Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 4

“Hi. I’m Riley Stefano. Mr. Harrington said he was sending over the paperwork to add me to Grace Harrington’s file?” I say to the woman at the desk right inside the office door of the school.

“Are you another nanny or another sister-in-law?” She tosses her curled brown hair over her shoulder, licks her lips, and tosses me a smug smirk like she’s slyly insinuating something when what she’s saying is completely obvious.

“Nanny.”

The woman, Ms. Flanders, office secretary according to the sign on the desk, looks me up and down. Again. As an expensive private school, I’m sure they have their fair share of hired help doing drop-offs and pick-ups, but I look younger than I am and don’t dress like most nannies, so her critique isn’t totally unexpected. The rudeness is a bit much, though.

“We just never know with him.” She tuts, attempting to sound sad but landing somewhere closer to critical. “He’s forever adding and removing people from Grace’s approved list, and there’s a different uncle or aunt or grandparent picking her up every day. Poor girl needs some stability in her life. So does Cameron.”

Given the way she says ‘Cameron’ in a sultry voice, I think I know exactly the stability she’d like to offer. A single dad who looks like he does—tall, broad-shouldered, with a chiseled jawline and shockingly blue eyes—plus a powerful position with the salary that comes along with it, and a stern, authoritative presence, is probably the hottest commodity at this school with teachers, administrators, and apparently, the office staff. I can understand it. He’s definitely attractive, if you’re into serious and ‘stick up your ass’ types, which I’m not, thankfully, because Ms. Flanders seems to be feeling a bit territorial about my role as the new woman in Cameron’s life. The good thing is, I’m not really in his life. I’m in Grace’s.

“Sounds like she’s lucky to have a loving family who are willing to be involved in her school life. That’s probably pretty unusual here, right?” I pointedly glance behind me, out the window overlooking the hallway, where there are clearly very few parents and quite a few house staff picking up students.

“Hmm.” Her nose crinkles in distaste at my optimistic framing of the situation. “Does Grace know to meet you here?”

The door flies open, hitting the wall behind it with a bang. “Riley!” Grace screeches as she comes into the office. “You’re here! Can we go to Starbucks?”

Every word is hot on the heels of the last, and her voice only gets louder, which makes my smile grow. She’s a pistol, and I love it.

“She does,” I tell Ms. Flanders with a sense of satisfaction. “Hey, Grace,” I greet her warmly, holding up my fist for a bump, which she returns readily. “Yes, I’m here. And no, we can’t go to Starbucks.”

Grace’s smile melts into a comical pout when I say no to Starbucks but returns with a mischievous glint when I lift my eyebrow in response. “I had to try, you know?”

I laugh. “I know.”

“Grace?” Ms. Flanders says to get her attention, her voice remarkably friendlier than when she was speaking to me, “Tell your Daddy I said hello, okay? And to save me a dance at the Fall Ball. He’s chaperoning, right?”

The girl laughs so hard that she snorts. “He literally won’t care. He doesn’t even know your name, Ms. Flanders. I had to remind him so that he could send you the paperwork for Riley. And you know he always chaperones but never dances. Blech.” She sticks her tongue out and screws up her face like seeing her father cut a rug would be worse than sucking on a lemon. “I would literally die of embarrassment if he tried.”

The secretary’s smile has disappeared, her eyes have gone frosty, and she’s sitting up a little straighter like she’s the one with a broom handle up her ass. Grace takes a step closer to me, and even I’m preparing for some blowback from her unfiltered honesty. “Ready, Riley?” Grace asks, cutting her eyes toward the door like she’s ready to make a run for freedom, or at least to get far away from Ms. Flanders.

I nibble on my lip to keep from laughing at Grace’s rebuff of the woman’s obvious flirtation. Holding my elbow out, I answer, “Ready.” Grace slips her hand through, and we walk out together like I’m escorting her down the aisle and not simply out the front door.

Once we’re outside, Grace drops her hand and lets loose with a dramatic, full-body shiver. “She gives me the heebie-jeebies.” But before I can laugh, she pins me with an inquisitive look and asks, “Why did she say ‘Daddy’ all weird like that? I’m twelve, not five. I don’t call him Daddy anymore. He’s Dad.”

Nope, not touching that with a ten-foot pole. It was definitely inappropriate, but I’m not explaining that Ms. Flanders thinks her father is a DILF, especially on my first day and with Cameron still not completely convinced I’m the best choice for his daughter. “I’m not sure. For now, let’s go.”

I usher her to my car, and she climbs in the front seat, buckling up automatically.

“Car rules,” I declare just to be sure, “always wear your seatbelt, don’t touch the control panel without asking, and drinks and food are allowed as long as you clean up your trash when we get out. Sound good?”

Grace nods as I pull out of the parking lot, following the GPS’s directions to the address Cameron gave me for their house, but she also asks, “Who controls the music?”

“Either we agree or we take turns. You can go first.”

I’m being nice, but you can also learn a lot about someone based on their musical taste. I’m expecting a full breakdown of the latest Taylor Swift album from Grace. Instead, after pairing her phone with the stereo, a K-pop song starts and then Grace starts to sing… in Korean.

Stunned, I ask, “You speak Korean?”

She grins proudly but corrects me, “I wish, but no. I just memorized the songs. Stray Kids are my favorite.”

Given the scrolling information on the car’s screen, I deduce that’s the band name, and she hasn’t taken a liking to actual lost children.

Once upon a time, that’s what I would’ve been considered. A lost child, maybe even a lost cause. There aren’t many with the type of upbringing I’ve had who come out unscathed. I’m definitely not. There are scars that run deep and damage that can’t be undone, but I’ve made the most out of what I’ve experienced and have come to enjoy the no-strings-attached life I’ve created for myself.

Especially today, because it brought me here. To Grace.

“That’s still impressive,” I praise.

“La-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” She’s fully immersed in the song, even doing some dance choreography moves in her seat, and I can’t help but appreciate her enthusiasm for everything she does.

She dances and sings the rest of the way home, and when I turn into the driveway the GPS directs me to, I stare at the house in front of me in awe. “Whoa. Grace, your house is massive.”

“Huh?” She glances out the windshield like her house magically supersized while she was at school. “It’s just home.”

No, it’s not. I work for families with money. Otherwise, they couldn’t afford to have a private nanny, especially a live-in one. Plus, my services come at a premium because I’m worth it. However, the Harrington home is easily three times bigger than Bianca’s house and I thought it was large. “I should’ve asked your dad for more money,” I whisper, and she laughs. “A lot more money.”

“Come on. I’ll show you where your room is,” Grace tells me, unbuckling and jumping out as soon as I shift my car into park.

She barrels toward the front door, presses a button on her phone to unlock the electronic security system, and then waves at the doorbell camera. “Hi, Dad!” To me, she explains, “He gets an alert when I get home.”

We go inside, and she closes the door behind me as I glance around. From the foyer, I can see a formal living room and a fancy dining room that both look pristine and untouched, so I’m guessing they don’t get used often. Grace runs past the stairs, and I follow her into a large open area with vaulted ceilings that houses the family room, kitchen, and breakfast nook, though ‘nook’ is probably a misnomer since I’ve been to restaurants smaller than the space. It does seem more lived in, though, with a sense of use and enjoyment despite being obviously done by a decorator with coordinated groupings of pillows on the couches, fancy candles on the table, and pretty but generic art on the walls.

Grace dumps her backpack on the island and yanks the fridge open. “I’m starving!” she announces, digging into a drawer and coming out with a cheese stick. “Want one?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Once we’re both munching on cheese sticks, she leads me around the rest of the house, sounding like she’s done this tour guide gig before. “Down there are Dad’s office and his bedroom.” She points to two closed doors in a hallway behind the formal living room, then swings her finger over to the other side of the house. “And over there are the gym, mud room, garage, and a guest bedroom. There’s a bathroom under the stairs too.” She heads up the stairs, waving for me to follow her. “Up here is the media room.”

She opens the door to a dark gray painted room with a large screen on one end and two rows of long, black leather, reclining couches. There’s a glass-front refrigerator filled with a variety of drinks and snacks, plus a small kitchenette that looks stocked with treats.

At the next door, which is just across the hall, she says, “My room.”

She reveals what’s clearly a young girl’s room with blush pink walls, gold accents, and white bedding with pillows in shades of pink in various textures from fluffy faux fur to tufted velvet. There’s also a desk, a dresser, and a television in front of a beanbag chair that’d probably fit three people on it.

“Pretty,” I tell her, and she beams, seeming pleased that I like it.

“And this is your room.” She opens the door at the far end of the hallway, then stands back, letting me walk in first. The room is larger than I expected, even given the scale of the home. The high ceiling and all four walls are painted a pale taupe, the queen bed is covered in white bedding that looks plain but expensive, and there’s a seating area with a couch facing the television. There’s also an armchair by the window, which looks like a cozy spot to read a book or watch the rain fall while sipping a cup of tea. It lacks personality, but I expected that. Still… very nice.

“You can decorate it however you want. I’ve heard Dad tell the other nannies that, but Beatrice—that’s the last one—didn’t do anything but set her suitcase on the couch. Her clothes still ended up all over the place, though.” She rolls her eyes, and I get a little peek into how Grace felt about her last nanny. I make a mental note to ask Cameron exactly what happened there.

“I don’t need anything too fancy,” I tell Grace, still looking around and finding the attached bathroom with a big walk-in shower, long vanity, and a closet bigger than any childhood bedroom I had, and I shared most of those. “But I’ll definitely keep my clothes off the floor. I wouldn’t mistreat my treasures like that.” I pull at my vest, striking a pose worthy of the finest catalog model.

She scans my outfit skeptically before quietly echoing, “Treasures?” She’s virtually a mini-me of her father, the hypercritical inspection a repeat of his reaction to meeting me yesterday.

“Yeah, these threads don’t come from any regular old store at the mall. These are all authentic vintage. I have to search and search, through racks and racks, at every thrift store I can find to get this look.” I do a twirl in place, my skirt swirling around my legs, and then strike another pose. “What started because I couldn’t afford nicer stores became an obsession. I love to shop, make outfits, and even sell stuff online.”

“That’s awesome!” Grace declares, making a quick about-turn and now giving her support to the side hustle I do more for fun than cash flow, even though I make decent change doing it. “Maybe I can do it with you too?”

“If you want,” I offer with an easy shrug, “but you don’t have to. I usually hit the thrifts during school hours, but we could go on the weekend or after school if you don’t have a riding lesson and finish your homework.”

“Let me do it now, then!” Grace is already running back down the stairs, and when I follow her, I find her back in the kitchen, pulling her laptop from her backpack. “I only have a little bit of work tonight.”

“Hold up, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. How about tonight we focus on getting me moved in, getting your homework done, and making dinner for you and your dad? And we can plan a shopping trip for later, after I research the best thrift stores in the area.”

“Oh.” She looks disappointed, but after a moment of consideration, she brightens again. “Maybe we can shop and go to Starbucks too?”

I can’t help but laugh as I shake my head. “Girl, you might be addicted to Starbies, but yeah, that sounds good. Come on, help me with my stuff.”

With the two of us working together, it doesn’t take long to get my suitcase from the car and bring everything in. Grace helps me hang up my clothes on the wooden hangers already in the closet, oohing and aahing over various pieces and listening intently when I tell her about the ones that are extra special to me, like the vintage Levi’s with colorful iron-on patches, my silk leopard skirt that fits like it was made for me—no small feat with my tiny waist and curvy hips—and the original band shirts I’ve collected. Like I told her, nothing fake about my vintage.

When we’ve gotten my closet and bathroom supplies set up, she looks around and asks, “Is this basically everything you own?” She sounds vaguely horrified at the idea. “Or do you leave stuff at home and only take what you need with you to work?”

I scan the space, more than pleased with my belongings given I was once lucky if I had a trash bag to take my things with me. And honestly, the trash bag was never full. I could put my entire life into a backpack and be living somewhere else in minutes. It was a fact of life for me, so an entire oversized suitcase plus a duffel bag seem ridiculously maximalist.

But Grace doesn’t need to know all that, so I smile. “This is everything. And this is home.”

“Yeah, for now.”

She sounds jaded, and I’m not sure if she’s referencing my trial run deal with Cameron or the revolving door of nannies she’s had, but either way sucks. The view from outside might look very different given the luxury Grace lives in versus the poverty I lived in growing up, but the uncertainty is similar. Not knowing who’d be there when you get home, or if they would stay. In my case, I was the one moving. In Grace’s, people leave her, time after time.

“Sometimes, now is all we get, so let’s make the most of it.”

“How?” Grace asks, interest blooming in her eyes.

“Homework. Dinner.” I point at her and then at myself.

She’s definitely not excited by my plan but goes along with it without argument. It’s the new-toy theory. Once the shine has worn off and I’ve become the annoying person who reminds her to do her homework over and over, she’ll move on to rebellion. It’s a time-worn process and it’s the same every time I start a new job. But for today, she’s agreeable.

In the kitchen, she sits down at the island with her laptop as I pull open the refrigerator to take an inventory of what’s available. “What do you usually eat? Any allergies I need to know about?”

“I think the chicken on the bottom shelf is for tonight. Dad usually throws it in the oven with some sort of sprinkly stuff from the cabinet.” She points at a door behind which I find an array of seasonings. “And he makes veggies or rice or noodles on the side. No allergies, but I don’t like super spicy stuff.”

“Okay. You get started on your homework and let me see what I can do here.”

We both get to work, and in no time, she’s finished her assignments and has begun helping me set the island for dinner since that’s where she says they usually eat.

“Something smells delicious,” a gruff voice says.

Cameron’s coming into the kitchen with his suit jacket laid over his arm, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his dress shirt. He instantly looks more human and less stiff, but I don’t miss the way he meticulously examines the room with the barest of glances. It’s like he’s searching for what I screwed up in the three hours since I picked Grace up, because with Cameron, it’s not if I did, but how I did it.

“Dad! You’re home!” If you told me that Grace hadn’t seen Cameron in days or weeks, I’d believe you based on her energy as she runs to him, but I know that they had breakfast together this morning, which somehow makes her excitement that much sweeter.

“Hey, Gracie girl.” He places a quick peck to the top of his daughter’s head, but his eyes are on me. “Hello again, Riley.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was waiting for me to quit on the spot and walk out the front door. I’m just not sure why, exactly. Today has been great so far. Grace and I have gotten along fabulously, and now, I’m hoping that the evening goes just as well.

“Hi, Mr. Harrington.”

“I prefer to leave the Mr. Harrington title at the office.”

I find that hard to believe. Everything about him screams formal and proper, but I take him at his word. “Okay… Cameron,” I say, trying his name aloud to his face for the first time. “Cam? Cammy? Cama-lama-ding-dong?” My grin grows exponentially the deeper he frowns.

“Cameron.” His declaration is firm, his eyes are narrowed, and there’s a new twitch in his cheek. I might eventually get away with Cam, but Cama-lama-ding-dong is definitely out the window.

I catalogue that away—cheek twitch equals irritated. Because he is definitely irritated with me.

Learning what makes people tick and deciphering their tells is a habit of mine, one born out of a need for safety but continued because with understanding comes predictability. And when someone is predictable to the point that I can accurately anticipate their reactions and behaviors, I feel safe, like a never-ending loop of reassurance.

Is that the result of spending my childhood years wondering, worrying, and wishing? Absolutely. But I choose to think of my attentiveness to others as compassion rather than considering myself broken.

“Fair enough, Cameron. Dinner’s ready.” This time, I say his name like we’re old friends, letting it roll off my tongue like I’ve said it hundreds of times before. Casual and cool, and I note that there’s no cheek twitch. Good deal for now.

“We made pepper-stuffed chicken,” Grace tells him, making it sound like it was a team effort. Mostly, she did her homework while I chopped and sautéed veggies, butterflied and filled the seasoned chicken breasts, and topped them with feta and cream before baking.

“That sounds so good,” Cameron groans, patting his stomach. “I skipped lunch.”

“Dad!” Grace scolds him, her hands on her hips as she pins him with a disappointed glare.

Unbothered by her reprimand, he answers unapologetically, “Had a meeting.” Not explaining further, he sniffs the air, seeming to appreciate having a home-cooked meal ready when he arrives, regardless of his lunch plans.

As the two of them quickly sit down, I pull the casserole dish from the oven and set it on a trivet in the middle of the island. They both lean forward, inhaling loudly and deeply. Grace looks unsure, but Cameron looks ready to devour the whole thing, so I plate the stuffed chicken over rice, setting one in front of each of them as fast as I can.

“You too,” Grace rushes to tell me.

Not sure if that’s allowed or expected, I glance at Cameron, but he looks as uncertain as I am, his brows raised and lips pressed into a flat line. Is that supposed to mean ‘get the hell out of here’ or ‘sit down and eat’? I have no idea, so I slowly move to get another plate from the cabinet, giving him every opportunity to tell me no, but he stays silent. I’m not turning down Grace’s invitation, so I fill my plate and sit down on the other end of the island, Grace between Cameron and me.

Waiting for them to take a bite first, I pray they like what I made. I feel like I still need a win with Cameron. He’s not sure about me—that much is obvious—but after just one day with Grace, I really hope he comes around because I like her a lot.

Luckily, after delicately cutting into the chicken and placing a small bite in his mouth, Cameron almost smiles as he chews before scooping another large bite into his mouth and making sounds of utter and complete contentment. “This is delicious.”

“Thank you,” I say with a sigh of relief, choosing to not be offended by the shock laced through his compliment. “I’m not a chef by any means, but I can whip up a few things.”

Cameron’s reaction seems to entice Grace to dig in too, though she’s decidedly less delicate than her father with it. “Hey, it is good!” Her surprise is palpable, her eyes widening and her lips lifting into a closed-mouth smile as she chews.

As we eat, Cameron asks Grace about her day and I stay quiet so as not to intrude on their father-daughter time more than I already am. And also to get a better read on my new employer.

“How was school today?” Cameron asks.

Grace throws her head back and groans. “Looong, but I got a 92 on my history test.”

“Great job!” Cameron praises. “Congratulations, honey. You’ve improved your math grade too?”

“Yep.”

Like he can feel the weight of my gaze, he meets my eyes over Grace’s head, and I smile at him. He’s an engaged, involved dad, that much is clear, and he’s risen several notches in my estimation in only the last few minutes. It’s like he can read my thoughts on him, though, because he arches his brow, staring back at me cockily.

After dinner, to my complete astonishment, Cameron offers to do the dishes while Grace gets in the shower. “You cooked. The least I can do is clean up.” I gape at him, open-mouthed, and he frowns. “You don’t have to look so shocked. I’m not a total asshole.”

“I didn’t say total,” I argue, not disputing the asshole part, but I do soften the blow with a tiny smile, and he chuckles a bit, which feels like a big win from the serious man. “Do you eat leftovers? I can package up the rest of the chicken for your lunch tomorrow so you don’t go hungry again?”

It’s his turn to look stunned. “That’s kind of you, but save it for your lunch tomorrow. Jeannie, my assistant, usually orders me something. Today just got away from me.”

We work side-by-side, getting everything put away, then he leans against the counter and crosses his arms. I can virtually feel the interrogation beginning and I square up my shoulders for whatever he’s about to hit me with.

“You running away, screaming yet?”

Puzzled, I reply, “Of course not. Who have you had working for you?”

I’m truly confused. Yes, he’s uptight, and yes, Grace is exuberant, but there have been no flaming red flags telling me to run yet. And I’m really good at spotting those, even when they’re subtle or hidden.

“The last nanny’s name was Beatrice. She came with great references, from a top agency. She was trying to make Grace feel better about failing her math test but ended up quitting on the spot after Grace point-blank asked if acting as her chauffeur, spending hours flipping through Instagram, and whining about her cheating boyfriend were her definition of greatness.” When my jaw drops, he adds, “That’s an actual quote, not an exaggeration.”

“What the hell?” I mutter, unable to stop the words before they fall past my lips. “The sweet little girl I hung out with yesterday at Cole’s and who was helpful, kind, and hilarious today did that?” I point toward the stairs where Grace disappeared like he must be talking about a different kid.

Maybe she has an evil twin?

Cameron looks toward where Grace disappeared to, nodding. “Yeah, my daughter is amazing. Of that, there’s no doubt. But she’s also not for the weak.” The tiniest of smiles, so small I’m not sure it even qualifies as one, lifts his lips and he looks like he’s quite pleased with who Grace is. Which makes sense since it sounds like she’s a chip off the old block. When I don’t quit on the spot, he drops the defensive placement of his arms, seeming relieved that I’m not bailing after only three hours of work with her.

“Apparently, neither am I. You’ll be glad to know that Cole gave me quite the talking to about treating you right.”

I knew I was right about Cole. Terrifying, but kind. Like a Care Bear trapped inside the Grim Reaper, a Scare Bear, if you will. He would probably kill me if I told him that, so I vow to keep that to myself. Or… I could tell Grace and let her tell Cole. He wouldn’t hurt a hair on Grace’s head, that much is for sure.

“I appreciate that, Cameron, but it’s not necessary. I’m a tough cookie. I can take a hard interview and deal with a difficult parent.” I arch a brow, waiting to see how he handles the softball I just threw into the air.

He tilts his head, peering at me curiously, and I can almost feel him calculating my existence like I’m the sum of numbers on a spreadsheet. “You are not what I first suspected.”

“Better?” I tease, mirroring his head tilt with my own and batting my lashes. After his obviously negative judgments yesterday, I feel like I’ve earned a few kudos from the man. I did keep his daughter alive for both an afternoon and an evening and didn’t even poison him a little bit with salmonella-chicken.

“Better.” From such an exacting man, it seems like high praise, and instead of saying ‘I told you so’, I simply grin. Granted, it’s a shit-eating grin, so what I’m thinking is pretty obvious, but I don’t actually say it, which still counts as not rubbing his nose in my awesomeness. At least in my book. “In his defense, Cole mostly wants to make sure I don’t run you off because he appreciates your help with Emmett. I don’t know if you recognize what a big deal it is that he handed over his baby to you.”

“Of course I do,” I exclaim, recoiling. “It’s a big deal for any parent.”

“Yeah, but Cole’s… well, Cole.”

He seems to think that’s explanation enough, and in a way, it is. I’ve dealt with lots of parents, but Cole is one of the more intense ones I’ve worked with. “And you’re… you,” I challenge. “Family ties run deep and all.”

“Touché.”

He doesn’t seem offended, but rather, flabbergasted by my willingness to go toe-to-toe with him, which makes me wonder if he’s used to everyone cowering before him like he’s some monstrous meanie. If so, he’s got another thing coming with me. I don’t cower, nor do I show weakness. I stand straight and face monsters head-on.

I lean back against the island, matching his pose, and smile. “To be clear, you’re not even in the top five of the most difficult parents I’ve had the misfortune of working with.”

He frowns at that. “I’m not sure if I should up my game or track those people down.”

Was that a joke?

Surely not. I try reading his face for any sign that it is one, but he’s pokerfaced as usual.

“No worries. Cole’s got it handled,” I say without thinking. When his brows slam down, I add, “Long story.”

Cole already gave me the rundown on Austin and assured me there’s nothing to worry about. He and Beth have all older kids with them right now, which is good because they’re usually more self-sufficient, especially if they’ve been in the system for a bit, and nothing Cole found gave him any immediate concerns about the kids, which was my main worry. He also promised to do frequent check-ins to make sure nothing changes there, which I appreciate. However, he did have considerable issue with Austin’s behavior toward me, but I assured him that I could handle Austin’s bullshit. I’ve been doing it for years at this point. Cole said Austin is playing me, which I already knew because Austin is a greedy, manipulative jerk. Always has been, always will be, but as long as he keeps his distance, I’ll be fine. Being here helps with that… until he finds me again.

But for now, I’m good and Austin has no power over me anymore, despite thinking he does.

Plus, it doesn’t seem that Cole shared any of my history with Cameron, which I appreciate, except his frown is growing deeper as his concern becomes apparent, and I realize I’ve said too much and raised too many questions with my own big mouth, which is not all that unusual of an occurrence. “I’m good. Grace is good with me. Promise.”

Cameron narrows his eyes at my words, and I expect him to poke and prod, demanding more, but instead, after a moment, he holds out his left pinky finger. “Pinky promises are a big deal around here. We take them seriously, especially Grace. You swear that you’re good and Grace is safe with you?”

That he doesn’t only ask about his daughter, but also about me, is unexpected. I’m nothing to him, just a temporary nanny until he finds his Mary Poppins, and by all accounts, Grace is everything to him.

I stare at his finger. It’s long, tanned, and his nail is clean and the cuticle trimmed. They look like fingers that could play the piano. But what strikes me the most is that the one next to it, his ring finger, is equally tan with no pale circle where a wedding ring would be. Cameron said it’s been him and Grace since she was three, so for nine years, and the lack of any mark on his finger tells me that it’s been that way in his heart too. Or at least that he wants people to think that.

I wrap my finger around his. “Pinky promise,” I tell him solemnly.