Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 24

“Holy shit!” Riley exclaims, and immediately, both hands cover her mouth. From behind her palms, she mutters, “Sorry, but… holy shit!” Her eyes stare out the front windshield, and in the backseat, Grace starts laughing at Riley’s curse word-filled outburst.

It’s completely expected, given she’s seeing my family home for the first time. It’s obnoxiously huge, with a sweeping staircase up to a double-door entrance, an artificial turf front yard that’s bright green despite the season, and a ridiculous statue-filled fountain in the front.

“It’s pretty big, huh?” Grace giggles. “But it’s just MeeMaw H’s and PawPaw H’s house. There’s a pool, a pool table, and a movie room too.”

“Well, silly me, I forgot my swimsuit… considering it’s November,” Riley jokes dryly.

“Oh, the pool’s heated. We can swim year-round,” Grace corrects, not catching the sarcasm at all. To her, this really is just her grandparents’ home, nothing unusual about it in the slightest.

As I park, I turn my head toward Riley. Her gaze is still drawn to the massive display of ridiculous wealth in front of her. There are so many questions visible on her face, and I move to reassure her. “You already met my mom and all the women in my family, plus Cole, who’s the hardest to win over. It’ll be fine.”

I hope I’m right. My other brothers aren’t exactly walks in the park, but Cole is definitely the least civilized of us all, and having him on Riley’s side—plus me, obviously—will serve her well if anyone tries to give her a hard time.

I shouldn’t worry, though, because Riley has the biggest cheerleader of all on her side. Grace. My daughter grabs Riley’s hand as soon as they’re out of the car and very nearly drags her to the front door. She doesn’t bother knocking but rather swings the door open wide and announces, “MeeMaw! We’re here!”

No matter how many zeroes are in our combined bank accounts, at the end of the day, we’re just family, and at Grace’s shout, everyone comes hustling into the foyer to meet the newcomer who’s sent me reeling. Luckily, it’s Mom at the front of the pack, probably because no one is willing to risk running her over.

“Riley, dear… I’m so glad you came,” Mom tells her warmly while simultaneously wrapping her in a hug.

“Thank you for having me,” Riley replies. “Your home is so…”

“Gaudy,” Kyle suggests loud enough for everyone to hear.

Riley flinches and rushes to finish her sentence. “I was going to say lovely.”

Mom pats her hand with an easy smile. “Ignore him. In fact, ignore all of the boys. They’ve been riled up since Cam said he was bringing you. I’m afraid he’s got some reaping of what he’s sown coming.” Mom flashes me a quick look of warning before returning to her hostess duties, taking Riley’s coat. “Cameron, would you like to do the honors?” she prompts me, making me feel like I’m a stupid teenager again who needs coaching on the basic rules of civilized society.

“Riley, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Riley. Kyle, fuck off.” He laughs so at least she knows which one he is. But to be sure, I point him out and stage-whisper to Riley, “Stay away from him. He’s not a hellion anymore, but he’s still a troublemaker.”

Everyone laughs at the good-natured taunt of my brother who has long been the black sheep of the family. He’s really grown a lot in the last few years—especially since he met Dani—and I feel like we’re only just now getting to know the adult version of who he is. That’s not to say he’s all good-guy now. He’s still rough, tough, and will fuck your shit up verbally or physically if he feels it’s warranted, but I wouldn’t want him to be any other way than exactly who and how he is.

“Just how you love me,” he replies, making smoochy kissing noises at me. To fuck with him, I blow him a kiss back, and I swear the look of gobsmacked shock on his face is worth the uncharacteristic move on my part. “Did you see that? I think Cam actually likes me. It’s a miracle!”

The display did just what I hoped it’d do, and honestly, probably what Kyle was slyly trying to do from the start, anyway—take the attention off Riley so she doesn’t get overwhelmed at the entirety of the Harrington family swarming her.

When I texted Mom that I would have a plus-one, I also sent a message to our sibling group chat, telling them the same thing. There were some pointed questions that I deftly sidestepped, but ultimately, I told my siblings that Riley and I are figuring things out before we talk to Grace so they needed to act cool. That means the rest of my brothers will probably peer at Riley like she’s a specimen under a microscope, but Kyle is a bit more proactive than that and I have no doubt that he’s backing me up in his own weird, twisted way, so I give him a head nod of acknowledgement, which he answers with a cocky smirk like he didn’t do anything. But he did, and I appreciate it.

“Are you going to stay in the foyer or come sit back down?” a rattly voice calls from the formal living room.

Grace reacts first. “Chuckie!” she shouts, dodging and weaving her way through the rest of the family to get into the living room to see her great-grandfather.

I glance at Mom, a little concerned. “I didn’t see their car out front?” My grandparents, Chuck and Beth, drive a huge red Lincoln Navigator so it’s not like I would’ve overlooked it.

Her sad smile tells me a lot, none of it good. “They flew in. I’m not sure driving this far would be a good idea.”

“Are they okay?” I whisper, but my siblings are all listening, anyway.

“Yes, they’re fine. Still riding horses every day and doing his recumbent bike, but I think it’s easier for them to go to the airport, take a short flight, and be here before they finish their onboard snack.”

I can see that, considering they’ll have flown private into a small, local airport. No commercial flights for Chuck and Beth Harrington when Grandad could buy the whole damn airport if he wanted to.

Mom starts to usher us into the living room, but Kayla stops me and Riley. “If you’re wanting to keep things on the down-low, you probably want to quit holding hands.” She says it completely straight-faced, but her blue eyes are virtually dancing.

It feels so natural that I didn’t even realize our hands are wound together, and though I hate to do it, I release Riley’s hand. Still, I give her a solid look of support. “We’ve got this.”

Kayla sighs in annoyance. “Your peptalks suck.”

Before I can respond, she’s already walked away, her stiletto heels clicking on the marble floor before sinking into the plush carpeting of the living room. As Riley and I follow her, the only sounds are my heart pounding in my ears and our feet slightly thumping, because despite Riley’s silky leopard skirt and black sweater, she’s in her combat boots, which are perfect as far as I’m concerned. Riley’s bracelets and necklaces don’t even make a sound, which is how I know she’s such a nervous wreck, and she’s walking stiffly.

“Hi, Grandad, Grandmom,” I tell them as we enter the room. Grace is sitting between them on one of the sofas, probably having made room for herself there by squeezing right in. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Get over here and hug my neck,” Grandmom orders. She pushes herself up from the lush couch cushion with more ease than I’d expect of someone her age and yanks me down into a firm-armed hug. “Been too long, Cameron. I didn’t even recognize Grace at first. She went and grew up on me.” She stares at me accusingly like I’m responsible for the too-fast passage of time.

“I know. She does that to me too. Goes to bed looking so young and then wakes up rolling her eyes and calling me ‘Daaad’.” I throw my voice into an approximation of Grace’s annoyed voice, and Grandmom laughs.

“They all do that, I’m afraid. And you are?” Grandmom turns her attention to Riley.

I didn’t prepare for this. Everyone else knows there’s more than meets the eye with us, but I can’t exactly explain all that on the fly with Grace sitting a mere three feet away and likely listening even as she plays ‘count the coins’ with Grandad, a game that always ends with him giving her five one-dollar coins.

“This is Riley Stefano. Riley, this is my grandmother, Beth.” There’s so much I could say, but I stick with just Riley’s name, because calling her ‘Grace’s nanny’ doesn’t sit right with me when it’s only partially true.

Luckily, Grandmom is smart as a whip, and pretty accurate with one too. “Nice to meet you, Riley. Hope you’re keeping this one in line. He likes to think he’s all high and mighty, Mr. Dudley-Do-Right, but he’s as naughty as the rest of this lot. He just hides it better.”

Riley laughs but sticks to a friendly, “Nice to meet you too.”

Eventually, conversation turns back to a madhouse and it’s only me and her. She’s found a seat in one of the plush chairs, and I perch on the armrest, wanting to be close to her. She taps my arm, and I lean down to listen to whatever she wants to tell me. “Double-checking myself… Luna and Carter,” she points at my brother and his wife, and I nod. “Samantha and Chance.” Another point, another nod. “Janey and Cole, of course. Dani and Kyle.” One last nod.

Is it stupid that I like that she introduces my brothers in relation to their wives? Probably. But it’s the truth. For each of us Harrington brothers, there have been girls and women who chased us because of our money and/or our good looks. But to Riley, they’re just the husbands of the women she’s already met and made friends with, and I love that. Mostly for her, but selfishly, for myself a bit too.

“What about your dad?” she whispers.

I’m the one rolling my eyes like Grace now. “Probably in his office. Global markets don’t close for a U.S. holiday, so he’ll probably work until Mom calls him to the table.”

She purses her lips, not saying anything, but I can read her like a book now too, and she doesn’t like that any more than the rest of us do. Dad hasn’t always been a workaholic the way he is now, but it’s been so long since he had work-life balance that I don’t think he’d know what it was if it bit him in the ass. I’m not exactly one to call that particular pot-kettle black, but I have historically had at least some sense of balance for Grace’s sake. Dad is of no such compunction, especially after all us kids grew up, though he still meddles in all of our lives in some ways.

Everyone’s talking all at once and I try to tune in and listen, mostly out of habit. Carter is telling Grandad about a new stock venture he’s playing with. Chance and Samantha are excitedly reporting their podcast’s statistics to Mom and Grandmom. And Cole is waxing poetic about Emmett’s latest trick to Dani and Kyle. Well, for Cole, it’s poetic. For most people, it’d be more like a clipped news brief of Emmett’s improving ability to sit for longer periods of time, but given that Cole barely spoke to any of us and used to do a vanishing act after thirty minutes of family time, it’s great progress on both his and Emmett’s part, both mainly thanks to Janey.

Everyone’s engaged and talkative. Except Kayla, I realize. She’s sitting back, watching us all. Probably thinking ‘dance, monkeys, dance’ because in some ways, she’s more of a beast than any of my brothers. Her packaging is just prettier. I catch her eye and lift my brows, questioning whether she’s okay. She returns the move, arching one wry brow like, ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’ and I wisely decide that’s a bomb I don’t want to touch right now.

“Miranda,” Ira says from the doorway, and Mom nods.

I lean down to explain to Riley, “That’s Ira, our house manager. Don’t let his age or sweet demeanor fool you. He knows everything about everyone and isn’t afraid to use the information for good or evil, depending on his mood.”

“Knows where the bodies are buried,” she suggests with a grin. “I like him already.”

“You’re probably not wrong,” I answer, waiting as she stands, following suit with Mom’s lead as we head toward the dining room.

I was right. Mom sends us all to the table, while she disappears upstairs to round Dad up. Samantha is my favorite person for the moment when she asks Grace to sit next to her so that Riley and I can sit together. My daughter certainly doesn’t mind because Samantha is one of her, as she used to call her, ‘most favoritest people on the whole entire Earth’.

With Grace several feet away at the long cherrywood table, I bump Riley’s knee under the table and send her a sly smirk. We still can’t be too obvious, but there’s much less scrutiny now. She cuts her eyes my way and grins. It’s such a small thing, but it feels so naughty.

Until I look across from me and find Cole staring at me in warning. He knows me. Just as importantly, he knows Riley. And while he’s happy for me, he responded to me privately after the sibling group text, telling me I’d better not fuck up his and Janey’s chance at some sense of normalcy because there is approximately zero-point-zero percent that either of them would leave Emmett with anyone other than Riley. At this point, I think he’d kill me if it meant he got keep Riley.

I frown, Riley is so much more than his babysitter. She’s my… Riley.

Mom and Dad soon make their joint appearance, with Dad declaring, “Thank you for waiting. Sorry about that.” It’s a blanket apology he’s made before, and while I’d love to say he’ll eventually change, he won’t. The best we can hope for is that while he’s at the table, he’ll be solidly with us, and most likely, he will be. He is good about that, at least. As he settles into his seat at the head of the table, he looks up and down each side, stopping abruptly when he sees Riley.

I knew this was coming.

“Dad, this is Riley Stefano. Riley, this is my dad, Charles Harrington.”

“Oh, that’s right. Miranda told me you were coming. You’re Grace’s nanny, right?” He glances at Mom, who has a fake smile plastered on her lips but is silently screaming at him with her eyes. Mom understands nuances and subtleties Dad never could, nor would want to.

“Yes, I am,” Riley answers politely.

As Dad unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap, he asks, “Your family not close enough to go home for Thanksgiving?” It’d be an innocuous question under normal circumstances, but given Riley’s history, it’s most definitely not.

“Dad,” I say sternly.

“It’s okay,” Riley interjects. “I don’t have a family, Thanksgiving or otherwise, so I’m very appreciative of the invitation to join yours this year.”

Dad flinches and looks to Mom for help. She glares back at him like ‘I tried to tell you.’ She probably did warn him, both when I sent the text and just now before they came downstairs, but it wasn’t important enough for him to remember at the time, probably because he was busy moving millions across digital 1’s and 0’s. “We’re quite glad to have you join us,” Mom says, smoothing the awkwardness the way she’s so gifted at doing. “Let’s dig in before it gets cold.”

She grabs the closest platter and begins passing it without taking even a single scoop. She won’t serve herself anything until the dish has made its way around the table at least once. It’s how she is.

While we pass various vegetables and side dishes around, Dad stands to carve the turkey that’s been placed right in front of him. He always does it, but at least it’s not some big Broadway production where we’re expected to watch in silent awe while he heroically slices meat from the bone of a dinner he didn’t make. Still, Riley clutches my thigh under the table and turns platter-sized eyes at me.

“It’s just like on TV!” she whispers at me.

I can’t help but chuckle and nod along with her because she’s right. Our family table does resemble Norman Rockwell’s Freedom from Want on the surface, with its fine China, white tablecloth, and huge bird center stage, not to mention the generations of wealth and privilege surrounding it.

“Hurry up, Charlie,” Grandmom tells Dad. She’s the only one I’ve ever heard call Dad by the cutesy nickname he used as a child. Not even Mom would dare. “I’m not waiting all day for turkey when I’ve got the gravy right here.” She holds up a silver—real, not plated—gravy boat that is indeed filled with light tan sauce.

“Here, Mom. Take your turkey leg and hush,” Dad tells her, unceremoniously plopping a bone-in leg onto her waiting fine porcelain plate.

Yes, as wealthy and picturesque as our family might be, we’re still just… family, who irritate each other and love each other, sometimes at the same time.

Dinner goes well, with everyone chatting politely and no one asking anything too pointed of Riley and me. Mostly, I spend the whole time hyperaware of her, ignoring everyone else. Her bracelets sing the whole time she’s cutting her turkey, eating her green bean casserole, and poking the marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, and the sound makes me inordinately happy. As does her happily tapping boots beneath the table every time she tries something she particularly enjoys.

“Good?” I ask at one point. I don’t just mean the dressing. I mean with everything.

She gives me a big grin, struggling to not lose a crumb of food, and nods vehemently. I can’t help but chuckle at how adorable she is.

We talked about this last night on the patio, when she revealed she’s never been to a real traditional family Thanksgiving before. She had holidays in some of her foster placements, but more than once, she was taken to what amounted to a daycare center for the day so her foster parents could celebrate with their actual family. She claimed to have understood, especially when feeding extra mouths was already hard, and appreciated the work that went into entertaining a roomful of mostly forgotten kids, but I could tell it hurt her to not be included. Other years, when she did get to go with her foster family, she still felt like an outsider who was mostly unwanted there. She did have happy memories from one Thanksgiving meal, a barbecue held by one extended family, which by Riley’s own report was delicious, but not the same feeling as traditional holiday fare around a big table with people you love.

And with people who love you.

It hits me just how fortunate I am. I mean, I know I’m well-off, but I’m not thinking about that type of fortune. I’m blessed in a much less tangible way, with siblings and parents who love me in their own perfectly imperfect ways. I’d like to think I return the favor to them too.

And I’m extremely thankful to have Riley at my side today, because she is very much wanted here.

After dinner, Mom and Grandmom disappear into the kitchen to cut the pies, and Grandmom yells out, “Kyle Harrington! You little scoundrel! When did you get into my apple pie?”

Kyle looks just as shocked as the rest of us, stuttering, “I didn’t do—” A second later, he backhands Cole’s bicep, and thankfully, it’s the opposite arm from where he’s holding Emmett on his knee or Kyle would be a dead man. “You asshole. You knew she’d blame me.”

Cole’s expression doesn’t change, but he shrugs. It probably wouldn’t be enough of a confession for court, but it is for us. “It was Cole!” Kyle shouts back to Grandmom.

A second later, she appears with two small plates of pie and ice cream in her hands. “Well, he probably needed the sugar with the lack of sleep he’s functioning on. Here you go, baby.” Grandmom puts the bigger of the two slices down in front of Cole and gives the other one to Janey, placing a kiss to the top of each of their heads and then Emmett’s. “Raising babies isn’t for the faint of heart.”

Cole grins as he takes a big bite of his first-served pie, and Kyle makes a move like he’s going to swipe some of the precious dessert. Cole instantly switches his grip on his fork into a more threatening hold. “I dare you to try. I’ll stab you and not even get blood on the special Thanksgiving outfit Janey got Emmett.” I’m ninety-nine percent sure he not only means it but could make good on that promise.

“Fine. But I get the next slice,” Kyle declares.

We all laugh a little, but Grandmom does indeed give him the next slice.

Later, as we’ve retiring back to the formal living room, Dad approaches me. “Cameron, a word?”

I glance at Riley, but she’s following everyone easily, talking with Grace and Dani. I catch Cole’s eye and glance toward Riley, telling him he’s on guard. Not that I think she’d need any help, but I have no doubt the rest of my siblings are going to take advantage of the moment and share embarrassing stories about me with her. He blinks, which I decide to take as acceptance of the responsibility. Or at least I hope it is.

Upstairs in Dad’s office, I sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk. I’ve spent hours of my life right here in this chair or its predecessor before Mom redecorated about twenty-five years ago. When I was a kid, I’d do schoolwork on the front edge of the desk while Dad worked on the other side, and the whole time, I’d pretend I was one of his business associates. I would even borrow his fancy silk ties and haphazardly loop them around my neck to emulate the way he would wear his after a long day at the office.

I wanted to be him, or at a minimum, be with him. Back then, he was an engaged Dad, helping me with homework, going to my practices and games, and even substitute coaching for my peewee basketball game one time. He was the best of both worlds—a father and a businessman—and I was the fortunate child who received that version of him.

My siblings did not, because slowly, over the years, Dad’s focus turned more and more to making Blue Lake Assets into the massive empire that it is now.

I know how all-encompassing of Dad’s heart, mind, and soul that process was—mostly because I worked at his side for a lot of it. I’ve seen firsthand what running a machine like Blue Lake takes and how many countless families are dependent on us for their investments to appreciate, their jobs to be stable, or their ideas to come to fruition. Angel investing isn’t as holy as it sounds, and it definitely takes more than thoughts and prayers at this scale and level.

Because I’ve seen the sacrifices Dad has made, I don’t begrudge the distance between us now the way my siblings seem to have always done. Honestly, I don’t know why the rest of them haven’t figured out how to smile and nod when Dad speaks, glean what you can from his hard-earned wisdom, and then simply do whatever the fuck you want. It’s worked for me for decades, both in and out of the boardroom, and in a way, I think he respects me more for it. And when he does get in an occasional mood, I brush him off and let him stew because whatever’s bothering him, he’ll figure it out. Because he figures shit out and makes things happen.

It’s an example I’ve followed my whole life.

“The Timmons figures are better than we’d hoped,” I offer as he sits down in the chair beside me.

Not across from me? Okay, so maybe this isn’t business related.

But with Dad, everything is business in one way or another.

“Tell me about this Riley Stefano woman.”

“She’s Grace’s nanny.” I keep the answer clipped and succinct, not wanting to invite further discussion because I obviously recognize what Dad truly wants to know.

He frowns, and I have a glimpse into my future—the blond hair turning gray, the marionette lines growing deeper, and the blue eyes still sharp as ever. “Don’t be coy. What’s going on? Miranda told me she went with them to lunch, and then she’s here for Thanksgiving. You’re inserting her like she’s a part of the family, not house staff.”

He doesn’t mean anything cruel by that. He loves Ira and the rest of the Harrington staff, but he’s also never invited them to sit down to our family meal either. There’s a boundary there, to protect both sides, and in his eyes, I’m dancing all over that line, disrespecting myself and Riley by making it confusing for us all.

I get up and walk to the big window, looking out at the moon rising outside, needing the time to compose my thoughts into something Dad will understand. He’s a gruff, hard to know man, but despite his failings, he loves his family deeply, and we’ve had a lot over the last few years—questionable business deals, kidnappings, family blow-ups, and more—so my falling in love with the ‘help’ shouldn’t even rank in the top ten, but with Dad, you never know.

Finally, I turn and look at him evenly as I confess, “I love her.”

These are words I should tell Riley first, but I am my father’s son. I want to seek his council on something this huge and impactful. Not because I’ll listen to what he says, but because he’s the naysayer in my life, the one who will examine and re-examine every choice before committing to it. Unlike Mom, who’d likely cry happily, clap excitedly, and start talking about wedding plans. She’s the Ying to Dad’s Yang, and right now, I think I could use a bit of unrestrained, potentially ugly truth because I’m about to embark on an entirely unprecedented course of action in my and Grace’s lives.

“She’s your nanny, Cameron,” he spits out harshly, as if I’m unaware of the obvious power discrepancy in our relationship. But I’ve already had that argument with myself at least a hundred times. It didn’t work when I said it to myself, and it doesn’t hold any weight when Dad says it either.

“Yes,” I agree. “And she’s twenty-five, has pink hair, a boatload of trauma, zero family, and thinks leaving is a foregone conclusion because literally everyone in her life has abandoned her in one way or another, so she leaves first as a protective defense mechanism.”

Oh, I know exactly who Riley is. She’s bared her soul bluntly and unapologetically, with zero attempts at pretty packaging to disguise her many unfortunate ‘life lessons’.

“Goddammit,” Dad sighs, rubbing his chin and probably wishing for a scotch. Not me, not any longer.

And I’m not done. “She makes me feel alive. For the first time in nine years, she makes me smile, laugh, and feel…” I trail off, trying to define this sensation in my heart before just saying, “She makes me feel.”

Dad studies me like one of his deals, and though nothing in his expression changes, I know he has some inkling of what that means to me. I think he even wants that for me, though not with a young employee. He’d likely prefer to see me with a thirty-something woman who holds an MBA and professional goals of her own as a priority, someone who could accompany me to charity galas and ease the way with other corporate bigshots. Someone like Mom.

And while I love my mother dearly, never have I seen myself married to her or anyone like her.

Yes, you did.

Though uncomfortable, it’s true. Michelle was largely like Mom—smart, chic, friendly, and ambitious. And maybe unconsciously, I did seek out someone to help me recreate my parents’ professionally and personally successful relationship, only needing the Mom role filled since I’m undeniably like Dad. But Michelle is gone, and though I’ve dated women who would check all those criteria in the years since, they didn’t bring me to life the way Riley does.

Nor did they treat Grace like anything other than an accessory to my life, when she is and will always be the center of my universe.

“And she loves Grace,” I declare. “She’s so good with her. She’s taught her to sew and cook and see the world in a different way. And she talks her through friendships and boys and life, things I would never know to tell her. Riley just… does.” I wave my hand, almost flicking it like casting a spell, because that’s flat-out what Riley has done to me and my daughter.

“Cameron.” Dad says my name, nothing more, but I can hear his argument, his advice, his insight on the whole situation coming.

But I realize that I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I already know what I’m doing, and nothing he could say will change my mind. So I hold my hand up, cutting him off. “I love her.” He narrows his eyes, not liking being interrupted, but I don’t care. We’re peer enough that I’ve felt comfortable standing up to him for a while, and I do it again now. “If you’re about to say anything other than congratulations, you can keep it to yourself. I don’t want to hear anything else because I love her. I know it’s not ideal, and it’s complicated as hell, and I’m going to have a talk with Grace, of course, but I love Riley.”

His blue eyes read my soul. Everyone has tells, even Dad, so he likely knows mine and is watching for whatever they are right now. I stand silently, letting him, knowing he won’t find anything but the bold, honest truth in what I’ve said.

“Can I speak now?” he asks wryly. When I tilt my head, he arches a brow. “What I was going to say is that I have watched you, worried about you, had countless conversations about you with Miranda over the years. You stay outside everything, not letting anyone too close and not giving too much of yourself to anyone or anything. Not even Grace.” He stares at me pointedly, daring me to disagree. “And I know coming from me, that’s a low blow. You’re a good father, but you could be great. You’re a good man, but you could be great. And from what I hear—from Miranda and Kayla, and hell, even Cole…” He shakes his head disbelievingly, like a one-on-one conversation with Cole was not on his bingo card for this year—or ever—and focuses again. “Is that you are doing exponentially better on all fronts. And I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to know that you are finding happiness again.” He blinks a few times, and I think my Dad might actually be tearing up. “I want that for you, so if there’s a chance this girl can make you happy, then I say grab ahold of her and don’t let go.”

I did not expect that. At all.

Like I would’ve bet my entire considerably-sized portfolio against Dad ever telling me to chase Riley. Apparently, I would’ve been wrong. And bankrupt. So thankfully, there was no bet.

“What?” I mutter, sure I must’ve misheard him.

“Time’s short, Son, and you don’t get any of it back. So make the most of what you get.”

Confused, I squint at him carefully. “Are you dying or something? Losing your mind? Because this doesn’t sound like you.”

He sighs heavily, glancing skyward as if looking for divine intervention. Instead, he says, “Just realizing that some of the choices I made, while seemingly right at the time, weren’t the choices I should’ve made. So who the hell am I to say anything about what you’re doing? If you’re happy, I’m happy for you.”

Wow. For such a simple concept, it shows a profound growth on my Dad’s part who has always insisted he knew best. I don’t ask, but I wonder if he’s going to therapy. Or listening to Chance and Samantha’s podcasts.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’m sure your mother’s already been scheming out there,” Dad says with a small smile, like he’s amused by Mom’s machinations, “but you should know, she intends to have Grace spend the night here under the guise of ‘letting her spend time with her great-grandparents before they die.’”

“Grandad and Grandmom okay?” I ask, just to be sure.

“They’re fine. And so am I, and Miranda,” he adds with a wry twist of his lips, finally directly answering my question of whether he’s dying. “Pretty sure she’s just playing chess with you as the pawns. And Riley as another.”

I should argue that neither Riley or I are pawns, nor should we be used as such. But I don’t, because the rest of what Dad said already hit me. Grace is staying here, and we’ll have the house to ourselves again.

Happy Thanksgiving, indeed. I intend to make Riley my feast.

“Maybe don’t look so happy to ditch Grace for the night when we go out there?” Dad suggests, and I realize I’m grinning widely.

But even as I try to school my expression into something closer to an easy smile, I can’t fight the excitement bubbling up inside me.