Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 19

“You two ready?” I call up the stairs, looking at my watch again. We need to be in the car in five minutes or less if we’re going to make it for the dance’s start. I always run on time, but we especially need to be timely tonight because the kids are walking down a red carpet and getting their photos taken by a professional photographer before entering the actual dance.

“Coming, Dad!” Grace answers, then I hear giggling and a whispered, “No, you go first!”

A smile finds my lips as the anticipation of seeing what Grace and Riley have put together grows.

They’ve been gone all day, getting their nails done and having lunch with Mom and the rest of the women in my family, and when they got home this afternoon, they bolted upstairs before I could see them, claiming they had to start getting dressed immediately. Meanwhile, I spent the whole day staring at my laptop, mostly pretending to work, while I worried how my family was treating Riley and wondered what she thought of all of them. Thankfully, both Kayla and Mom texted me, giving their enthusiastic thumbs-up to Riley. I’d love to say that I don’t care about their opinions, but it’d be a lie. I very much care, especially since I feel like an ass for the way I’ve been treating Riley this week.

It’s not her fault my grip on my restraint is tenuous at best.

But all week, I’ve punished her—stomping around, slamming doors, and barely doing more than grunting at her. I’ve been an ass, especially since what I’ve wanted to do is take her in my arms and tell her that she’s making me question everything I’ve ever planned. Which is downright terrifying.

I think Riley would laugh outright if I told her that she scares me, but she absolutely does.

“Ready?” Riley asks, sounding like she’s right at the top of the stairs, but she’s still out of sight.

“Not at all,” I mutter truthfully. Louder, I say, “Yes, let’s go.”

She takes my breath away the instant she appears. Riley is wearing a satiny ivory dress that skims over her curves to just below her knees. The square neckline frames a stack of chunky necklaces and the sheer puffy sleeves end in buttoned satin bands several inches above her wrists, giving her room for plenty of bracelets. The dress is classic and tasteful, but she’s made it her own with her jewelry, her pink hair, and the boots she affectionately calls her ‘Docs’.

Wait… I check again… yes, she’s wearing clunky boots with the dress. There’s a circle of lace peeking out at the top of the black leather, so at least she has on fancy stockings with them.

She smiles hesitantly as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, and I realize I’ve stared gobsmacked for too long, and she thinks there’s something wrong. I rush to say, “You are stunning, Riley.”

I truly mean it. I can’t believe I once thought her fashion choices were too much or odd because now, they seem perfectly… Riley, and I can’t imagine her any other way. It’d be too quiet without her musically jangling bracelets, natural hair colors seem so bland and boring, and something off-the-rack would be too expected. She’s loud, exciting, and completely unpredictable… and I love that.

Shit. No, that’s not what I meant. I like that. That’s all.

“Oh,” she stammers, clearly relieved. “Thank you.” Her eyes light up, showing how pleased she is by the simple compliment, and I feel like even more of a jerk for treating her so poorly all week.

“I’m sorry—” I start to say, but Grace appears at the top of the stairs, drawing both our attention. My apologies will have to wait.

“Wow, honey! You look beautiful,” I tell my daughter.

Her blue dress reminds me of a Disney princess, with a corset-inspired bodice and skirt that puffs out in a ballgown sort of way but only reaches her knees. I can see the hints of Riley’s handiwork in the oversized ribboned bows added to the straps, and as she comes down the stairs, she’s stepping carefully in her low heels, which are silver, also leaning into the Cinderella vibe.

“Riley helped me with the bows! Do you like them?” Grace fingers the velvet ribbon at her shoulder as she looks from me to Riley.

“I do. They’re the perfect touch.”

The corners of my eyes start to burn with the threat of tears, though I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe because choosing a dress and getting ready for a dance is something Grace should’ve done with Michelle? But Grace doesn’t seem the slightest bit sad that she’s missed that moment with her mother amid the countless other ones she’s had to share with only me, and now this one, she shared with Riley.

“You two look like a bride and groom,” Grace says, laughing as she points at us.

Holding my hands out, I look down and realize that in my black slacks, black dress shirt, and black shoes, and Riley in her ivory satin dress, Grace is right. The idea is jarring, but my daughter gives me no time to process it, suddenly saying, “Let’s go!” before jumping and clumsily attempting to run for the garage. She stops after only a few steps, though, her ankles wobbling in the heels she’s not used to wearing. “Whoa. Walking it is,” she says, holding her arms out to the sides to help balance against her ungraceful stumbling.

I look at Riley, who looks shell-shocked herself at Grace’s comparison of us to cake toppers, and hold out a hand, gesturing for her to go first. Gentlemanly? No. Apparently, I’m a masochist now because it’s specifically so I can watch her walk in front of me, her ass swinging left and right, as I imagine something completely different than our merely going to a school dance as chaperones.

Instead, as I help Riley slip into her coat, I’m picturing us… together.

“What the hell is this crap?” I hiss under my breath.

Since she’s standing right next to me, Riley hears, even with the too-loud music. “Sabrina Carpenter,” she informs me with a smirk. “Please, Please, Please. Look, there’s a routine.”

She points to a group of middle school girls who are all doing the same moves, but what I see are the herd of boys who’re watching closely. Too closely. Involuntarily, my feet start to step their way. I’m thinking they need some encouragement to get some punch or something, anything that stops them from leering at their classmates. But Riley lays a hand on my arm, stopping me.

“They’re fine.”

I disagree, but I grit my teeth, staying put. At least here, I get to stand with Riley. I’m not sure I’d want to leave her alone, anyway, given the way the other parents and school staff have been eyeing her… and me. I’m not stupid. I know gossip has already begun working through the adults in attendance tonight. Riley doesn’t look like the typical nanny and I’m definitely not the typical single parent, so put us together, and we’re fodder for the rumor mill. Riley seems oblivious to it, though, or if she has noticed the uptick in whispered conversations since she placed her hand on my arm, quite obviously bossing me around, she doesn’t give a fuck about it.

I wish I could say the same.

“Chaperones are supposed to keep the kids from doing anything stupid,” I inform her testily. It’s not exactly what the email listing out the expectations said, but it’s pretty close.

“They’re not doing anything stupid,” she counters. “They’re dancing and having a good time.”

“Not the girls,” I say, realizing she thinks I was going to stop the group doing the choreography. “The boys.” I narrow my eyes, glaring their way, and one of the boys startles hard when I catch his eye.

Riley laughs. “They’re fine too. Some people dance, some people watch. No different than a club or party or gala. You’ve been to those, right? Maybe twirled around the floor?” She doesn’t give me a chance to answer, immediately saying, “Didn’t think so.”

She’s wrong. I’ve danced at many a party and quite a few galas. Mom made sure all of us could, going so far as forcing us to take lessons for a little while. It was an expectation, and we all met it. Instead of telling Riley that, I press my lips together tighter so I don’t ask her to dance simply to prove that I can.

Because holding Riley in my arms is a slippery slope into dangerous territory, and stupidly, it’s also something I desperately want. I know it’s completely illogical and makes less than zero sense, but Riley has awakened something inside me that I thought was long dead. Something I want—wanted?—to stay dead.

“Fix your face,” Riley orders, her tone teasing. “You’re scaring the kids.”

With a start, I realize I’m downright scowling. I swallow harshly and slowly force my lips to turn up into something that likely resembles a manic grimace more than an actual smile. “How’s that?” I ask.

Riley laughs quietly, amused. “Awful, but at least you tried.” Her brutal honesty does bring an actual smile to my face, and she returns it with a supportive nod. “There you go.” With a happy sigh, she looks around the room, and I follow her lead, feeling slightly less violent.

“I spy, with my little eye, something… orange.”

Confused, I ask dumbly, “What?” Though she doesn’t look at me, even in her profile, I can see the hint of mischief on her face. It takes a second, but I realize what she’s doing. She’s distracting me, entertaining me, and giving me something to focus on other than the people around us. There’s just one problem—nearly everything in this room is orange because it’s the Fall Ball. “The leaves?”

“Nope, try again.”

“Pumpkin?”

“Which one?”

“Seriously? There’s like fifty of them. Is it a pumpkin or not?”

She shakes her head, her pink hair swishing back and forth, and grins even wider. Probably because I’m going along with the game and because she’s stumped me, but I’m a competitive guy and I’ll figure out what specific orange thing she has in mind, sooner or later. “The punch? The cookies? That guy’s tie?”

“No, no, and no way,” she informs me gleefully. “Keep trying.”

It ends up being the twinkle lights on the DJ’s stand, but she’s done something impossible once again. She’s made standing here like statues… fun.

“Do you think Grace is okay?” I ask after a few rounds of the game. While I’ve been looking for things that are orange (the lights), twisty (the arch of bentwood branches), and then round (the basketball hoop that’s pressed up against the school gym’s ceiling), I’ve kept one eye on Grace. She’s hanging out with Bella and Trinity, dancing and snacking and chatting, and thankfully, Hannah is nowhere in sight.

Admittedly, I was hoping to see Amelia so I could have a little conversation about what’s been happening right under our noses with our daughters, but she doesn’t seem to be here. Though Hannah is. I’ve had to hold back my fiercest snarl and restrain myself from having a fatherly talk with her about her recent behavior.

“She’s great. Look at her,” Riley answers, pointing at Grace.

My daughter is dancing happily, her velvet bows bouncing in time to her movements, with a bright smile on her face. I watch as she leans in, listening to Bella say something in her ear, and she nods. As a group, the three girls move in unison toward the punch table. She is doing great, and we have Riley to thank for that.

“Thank you,” I say, not intending to speak the words aloud.

Turning surprised eyes to me, Riley asks, “For what?”

“For…” Helping Grace. Saving me. Being who you are. I’m not sure what to say, so I summarize it all into one word. “Everything.”

“It’s my pleasure. I love Grace.” She swallows quickly, and I wonder what else she was about to say.

“Riley, about this week… I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole. I’ve been thinking a lot and⁠—”

“Oh, my gosh, Dad! You’ll never believe what I just overheard!” Grace exclaims, coming up and interrupting me. “Ms. Flanders told Mrs. Vanderlicker that she’s going to dance with you for the Chaperone Dance.”

I have no idea what Grace is talking about, or who Ms. Flanders is, but given the look of horror on my daughter’s face, it’s someone I definitely don’t want to dance with.

The only person I want to dance with is Riley.

“Alright, kids, clear the dance floor for the old folks,” the DJ says over the microphone. “Let them show you how it’s done, old-school style.”

“DAD!” Grace whisper-screams. Then her eyes bounce to Riley and I can see the idea blooming in her mind, clear as day. “You two, start dancing. Now!”

She shoves me at Riley and instinctively, my arms go around her waist and I pull her toward me. “Uh, would you like to dance?” I say, laughing at the unexpected situation.

“I’d love to,” Riley purrs, sounding formal and silly all at the same time, like she’s mimicking a Bridgerton affect.

I adjust my grip on her body, taking a more traditional ballroom stance with my left hand holding hers and my right lightly on her lower back, and begin moving us to the slow song. She follows my lead easily and feels so right in my arms.

A blink later, a brunette woman who I’m assuming is Ms. Flanders because I have no idea who that is, stops beside us. Her lips are puffed out in what I’m sure she thinks is a cute pout, but mostly, she looks like she’s had too much lip filler. “I was going to ask you to dance, Cameron,” she informs me, making it sound like I should be grateful for the opportunity and should now throw Riley aside in favor of her.

“I’m dancing with Riley,” I tell her coldly, spinning away from the brunette. I feel Riley’s hand move from my shoulder and glance down to find her waving two little fingers at the other woman with a smug look on her face. “Bitchy looks good on you, when it’s warranted.”

“Oh!” Riley sobers, looking scolded.

To hide my own smirk, I lean down to whisper in her ear. “You are the only woman I wanted to dance with, so you have every right to act a bit territorial. Especially when you and my daughter saved me from the clutches of that gold digger.”

Because I remember Ms. Flanders now. She went through a divorce a few years ago and was throwing herself at every dad at the school, married or not, in an attempt to find a favorable position for herself. As a single dad, I was her prime target, and after several polite no-thank-yous, I’d resorted to clinically cold nos, and once, a threat of going to the dean. Thankfully, that had sent her scurrying to find another mark.

I sway Riley in time with the music, letting the rhythm lead us in a small circle at the edge of the floor. I’m sure people are watching us, but I don’t care. My entire focus is the woman pressed against me so tightly that I’m sure she can feel the effect she has on me. How could she not? I’m hard and growing harder with every beat of the music, every sway of her hips, every rise and fall of her chest. Thank goodness it’s dark in the school gym and I’m wearing black slacks or everyone would know what she does to me.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Mr. Harrington,” Riley teases when I twirl her out and then bring her back in smoothly.

I’m honestly not sure if she means the dancing or my dick.

“You have no idea.”

That’s the truth. I have been holding out on her, and on myself. Denying my desire, rejecting my picturesque fantasies of what if I could have her, and pretending that I could keep everything status quo and be fine.

I’m not sure I can do that much longer. I’m at the end of my rope and my fingers are slipping, wanting desperately to touch Riley, to feel the silk of her skin and the warmth of her pussy.

The song ends too soon, and breathless, we step back to the side of the dancefloor. I want to wrap my arm around her shoulders so I can keep touching her, but my duties as chaperone win out for the moment, though I stand as close as I can get while still being reasonably appropriate.

Riley has no compunction for rules and pulls on my arm to bring me down so she can whisper in my ear. “Thank you for that. I’ve never been to a school dance, and now I’ve been to one and danced with the most handsome man there.” She makes a check in the air, like she’s marking items off her bucket list.

School dance… check.

Handsome man… check.

Happy… always a check for her.

When she pulls away from me, I keep looking at her. It’s too dark to be sure, but I think she’s blushing at the casual revelation.

I keep forgetting that she has lived a life of want because she doesn’t see it that way at all. She’s appreciative of every experience and makes the most of every moment, reminding me to do the same.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole all week,” I blurt out, finally getting a chance to apologize.

She curls her chin into her shoulder and bats her lashes at me. “It’s okay. I scare you, so you’re lashing out.”

She’s not wrong. But… “You don’t have to accept that behavior from me. You have every right to call me on my bullshit.”

She turns to face me fully, her eyes narrowed. “You sure about that?”

I nod once, thinking I’m ready for whatever she’s got. Fuck, I want it. Her insight, her truth, her story… her. Whatever I can get.

She licks her lips, like she’s deciding on what to say, which terrifies me because Riley doesn’t pre-plan what she’s going to say. She speaks off the cuff, always, sometimes just as surprised by the things that come out of her mouth as whoever she’s speaking to. But instead of berating me, she takes my hand and drags me out of the gym, into the hallway, where it’s quieter. All the kids are inside dancing and the chaperones overseeing, so it’s just the two of us as she tells me what she really thinks.

“You get one life.” She holds up a single, blue-tipped finger. “And you owe it to yourself to live it fully, not on autopilot the way you’ve been doing, or worse, fighting the joy you could experience.” She pins me with a look, clearly aware that that’s what I’ve been doing all week—fighting what’s right in front of me. Her. “Right now, the example you’re setting for Grace is that life isn’t worth living, it’s only worth surviving.”

I wasn’t ready.

For any of this. Her words that pierce me to the core, her body and my response to it, and most of all, her mind and the way it sees things I’d rather hide from the light. In her defense, she was letting me do that until I pushed her and basically demanded that she tell me.

I want to run. I want to rage. I want…

To kiss her.

That one wins out because it’s what I’ve been fighting the most.

I step in close, her back landing against the brick wall as a gasp escapes her parted lips. Some tiny piece of me wants her to tell me no. A much larger piece wants her to lift her chin and give in to this.

To let me in. To let me explore, not only her mouth but this thing I’m feeling, no matter how wrong it may be.

I cup her face in my hands, my nose mere inches away from hers. My grip is too rough but she doesn’t seem to mind. Actually, I think she arches into my touch. And then slowly, I press my lips to hers.

It’s not fireworks and shooting stars. It’s the welcome heat of a fireplace on a cold night. It’s the swoopy colors of the Northern Lights spread across the whole sky. It’s… home.

I move my mouth, and she responds in kind, letting me lead. Always letting me lead, like that’s all she deserves. But she deserves everything.

And so do I.

All the things I decided long ago weren’t for me. Not again, not anymore. Maybe I do deserve happiness even after loss? It feels like I do. Riley certainly feels like she belongs in my hands, against my body, sharing my breath as she gives me hers.

I slip my tongue past her lips, tasting her deeper, and feel her fingers curl against my chest, gripping my shirt in her fists. She wants me as much as I want her.

I’m not the only who’s been fighting what’s right in front of them. She’s been fighting this too. But whereas my battle has been selfish, denying myself in some misguided attempt at loyalty and propriety, Riley’s war has been on my behalf. She’s fought her own desires to give me time to come to terms with this, knowing that I needed to suffer through nights tossing and turning while I dreamt of her and agonize over every possible angle of the situation to make peace with it. Which I’ve done, and there’s only one conclusion…

She’s not Mary Poppins, but she’s magic, plain and simple. Because she’s brought me to life.

Need surges up inside me, and I grind my hips against her, the friction doing little to alleviate the deep desire to be inside her.

“Mr. Harrington!” an authoritative voice announces.

I come back to myself, time restarting in a loud, whooshing roar in my ears. Reluctantly, I pull back as Riley rushes to push me away, swiping her lips to fix the lipstick I didn’t realize she was wearing.

I turn to see a gray-haired woman in sensible pumps standing with her hands on her hips as she glares at me and Riley. “Mrs. Vanderlicker…” I clear my throat, “I mean, Vanderfielder.”

She harrumphs, not pleased with either my name slipup or what I’m doing. Honestly, I get it. The kids make fun of her name because she has a tendency to suck up to the dean, hence a play on bootlicker. And as for my behavior, Riley and I are making out like teenagers in the hallway of my daughter’s school, where anyone could see us. Neither are appropriate actions for chaperones.

“I apologize. I got a bit carried away.”

“It would seem so.” Her frown probably makes students tremble in fear, but I’m no student and I’ve held my own against much more formidable foes than a middle school math teacher.

“If you’ll excuse us, we’ll get back to the dance.” I take Riley’s hand, intending to lead her back to the gym, but that plan is thwarted too.

“Dad! Riley! There you are!” Grace’s voice echoes in the hall as she busts through the gym doors. A mere thirty seconds earlier and she would’ve discovered me and Riley kissing, so I shoot Mrs. Vanderfielder a glance of mild appreciation. She purses her lips judgmentally, and I change my gaze to something more akin to a warning to keep her mouth shut on what she saw.

Riley pulls her hand from mine as Grace tippy-tap runs up to us, apparently having found a way to be quick without falling in her heels, accompanied by her two new BFFs. “Bella’s mom said we can stay at her house tonight, so I’m going home with them. Okay? Please, please, please.” She clasps her hands beneath her chin and bats her lashes as she pleads.

Bella nods, encouraging me to agree to this new plan.

“You need an overnight bag,” I say, clicking into parenting mode in a blink.

Grace shakes her head. “Bella said me and Trinity can borrow T-shirts to sleep in. I’ll call you in the morning when I’m ready to come home.”

I haven’t said yes, but Grace is acting like I already have. Bella and Trinity are too, grinning widely.

Done with me and the presumed permission, Grace asks Riley, “Did you see me dance with Liam?” She stomps her feet and mimes screaming, her hands on her cheeks and mouth open wide. “It was iconic.”

“I thought you didn’t even like him?” Riley says, quoting Grace, I presume, given the tone and addition of a dramatic eye roll.

“Well, maybe a little,” Grace confesses. She holds her finger and thumb up a solid inch apart.

“More like a lot,” Trinity corrects. All three girls dissolve into giggles I don’t understand.

“No boys,” I declare, not liking the sound of this at all. “Especially the jerk who was rating girls on SnapChat.”

Grace sighs, acting like what I’ve said is the pinnacle of ridiculousness. “He wasn’t rating girls. Hannah asked him to and he said I was hot. That’s not the same thing, Dad.”

“Semantics,” I counter. “I don’t like that he called you ‘hot’. He should like you for your mind, and your spirit, and your heart.”

Even Riley is laughing now.

I know when I’m outnumbered, outmanned, and outwitted, so with a long-suffering sigh, I wave a hand. “Fine, you can go to Bella’s, but I need to talk to her mom first. Where is she?”

“By the punch,” Bella informs me. “I’ll show you.”