Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 5

The next morning, after my workout, I find Riley already in the kitchen, staring out the window at the back yard.

“You good?” I ask, and she jumps a foot, whirling around while mid-air.

When she sees it’s only me, she puts a hand to her chest, though her eyes are still wide in fear. “You scared the shit out of me,” she says, laughing at herself. “How are you so quiet?”

I glance down at my tennis shoes and shrug. “Wasn’t trying to be.” When I look back up, Riley is now staring at me. Or more precisely, at the beads of sweat running down my chest.

My bare chest.

She mouths something that looks vaguely like ‘whoa’.

“Shit. Sorry.” I don’t normally walk around the house without a shirt on when someone’s here, even if the someone is hired staff. It’s not appropriate for either of us. But it’s so early that I didn’t imagine she’d be downstairs already, much less dressed for the day, because in contrast with my athletic shorts and tennis shoes, Riley has on black jeans that show considerable peeks of her thighs through the distressing, a white sweatshirt cropped to just below her ribs, and thick-soled combat boots. And of course, her jewelry. I suddenly feel very underdressed, bordering on naked. “I’ll go get dressed.”

“It’s fine. It’s your house, and I’ve seen more at the pool,” she says, waving a hand, which makes her bracelets jangle but also exposes a little more of her midriff. Not that I notice, much. “I just wanted to be ready to step in where I can and learn what your routines usually are. Can I get breakfast started for you or do anything to help? That’s what I’m here for… help, help, help.” That last bit is a bit sing-song for my taste, like she’s Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

I drag my eyes from her waist, where they shouldn’t be anyway, to meet hers. The only person in my life who is that prepared is Jeannie, my assistant at the office, who’s been with me for over ten years and knows me better than I know myself. There’s no way Riley is this on top of things, especially on day two. Well, more accurately, day one point five.

When I don’t answer her and the silence grows uncomfortably long, she hesitantly asks, “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks. That’d be great,” I rush to say. “Uhm, Grace will want frozen pancakes. I usually do a protein shake. I can show you how to make that if you want?”

She nods, so I move toward the fridge, but she’s done the same thing and we meet in front of it, both of us reaching for the handle at the same time. When our hands bump into each other, we both jerk back reflexively. “Please, go ahead,” she says, backing up abruptly.

I grunt, feeling out of place in my own damn kitchen, and when I yank on the handle, the door flies open too hard, making the condiments rattle. “Almond milk, Greek yogurt, spinach.” I pull each item out, slamming them on the counter. From the freezer, I grab a frozen banana and add it to the lineup.

I silently add the ingredients to the blender, plus a heaping scoop of chocolate flavored protein powder, a reasonable scoop of powdered peanut butter, and a small spoonful of greens superfood powder from the cabinet above. Riley watches my every move closely, which makes me hyper-aware of her nearness. And my relative nakedness.

The whir of the blender as it chops up the banana seems louder than usual in the awkward silence. I pour the mixture into a tall cup and hold it up for her appraisal.

“You drink that every morning?” Her nose crinkles in distaste, the side with the tiny hoop lifting up slightly more.

“It’s not bad. Pretty good, actually, and good for you,” I reply defensively.

“If you say so,” she teases, holding up her fingers in an X like she’s cursing my healthy breakfast. She hisses at it too, like she’s an actual cat.

I pour the small remaining bit of shake in the blender into another cup and hold it out to her. “Try it.” She instantly and vehemently shakes her head. I take a big swallow of my own and then dramatically moan like it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever had, all the while shaking the other cup at her like that might entice her to give in.

When I arch a brow in obvious challenge, she narrows her eyes. “Fine, but if I die of food poisoning, Cole’s gonna be pissed at you.” Despite her bluster, she takes the cup, careful to not touch me, and then peers into it like the thick liquid might jump out at her. She sniffs it and her brows knit.

“It smells like chocolate.” Before the small win can stroke my considerable ego, she adds, “And grass. I hate the smell of grass.” She sticks her tongue out like she’s gagging, even though she hasn’t taken a drink yet.

Who hates the smell of a freshly-mowed yard? It’s the quintessential scent of spring. But Riley is pinching her nose like she’s taking gross-tasting medicine, not drinking a healthy shake. She does it, though, gulping it down like a shot of cheap whiskey.

After she’s released her nose, her tongue peeks out, licking her lips delicately, and my eyes zero in on the pink tip, watching her trace the line of shake still on her lips. But when it disappears, she frowns. “Actually, that’s not as bad as I expected.”

I tilt my head, giving her a look of ‘told you so’, before taking another swallow of my own shake. “Ahh.” I smack my lips, pleased with myself for getting her to try it and admit that she liked it. “You’re welcome to make it a double, one for you and one for me, if you want.”

She glances down at the remnants in her cup. “We’ll see.”

I’ve been a parent long enough to know what that means—no.

“You don’t have to make it, then. I can do it.”

Before the words are out of my mouth, she’s already shaking her head in disagreement. “I got it. Pancakes. Protein shake. Every morning.” She taps her temple like she’s making a mental note, though I seriously doubt she has a whiteboard in there she’s scribbling on. If it were me, I’d put alarmed alerts on my phone to serve as a daily reminder. Riley definitely doesn’t do that, but she declares, “Consider it done.”

Grabbing the blender pitcher, she moves to the sink, giving me her back, but I catch her eyes watching me in the window’s reflection.

“Okay. Thanks,” I stammer, measuring the set of her shoulders to see if she’s feeling some sort of way about adding that task to her to-do list. In my experience, women pivot on you when they’re angry, frustrated, or upset and want to hide that from you. But Riley’s just scrubbing the pitcher normally, not too hard and not wasting any water with snappish splashing.

People do things for me. It’s one of the benefits of being who I am. At the office, people are paid—hell, they fight over the opportunity—to do grunt work for me. At home, I pay for someone to scrub toilets and vacuum, wash my car, and yeah, take care of my child.

All that to say I can’t remember the last person who volunteered to make me breakfast. It had to be the nanny I likened to Mrs. Doubtfire, a bit dramatic, a lot old-fashioned, and who was, ultimately, unable to keep up with Grace’s schedule. I think the time at the barn is what really did her in. But the others? They’d take care of Grace and leave me to fend for myself, as they should’ve because they were hired as nannies, not house managers.

Riley seems pretty dead set on doing it, though, and I’m not going to stop her, especially with what I’m paying for her services. If she wants to take on house manager-level work, I’ll sure as shit let her and consider it a positive return on my investment.

Feeling better about this deal, I excuse myself to get ready for work, which she acknowledges with a faint lift of her chin, not sparing a glance my way.

When I step into my bathroom and see myself in the mirror, I curse. Not only was I shirtless in front of the new nanny, but the time spent standing in front of the cold fridge, making my shake, and drinking the frosty beverage has dried all the sweat on my chest and hardened my nipples into fucking points. Plus, the ring of sweat at the waist of my shorts doesn’t leave much to the imagination as to what’s inside the polyester fabric. Luckily, even with the shrinkage from the cold, I’m not exactly small.

Not that it matters. I shouldn’t even be worrying about it, anyway.

Because Riley is the new nanny, nothing more. I don’t care if she thinks I have a micro-penis or a monster in my shorts because things are strictly professional between us. She’s here to take care of Grace, and that’s it.

But it does explain why she was staring at me so blatantly.

“Way to go, asshole. Start the first full day with a little sexual harassment, why don’t you?” I growl at my reflection, but he doesn’t grant any mercy.