Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 13

“Are you sure about this?” I ask Grace, searching her face.

This is a sleepover at Hannah’s house. After wearing braids to school, Grace swears that she and Hannah are fine. Apparently, Hannah called the braids ‘cute’, and that’s all it takes to get back in my daughter’s good graces. I’m not such an easy sale, though.

Her brows wrinkle together and she frowns. “Yeah, we’re gonna watch movies, learn a new TikTok dance, play with makeup, and have ice cream for dinner.”

“And who all will be there?”

I already know the answer, but it’s good to ask repeatedly on the off-chance the answer changes, even slightly. And yes, I learned that from a parenting book. I started reading a new one because Riley’s thoughts on my daughter’s best friend have stuck with me, and I’m wondering if there’s something I might’ve missed over the last year.

“Hannah, of course. Me, Megan, Trinity, and Bella.”

“Which Bella?” There are three in Grace’s grade, plus several more in the school.

“Bella Wilcox, the one who plays piano.”

I nod, appreciative of the reminder because I’m not sure I could tell you Bella’s last name, but I do remember the girl who played Golden Hour at last year’s talent show because the crowd had gone crazy and I didn’t even know the song. “Okay, call me if you need anything, and I’ll pick you up in the morning after breakfast.”

She leans my way for a forehead kiss, and I tell her, “I love you. Have fun.”

“’Kay! You and Riley have fun too! Love you!” She bolts from the car but calls back, “Bye, Dad!”

I watch as she rings the bell, dances from side to side as she waits impatiently, and is then greeted by a mass of other girls who screech happily as they absorb her into their group. Hannah’s mother, Amelia, appears at the open door, smiling as she looks between the kids and me. The first time the girls had a sleepover, I’d basically tortured her, grilling her with questions and what-if scenarios, and had still almost left with Grace because I just couldn’t leave her with someone other than family. Amelia had been patient but finally told me that the girls would be fine if I’d let them be. It’d been a gentle rebuff and our relationship as the annoying, but necessary parentals of the girls was cemented.

Maybe I should talk to her about Hannah’s comment? She wouldn’t be okay with it, I know that for sure. I almost put the car in park, but Riley’s words come back to me. I need to let Grace handle this. She’s capable, and learning, but she also knows I’ll support her if she needs help. So I wave to Amelia and drive away.

When Grace asked if she could go to Hannah’s for a sleepover, I hadn’t really considered the full scope of what that would mean. But when she said for me and Riley to have fun, it’d hit me—Riley and I will be alone in the house all night.

Alarm bells are going off in my head. And in my pants.

Get it together, Harrington.

It’s her night off. She probably won’t even want to have dinner together. Or sit on the patio and drink tea. Or sneak off to my bedroom and fuck on the expanse of my king-size bed, where her pink hair would stand out in stark relief against the white sheets, for the next fourteen hours, give or take.

As I walk in the house, the smells of garlic and tomatoes surround me and I follow my nose to the kitchen, where I find Riley. Quietly, I watch her for a moment.

She’s wearing her usual combat boots and her leopard print skirt is painted over her ass, but it swooshes out from her knees to mid-calf. Her pink T-shirt matches her hair and is thankfully not too cropped because I don’t know if I could withstand a peek at her belly tonight. I definitely couldn’t handle that fucking cat T-shirt, so I’m glad she didn’t go for a kitty theme with the patterned skirt. Her hair is down and shaggy, with little chunks randomly flipping out here and there, and her bracelets are jangling as she moves.

In front of her, on the stove, there’s pasta boiling in one pot, but she’s using the spoon as a microphone, singing into it with passion. “H-O-T-T-O-G-O!” On another burner, a pot of what looks like a good marinara sauce is simmering on low, and there are two plates already set on the island. She’s made us dinner.

It’s sweet. It’s trouble. For both of us. But somehow, I’m smiling at the scene before me.

I can do this. It’s just a dinner. Like all the others we’ve had together.

Except Grace isn’t here. And I need that buffer. Desperately.

“Hi.”

“I wondered when you were gonna quit lurking like a creeper and say something,” Riley teases, not even turning around. I’ve seen the way she watches behind her in the window’s reflection over the sink, like she’s perpetually on high alert, and I’ve wondered what in her life has made her feel that vulnerable, even in the safety of her home. But there’s nothing reflective over the stove. Yet, she still knew I was here.

“Didn’t want to interrupt your acapella karaoke,” I deadpan. She whirls, the brilliant idea sparkling in her eyes and her grin already wide with excitement, and I instantly shut it down. I have to. I can’t risk being upstairs in the media room with her, where it’s dark, private, with a long, comfortable couch where I could easily lay her out to feast on her body. “No karaoke tonight. I need to work.”

She deflates instantly, her lips turning down into a pout that I want to kiss away.

“Sorry, duty calls,” I tell her apologetically, making it sound like I really would rather be singing karaoke with her.

The truth is, I don’t have any work that requires my attention tonight. There are always things to be done, because it’s a never-ending hamster wheel at Blue Lake, but I make it a point to find a work-life balance that doesn’t turn me into a workaholic like my father has always been. I admire what he’s created corporately, but as far as family goes, he was a shitty father to most of my siblings and I would die before I let Grace think that about me.

Tonight, work is simply an easy excuse to get away from Riley and the temptation I’m not sure I’m strong enough to withstand.

“Do you at least have time to eat?” she asks, hope in her voice. “Or should I make you a plate to take to your office?”

I let my eyes lick over her face—her doe eyes rimmed with sharp, black liner, her upturned nose with the cute little hoop, and her full lips slightly lifted at the corners like she’s anticipating my answer. I should say that I don’t have time and run for the safety and sanctuary of my office. What comes out of my mouth is…

“I have a minute.”

“Awesome!” She makes a spaghetti dinner with me sound like the best part of her day.

She whirls again, pulling the pasta from the stove and carrying it to the sink, where there’s a colander waiting. “Here, let me,” I offer. Instinctively, I take the heavy pot from her, but that puts us so close that our hips bump into each other. “Sorry,” I mutter. She doesn’t move away the way I expect her to. No, she stays right next to me, overseeing what I’m doing like I don’t know how to pour spaghetti into a colander. To be fair, I do splash a bit, but that’s not because I’m inept. It’s because my focus is on her, not the boiling hot water.

As soon as I’m done, she takes the pasta back and dumps it back in the pot, then adds the sauce there. “This,” she says, “is called mantecare and is the best way to make pasta.”

I watch as she stirs the flexible noodles into the sauce, then adds some olive oil and parmesan cheese. “What’s wrong with the normal way?”

“Plain pasta noodles with sauce slapped on top?” Riley offers back, and I nod. “This way is better,” she declares, sounding as confident as any top Italian chef, and I believe her implicitly, but then she smirks as she leans toward me to reveal, “Before you ask, I learned it from cable cooking shows.”

I can’t help but chuckle because I totally trusted that her culinary experience cooking for kids had led to her creating the best spaghetti in existence. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me at all because I’m almost unsurprised by all her revelations at this point.

Together, we finish plating the pasta and pour two glasses of red wine and sit at the island. We automatically take our usual seats, which leaves one between us where Grace typically sits. Even empty, the buffer is appreciated.

“What are you doing tonight?” I hear myself ask as we start eating. Damn, she’s right, the pasta’s a lot better this way. But I wish I hadn’t said anything because whatever she answers is only going to be fodder for my fantasies when I’m locked away in my office.

Washing her hair? I could run my hands through it, cupping her face as I feed her my dick.

Laundry? Strip down and let me memorize the parts of your body I haven’t seen.

Watching a movie? Laying her out on the couch comes to mind again. I could eat her out while she watches some pointless rom-com.

Packaging her thrifted items for tomorrow’s trip to the post office? Okay, all I’m getting there are some freaky ideas about things to do with packing tape.

But the point stands. I don’t need anything that’ll get me more riled up than I already am.

“I need to paint my nails,” she answers, distracted as she looks at the pink polish.

An image of her hand, complete with chipped pink polish and a ridiculous number of bracelets, wrapped around my dick, stroking me fast and tight, pops to mind. I shift on the stool, trying to will my dick not to respond. It laughs at me, growing harder, and finally, I have to lay my napkin in my lap in an attempt to hide the damn traitorous appendage. I’d threaten to punish it later, but I think that’s exactly what it’s hoping for.

“Sounds fun. What color are you thinking?” I could smack myself on the forehead for asking such a stupid, banal question, but it’s all I could come up with no blood flow in my brain. Hoping for some carb-spiration, I shove a too-big forkful of spaghetti into my mouth.

“Pink or black. Those are the only two I have, so I usually rotate between them.” She shrugs like she hasn’t decided yet as she takes a bite of her dinner. “Maybe both?”

I don’t know a lot about women, but only having two polishes sounds… odd? Mom always had a whole drawerful of them, and growing up, Kayla used them all. Michelle had at least a dozen, and I think Grace has at least that many too. But Riley isn’t the least bit concerned about what some would consider a lack. She’s happy with so little.

It makes me feel a little ashamed because I know I’m giving her so little too. A little taste of family, of home, of me. But that’s all I have to give.

Except…

“Mom takes all the girls—Grace, Janey, Kayla, Luna, Samantha, Dani—for manicures pretty regularly. I’m sure she’d love for you to go with them next time.” Mom makes it a point to be a good mom, grandmother, and mother-in-law to all the women in our family and routinely spends time with each woman individually and in groups, finding and creating those deep family attachments.

Riley’s eyes jump to mine, and I can see the eagerness there, along with the surprise at being included and the yearning for that sort of connection. But almost as quickly, shutters slam down and though she smiles politely, she declines. “That’s okay. It sounds like a family thing.”

I make the instant decision to tell Mom to arrange an outing and put the whole damn spa day on my credit card. It’d be a small price to pay to make Riley smile and feel the Harringtons’ special brand of fucked-up affection. Although it’s risky because it might be enough to send her running for the hills. Especially Kayla and Mom together. Though Samantha and Dani aren’t much better, with crazy shit coming out of their mouths, sometimes loudly and at the same time. Luna and Janey are sweet, though. I know Riley and Janey get along, so I’m pretty sure she’d like Luna too.

“I’ll talk to Mom,” I declare, and Riley presses her lips together, fighting to hide a smile, but I can see it dancing in her eyes. “How was Janey today?”

Riley has gone over to Cole and Janey’s nearly every day this week, spending at least an hour or two helping out. Sometimes, she goes while Grace is at school, and sometimes, if Grace doesn’t have a lesson, they’ll go together after school, usually stopping for one of the weekly Starbucks trips.

“Better,” she gushes. “Emmett’s cluster feeding seems to be slowing down, and just in time, because his first tooth popped through today. Janey started bawling about how fast time is passing and saying she can’t believe that he’s already four months old.”

“Time does fly,” I agree.

“That’s why we have to make the most of it,” Riley adds sagely.

It sounds suggestive as fuck to my on-edge desire, like she’s outright proposing we take advantage of having the house to ourselves. But Riley’s casually eating her dinner like she didn’t mean anything by it and it’s just a catchy phrase of advice she threw out, unwitting to the way it’d sound.

I have to get out of here. I’m losing whatever grip on my restraint I might’ve had walking into the house tonight. Imagining Riley in all sorts of positions, wanting to introduce her to my family at large, and taking off-hand remarks as sexual invitations.

And while I’m about to say fuck it and try to fuck her, she’s entirely unbothered, thinking we’re just having a nice chill dinner. Well, I am anything but chill tonight.

I swallow a wad of spaghetti, nearly clearing my plate, and gulp down the glass of red wine she poured for me.

“Speaking of time, I should get to work.”

“Oh, yeah.” I can hear the disappointment in her tone and have to grit my teeth not to take it back.

I can’t let myself be swayed by the small pout on her lips. This is for her own good. And mine. And Grace’s most of all, I remind myself.

Grace likes Riley and wants her to be her nanny. Ergo, I can’t fuck her, no matter how much my dick argues that point. It’s not right. I can’t fuck an employee, and I can’t fuck a twenty-five-year-old woman. Twelve additional trips around the sun on my part tells me that much for sure. I can’t… won’t… take advantage that way. Especially when Riley’s been dealt a shitty deck from the get-go. I don’t want to be one more thing that hurts her, because even though she does a great job of dealing with everything, she shouldn’t have to deal with it to begin with.

I stand up, picking up my plate, but Riley stops me by placing her hand on my forearm. I swear her fingers curl at the contact like she wants to grab me, but that’s probably my stupid imagination getting carried away again. “Leave it, I’ll take care of it. You have work to do.”

I shouldn’t. She’s not working tonight. And she made dinner, so the least I can do is clean up. But like the coward I am, I nod. “Thanks.”

I only make it halfway down the hall toward my office before I’m cupping myself. But I can’t keep doing this, jacking off with thoughts of Riley in my head. She fills my morning sessions, and too often, the evening ones too. So, with a growl, I turn to the one thing I know will help and pour myself a scotch, downing it in one swallow.

Then, I pour another and sit at my desk. Work always distracts me, and hopefully, tonight will be no different.