is a threshold I knew was coming but was altogether unprepared for all the same.

All that aside, what catches my attention, drawing my focus away from Grace, is Riley calling me Daddy. There’s only one woman who’s ever called me that, especially in relation to Grace. And suddenly, it’s not only the two of us on the patio.

There’s a ghost here with us. And I’m in a position that I shouldn’t be in—sitting in the dark with an attractive woman at my side, with an erection trying to rise again, and my always dependable logic getting hazier with every drink.

I wait to be assailed by the guilt that used to come when I’d think of a woman other than my wife, but after so long, it doesn’t. I’ve dated over the years. Nothing serious, and certainly never anyone I’d introduce Grace to, but I’ve had a few dinners here and some casual fuck fests there. I’m not a saint or a monk, and I’ve needed companionship, especially in those early days when I wanted something—anything—to make the loneliness go away for even a second.

But that acute sense of pain and loss has long since subsided.

It’ll never go away entirely. It’ll always be deep in my heart like a dark, shadowy haze that covers the good times. But I’m alive again, or I thought I was. Until Riley showed up with the magic she says she doesn’t possess and started making me wonder if there could be more. Or fuck, downright showing me that there could be, if I’d open myself up to it.

But I shouldn’t. I can’t. Not with her, not with anyone.

Me and Grace, the two musketeers. That’s all I want, all I need.

My dick argues that point, suggesting that what I need is a warm, soft, willing body with no strings attached. That’s all.

And while that may be true, that’s not what Riley is. She’s a woman who lives in my house, spends time with my child, and is becoming more enmeshed in my life with every passing day.

Off limits. That’s what she is.

I move my arm, putting physical space between us even as a cavernous void opens in my chest. “Yeah, I’m okay. She’s growing up too fast, but I’m sure every parent feels that way.”

“Probably so,” she agrees, taking a measured sip of her whiskey, and though she doesn’t comment on my movement, I feel as though my battle with my dick is as exposed as if she had. “But you handled it well, letting her lead.” It feels like she’s swallowing further commentary along with the alcohol.

“What?” I spit out, mostly angry at myself but taking it out any available target. “If you have more to say, go ahead. It’s not like you’ve ever stopped before,” I say, taking a healthy swallow of my whiskey because I think I’m going to need it to buffer whatever’s about to pass her lips.

“Where’s her mother?”

She asks the question softly and with as much kindness as possible. It doesn’t matter. It hits directly to my heart, which is thudding dully. I lick my lips, then press them together, gritting my teeth.

I don’t talk about this. About Michelle. Ever. With anyone. Not even Grace, and she’s the only person who has ties connecting them.

Other than me.

But my ties aren’t genetic the way Grace’s are. Mine are messily deep and emotional.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry,” Riley rushes to say, trying to take back the pressure her question has put on me. She curls her legs up, like she can sense the tension coursing through me and she needs to protect herself from it, but her knees brush my thigh and before I know it, my hand lands there, stopping her fussing and fidgeting.

She freezes instantly at my touch, her faint inhale sucking the air from the moment. Is she breathing? I don’t know. Am I? Definitely not.

I look down at my hand. It’s the left one, where I used to wear a gold band, but that ring has been in a jewelry box in my bedroom for years at this point, definitely long enough that I’m more accustomed to seeing myself without it than with it. My fingers are laid over Riley’s denim-covered knee, but there’s a gash in the denim that lets my middle finger actually rest on her soft skin. Goosebumps rise there, and I wonder if it’s from the cool night air or my touch.

I swallow, not sure how to say the words I’ve refused to speak for nine years, but eventually, they come. “Michelle died. Car accident.” My voice is gravelly, the words slow and methodical, as if I’m tasting them, experiencing saying them for the first time. Maybe I am? Surely, I’ve said that sometime over the last nine years to someone? But when I rack my brain, I can’t remember a single time I’ve actually said it.

Mom and Dad told my siblings, with a warning to not bring it up unless I did. At work, Dad prepped everyone, and since then, I’m guessing new hires are warned because no one has ever asked. I don’t know who told our friends, Michelle’s work, or anyone else. Everyone just knew, and I never had to say it. Until now.

“Oh, my God, Cameron,” Riley gasps. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have⁠—”

I reflexively squeeze her knee, and she quiets, stilling her frantic movements once again. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” And somehow, as though saying it over and over makes it so, it is. “It was a long time ago. Sometimes, it feels like a lifetime ago, or maybe just a different lifetime,” I muse. “I don’t talk about it.”

“Of course. You don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked.”

I stare out at the dark night in front of me, and I can almost pretend that I’m alone, no one to hear me. Except I feel Riley beneath my hand. She’s here, she’s real, and she’s hanging on my every word. That should make me shut down, clamp my mouth closed, and avoid this whole conversation the way I have for nine years. But it doesn’t.

Maybe it’s because it’s time. Maybe it’s because it’s her. But for whatever reason, the words come…

“We got married right after I got my MBA. We were twenty-five, and by the time we got home from our honeymoon, she was pregnant with Grace.” I feel the smile lift one side of my lips at the memory of Michelle crying happily while holding up a positive pregnancy test. “We were so excited. It was like everything was going according to plan. And you know how I like a plan.” Even though it’s barely a joke, it still falls flat.

That’s the good part. That’s where it ends.

I close my eyes for a moment, preparing myself to go back to that day, to the pain, knowing it comes with anger, confusion, grief, and even after all this time, love. Because I did love Michelle. I still do, in a way. It’s just different now, like an echo, hollow and remembered more than an active sensation in my heart.

“It was a regular Tuesday. I went to the office, Michelle dropped off Grace at preschool, and on her way to work, she was hit head-on by a truck crossing the median. He was driving into the sun and didn’t realize he was in the wrong lane until it was too late. It was an accident, but she was gone like that.” I snap my fingers. “And I was alone, with Grace to take care of.”

Not wanting to linger in the horror of that day, I mentally move past it, forcing myself to remember the rest. “I blocked out a lot from that first year. I spent too much time drunk and depressed and stumbling around in a fog. I went through all the stages of grief, first drunk and then sober—mad, sad, bargaining, denial, a lot of guilt—and what did it get me? Nothing. She never came back. And now I wouldn’t want her to see what I’ve become—a shell of a man, because I’m empty inside.” I swallow hard, the pain from acknowledging that just as real as if I’d been punched. In a way, that’s what Michelle’s death was—a sucker punch.

“But eventually, I came out of it for Grace. Not quickly enough, but I had to. She needed me. Or maybe I needed her?” I sigh, shrugging because I’m not sure what it was, but I’m glad that I didn’t stay in that dark place any longer than I did. “It was so tempting to drink myself into oblivion to avoid the new reality I found myself in—and for a while, I did just that—but one night, Grace crawled into the bed I’d shared with her mother and touched my face, and in her little-bitty voice, she told me to smile. And I did. It was fake as hell, but I did it. That was the moment I started healing.”

I don’t remember a lot, but I vividly remember holding my little girl as she slept that night. I’d stared at the ceiling, lit by the crack in the bathroom door because she was afraid of the dark back then, and realized that I had to get my shit together. She’d lost her mother. She didn’t deserve to lose her father too.

“Everything changed. The dreams I had of the future, what I hoped and planned for, were gone. Friends drifted away because they didn’t know what to say. My parents and siblings took care of me and Grace… fuck, they still take care of us… basically doing whatever they can to keep us on an even-keel, all the while watching to make sure I don’t fall back into that black hole because Grace is all I have. She’s it for me.”

My throat is rough from everything I’ve said, but I grit out, “Everything I do, it’s for her. Grace first.”

I risk looking at Riley, praying I don’t find pity in her eyes. I hate that look, and it’s become one I’m all too familiar with over the years.

He’s a single father, you know?

Poor girl, only has a dad, no mother.

He spoils that girl rotten like it’ll make up for her mother being dead.

But what I find isn’t pity. It’s understanding. It’s comfort. “I’m sorry, truly. Michelle must’ve been an amazing woman, wife, and mother for you to love her so much. And Grace is doing great, which is because of you, so I’m really glad you found the strength to come out of that dark place for her.”

People often don’t know what to say in the wake of a loss, whether it’s fresh or long past. They want to sidestep it, or minimize it in some way, spouting platitudes like ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ and ‘Everything happens for a reason’, or the worst, ‘They’re in a better place now.’ Every one of those clichés made me angry in the weeks after the accident, when I didn’t feel strong, and there was no good goddamn reason, and Michelle’s place was at home with Grace and me. Honestly, they still piss me off now, sounding like script-filled sympathy cards with lazy attempts at comfort.

But Riley doesn’t say any of that. Instead, her heartfelt words acknowledge that my wife existed, was important to me, and that her loss will always be a wound that doesn’t heal. She soothes the soul-deep doubts that, even though I’m doing the best I can, I’m not doing enough for my daughter, because there’s no denying that Grace would’ve been better off if she’d had her mother all these years. But she is remarkable and I’m proud of whatever small hand I’ve played in that process of whom she’s become.

So I say the only thing I can think of. “Thank you.”

It’s a thank you for listening to me, for not flinching away from the dark ugliness of loss, for not judging me for how I dealt with it in those early days. Mostly, it’s a thank you for just being herself, Riley. Because while she lives in the light and in the moment, she’s been through the dark and has pain in her past too.

“Don’t put too much on Grace, though. She deserves a father who lives, not just exists for her. One day, she’ll grow up and want to spread her wings. You don’t want her to feel trapped because she’s all you have.”

I suck in a painful breath, but it catches in my throat. “That’s not what I’m doing.” Even as I say it, I’m considering whether she’s right.

Riley looks at me, and this time I do see something—sadness. “When my mom died, it felt so unfair because everyone else still had their mothers. I’d see them—at the grocery store, at school, on TV—and I’d ask why they got to have one and I didn’t. I was still so young, at an age when I thought ‘fair’ was a reality that existed for everyone. Mom’s death was my first painful life lesson that fair is imaginary, and nobody’s doling out this and that to everybody on Earth, making sure no one gets more or less than another.” She takes a measured breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly, and her voice is stronger when she continues. “I spent a long time thinking I had to live for Mom, like because her life was cut short, I had to make mine this Massively Important Experience. It made me freeze up for a while, every little decision had this weight, and I couldn’t breathe, much less decide anything.” She stares out over the yard, and I wonder if she’s done. Fuck knows, what she’s said is a lot. But she huffs out a teeny-tiny laugh like she’s remembered something funny amid this awful sadness. “I was trying to pick an outfit for school pictures one time, and mind you, I had all of two nice shirts, and I just couldn’t choose one because I couldn’t decide which would look better blown up as my memorial photo at my funeral if I died before the next round of pictures.”

“Fuck,” I growl. “That’s rough.”

She shrugs it off like that’s not the darkest of dark thoughts for a literal child to have. “There are good things, bad things, and in-the-middle things. You’ve gotta take them all, enjoy them or do your best to get through them, and in the end, try to focus on the good ones as much as you can. Even if you have to create those good things for yourself. That’s what I try to do every day.”

I feel like I learned a whole hell of a lot about Riley from what she just shared. I knew that despite her easy smiles and playfulness, she wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but hearing how deep-rooted her pain is makes the fact that she chooses light and happy as often as she can that much more surprising. There is a powerful beauty in that. In her.

“You don’t merely try. You do that every day.”

A smile blooms slowly across her face, and I feel warm inside for being the one who caused it. I’m not often a smile-bringer the way Riley is, and after the heaviness of our conversation, that she can smile is only further testament to her strength. “Was that a compliment? An honest to goodness, raving review on my awesomeness? I knew you’d come around to the dark side.” She’s teasing lightly, not letting either of us wallow in the bleakness a conversation about death would typically entail, and I appreciate that more than she could possibly know. Well, actually, she probably does know. That’s why she’s doing it.

Magic. That’s what she is. Because I’ve never said any of what I just shared with her, and yet, somehow, I do feel better now that I have. And no one has ever told me anything like what she did, and I will carry that honor with the respect it deserves.

“If you’re the dark side, what does that make me?” I ask, intending it to be rhetorical.

“Responsible,” is Riley’s quick and sure answer. “I’m not dark as in evil, but rather like instant gratification. I bounce from one thing to the next, wanting new experiences and taking every opportunity, because I understand that death is inevitable, and at some point, I won’t get any more chances. So I take advantage of every second I get.” She purses her lips in a tiny smile, and I wonder what adventure she’s remembering. I want to hear about them all, every single story about every single escapade she’s ever had.

“You sound fun, and I sound boring as fuck,” I reply solemnly, and she laughs.

“No, you don’t,” she retorts, playfully bumping my side with her shoulder. “You sound like a good dad, who’s doing the best he can for his daughter. I’m sure Michelle would be proud of you. I am.”

That brings me up short. I’ve never really wondered what Michelle would think about how I’ve parented Grace. We stepped into that role together initially, but in the aftermath, I simply did my best. Admittedly, I haven’t always been good enough, but I’m still trying, every single day.

I smile as I confess, “That means a lot to me.”

“It should. I don’t hand out compliments very often,” she answers, her eyes sparkling as they dance over me, because yes, she does. And somehow, for such a landmine-filled conversation, she’s brought it back to somewhere safer and lighter. But there’s mystery building in her gaze. “You know what you need to do now?”

Fuck. Come hard and long, and probably a few times.

It’s my instant answer, and though I try to dismiss it just as quickly and even pretend I didn’t have the thought, it’s there. Loud and insistent. I’m ashamed to say that sex was a too-often coping mechanism for a while, especially when I laid off the drinking. It’s hard to be sad when you’re mid-fuck, but the rebound after it’s over is a cruel bitch.

Narrowing my eyes, I carefully ask, “What?”

She smiles fully, showing that cute little fang tooth I love to see, and then touches my chest with a single finger. “Tag, you’re it.”

And while I’m sitting here confused as hell, she runs off, zigzagging through the yard while glancing back over her shoulder. I watch her, running and laughing, then stopping to wave at me like ‘come on’ with a bright grin.

My thoughts whirl. Has she gone crazy? I’m a grown adult, one who just shared his biggest and heaviest trauma. I’m certainly not playing tag like a child at recess. The idea is preposterous.

But she could get hurt running around in the dark. She could trip over a rock—not that there are any in the perfectly manicured, artificial turf lawn—or more likely, trip over her own feet because she’s still looking back, trying to gauge whether I’m coming to get her or not.

I cannot believe I’m going to do this.

It’s for her own protection, I tell myself. It has nothing to do with having fun or being silly.

I am neither of those things, and acting as such won’t change that. Still, I switch off the fireplace and feign going for the back door like I’m heading inside. “Good night, weirdo,” I call out. I hear her tiny huff of disappointment and know she’s let down her guard.

And like the expert chess player that I am, that’s when I strike, spinning and giving chase. It takes her a split second to react, but then she jumps and exclaims, “Oh! Shit!”

She runs.

And I chase her.

It’s playful, and to my surprise, it is fun, cleansing tonight of the weight it’s held. But it also fires up a primal instinct I would’ve said I didn’t possess, because I’m not only trying to catch Riley. I’m hunting her, pursuing her around the yard like prey. Prey with jingling bracelets that taunt and excite me, getting louder every time I get close and she pumps her arms to run away faster.

So though we’re huffing and puffing, and laughing as she dashes out of my reach time and time again—which I’m letting her do because I’m enjoying the game—I am rock fucking hard as I reach for her pink hair, watch her curves sway with every step, and enjoy the occasional glances of her mischievous smile in the dim light of the patio.

She stops suddenly, bending forward to put her hands on her knees, and I can hear her panting. I slow, suspicious that it’s a trick. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she gasps. “I just don’t run every day like you do. Me and cardio are not friends.”

I chuckle. I never thought my daily treadmill runs would be training for this, but here I am. “You’re supposed to be the young one. I’m the old guy,” I joke.

Riley snorts a laugh. “You” —she peers up at me, pointing an accusing finger my way— “are not old. But right now, I feel ancient. Turn around.”

Not sure what she’s up to now, I give her my back but look over my shoulder in case she decides to sneak attack me. I wouldn’t put it past her. Hell, it’s basically her MO at this point, given the way she keeps shocking me.

“Good, bend down.”

I recognize the position she’s in and start, but force my smile to stay in place. Riley reaches for my shoulders and then jumps up, landing on my back, and I instinctively catch beneath her knees.

I have given piggyback rides to exactly one person in my entire life—Grace. Until now. And this is nothing like that, because Riley’s legs are wrapped around me, her arms are over my shoulders, and her chest is pressed to my shoulder blades. Most notably, her pussy is warm against my lower back. I shouldn’t notice that, but I definitely do. So does my dick, which surges painfully between my legs.

“Yeehaw, cowboy. Let’s go!” Riley shouts, kicking her feet and bouncing a little like she’s riding a bucking bronco.

I walk stiffly to the house, bending down to let her push the back slider open, and then take her to the bottom of the stairs, where I let her down slowly, carefully—and definitely not memorizing the feel of her breasts skimming over my back.

I can’t face her, not with the situation in my pants, so I stand sideways and say, “Thanks for tonight. I think I needed that more than I thought.”

It’s the truth. Who would’ve thought direct questions, playful games, and blunt honesty would be something I needed? Certainly not me, or likely anyone who knows me.

She ducks her head, almost seeming shy though I know she doesn’t have a timid bone in her body. “You’re welcome. Good night, Cameron.”

When I nod, she begins to walk up the stairs, and the only reason I’m able to force myself to stay there—despite considering both chasing her again or running for the privacy of my bedroom—is because I watch her hips sway left and right with every step. At the top, she waves down at me, then disappears around the corner.

I sprint for my room, needing to release immediately. I rip my clothes off while the shower is still heating up and step into the water’s spray. I don’t bother with soap, just grip myself tightly to stroke my length hard and fast.

I should think about my wife, but I don’t. I could think about one of the women I’ve had sex with over the years or a celebrity, but I don’t do that either.

No, while I fuck my hand, I only think of one woman. Riley Stefano, the damn nanny that I can’t touch and shouldn’t want, but do.

I imagine chasing her around the yard, throwing her to the ground, and fucking her rough with the stars above us.

I imagine bending her over the kitchen counter and taking her from behind with one hand tangled in that soft, messy hair of hers and the other gripping her lush hip so hard that I’d leave fingerprints in the flesh there.

I imagine the hand wrapped around my cock is hers and pretend I can hear the jangling music her bracelets would make as she strokes me.

And when cum spurts over my hand in seconds, I grit my teeth so I don’t say her name.

Once upon a time, I learned how your entire life can change in a single day, or sometimes in a single moment. That time, it was when I lost Michelle and my life took a sharp left turn into something I never thought I’d survive. There was a distinct before and after.

And now, I woke up this morning thinking it would be like any other day. But when I catch my breath from coming so forcefully and realize that I’m still rock hard and wanting to go again, I know that today is another sharp turn in my life. This morning, I thought Riley was a good nanny for my daughter. And now… well, I think she’s the biggest threat to my stability that I’ve ever met.