Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 7

How was I living without a nanny? More specifically, without Riley? Not well, I remind myself as I step into the kitchen.

It was only last week that I showed Riley how I make my morning shake, and yet here it sits, waiting for me. Grace’s pancakes, with whipped cream from a can and a sprinkle of both cinnamon-sugar and pumpkin pie spice, are waiting at one of the island stools. And Riley is humming as she flits around the room. She’s constantly moving, never stopping and always accompanied by a jangling of her bracelets, like she’s music in motion. Her movements look totally random until I realize she’s packing Grace’s lunch, getting a container from the cabinet, something from the pantry, and then digging in the fridge for something else.

Oh, nope. The fridge pitstop was for a cheese stick, apparently, because she reappears with it already half in her mouth. It’s a snack habit she’s picked up from Grace, apparently. She swallows a bite—without even chewing, I think—and then says, “Vitamins. Shake. Briefcase.” She points at each item as if I might’ve forgotten where they are each morning, then calls up the stairs, “Ten-minute warning.”

“Coming!” I hear Grace shout back.

Riley has quickly become integral to keeping our household on track and I can only now see how much we were floundering before. Not only when I was doing it, but with the last several nannies, who were nowhere near as efficient, skilled, and personable as Riley is.

I don’t like to admit when I’m wrong, and considering it happens so rarely, I don’t have much experience with it, but there’s a fair chance I made a mistake thinking Riley wouldn’t be suited for Grace and me. She’s jumped in seamlessly, and I’m already feeling a vast sense of relief at having her here.

“What are you up to today?” I ask her. I’d like to say it’s out of politeness, but the truth is, I find her lack of a schedule and planning completely foreign and am intrigued by the way she floats from one thing to the next unsystematically, yet always arriving exactly where and when she’s supposed to be somewhere and with everything she’s supposed to have done completed. It makes no logical sense.

Yesterday, she actually told me that she was going to walk around downtown and see where her mood took her. I tried to give her some suggestions for restaurants and stores she might be interested in, but she’d stopped me by literally holding up her palm toward my face, saying she wanted to explore without a destination in mind.

What type of insanity is that? It legitimately made my brain hurt and a tiny part of me had worried all afternoon that she’d been kidnapped from some back alley she strolled into to look at graffiti. And that’s not speculation. She actually said that she likes to appreciate the art of the city. I’d suggested she visit a museum and even offered to call Luna, my sister-in-law who is an actual art genius in her own right and also manages a huge collection for a wealthy collector. Riley said she appreciated the offer but that she’d wanted to simply wander.

And somehow, she did find stuff she liked, with pictures to prove it, yet she still picked up Grace from school on time. Last night at dinner, Grace had been utterly captivated by Riley’s photos of storefront window displays, the changing colors of the trees, and yes, a few spray-painted murals—some official and some… not.

Truthfully, I’d been equally captivated, but mostly by Riley’s approach to a day in the city. It was definitely an experience I’ve never had, though I’ve spent considerable time downtown. The difference is that I was on my way to meetings or client lunches, whereas Riley was wandering aimlessly.

I’ve heard people be described as a free spirit, but that doesn’t seem as accurate as I’d like it to be where she’s concerned, so I’m not sure I have a label for Riley. She’s definitely bubbly and bright, viewing life as a fun adventure that’s full of endless opportunities that she navigates through whims and impulsivity, but she’s also detail-oriented, empathetic, and the things that come out of her mouth are shockingly brilliant. The disconnect of her mind and her personality fascinate me, but I still wish I could find a box that would appropriately contain her. That’s how I operate, and that she doesn’t fit in one confounds me.

And irritates the fuck out of me.

“I’m going over to Janey’s for a bit this afternoon to help with some household stuff and watch Emmett while he sleeps.”

Baffled by the idea, I clarify, “Cole’s paying you to watch the baby sleep?”

She laughs at the simple question, shaking her head. “Have you met your brother? I think he wishes I would come stare at the monitor all night so he could get some sleep too.”

“Is Emmett not sleeping well?” Cole hasn’t said anything, but I’m not sure he would. He’s pretty private, though he’s virtually an open book compared to how secretive he used to be in the pre-Janey days.

She holds her hand up to her mouth like she’s telling me a secret and whispers, “Best sleeping baby I’ve ever seen. But his dad might be in my top five.” She arches a brow, and I recall her saying I wasn’t in her top five most difficult to deal with parents. I bark out a wry laugh at her too-accurate assessment of my brother, and she rushes to add, “Don’t tell him I said that.”

I hold up my phone, showing her the dark screen. “Already sent it to the sibling group text.” I didn’t, of course. But I might.

“You’re awful,” she tells me, laughing like I’m downright hilarious. To be clear, I’m not. At all.

“You’ve got the Timmons meeting tonight, right?” she asks, changing the subject as Grace comes sliding into the room. “Five minutes,” she tells my daughter, tapping her wrist, where there is nothing as sensible as a watch, but there are several bracelets.

Even at this hour, Riley is dressed for the day. This morning, her baggy jeans are hanging on her hips by a prayer and cuffed up to show the dark gray socks scrunched above her combat boots. Her t-shirt is boxy and loose, making me wonder if she’s even wearing a bra beneath it. Plus her jewelry, the black-framed glasses she sometimes wears that I’ve deduced are a part of her ‘look’ and not actually prescription, and her hair is half-up and half-down, with two small buns on top of her head that look vaguely like Mickey Mouse ears.

Her outfits are quite my morning’s entertainment while I put on another black, gray, or navy suit each day, only going so wild as choosing a subtly patterned or solid tie, while I wonder what combination she’ll show up in this time. I don’t know why it’s become so intriguing, but it has. Though I would certainly never let that interest show.

“Yes, so I’ll be late tonight,” I answer Riley’s question. “Feel free to order pizza for dinner, and no set bedtime since it’s Friday.”

“So what I’m hearing is…” She grabs the island and the back of Grace’s stool, caging her in, and then pins Grace with a look of excitement written all over her face, and I find myself just as eager to hear what she’s going to say as Grace is. “Pizza-movie marathon party!” she exclaims, making it sound on par with the Superbowl and a Taylor Swift concert all rolled into one. She even waves her arms in the air, dancing around. Well, it’s sort of like dancing, but more like one of the wiggling car wash inflatable tube guys. It’s almost cute, in an odd sort of way.

“Pizza-movie marathon party!” Grace repeats, though at several decibels louder.

They dissolve into a discussion of which movie series to binge while I listen and watch the two of them. I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who could match Grace’s vivaciousness, but Riley does. Her eyes are just as sparkling, her smile just as bright, and her hands are moving just as wildly as my daughter’s through the whole conversation. It’s reassuring and uplifting in a way I don’t think I realized I needed. Once upon a time, I lived by the motto ‘happy wife, happy life’ and made sure that was the case, but for a while now, for me, it’s been ‘happy Grace, happy life’, and my girl is happy with Riley.

It’s only been a few days. She could still bail like all the others.

While true, the reminder is only a mild damper on my appreciation for the scene playing out in front of me.

Before I know it, Riley is telling Grace it’s time to go, I’m kissing Grace on the forehead, and they’re out the door, heading to school. I look around the kitchen, feeling like the energy dropped by ninety percent with their exit. I take a deep breath, and a sense of rightness settles over me.

I didn’t think Riley was the right nanny for us, but I’m changing my mind. I even wish I could participate in the pizza-movie marathon party too, though it’s not my usual style. But it’d be infinitely better than going to what promises to be a boring and unneeded dinner with an investor who needs a bit of handholding before making the decision to sell to Blue Lake. It’ll be a waste of time, stroking his ego and paying for his fancy meal and whiskey, when I could be at home.

A sharp, stabbing pain shoots from my foot up my shin, and I jerk beneath the table. I glare at the three other people seated with me and easily find the culprit because there’s only one person who would dare to shove their stiletto heel into my foot. And it’s not Mrs. Timmons, who is wearing sensible block heels, nor Mr. Timmons, who has on Oxfords.

I grit my teeth and scowl at my sister, Kayla, who stares right back, unbothered by my ‘what the fuck’ glare. In truth, her face is utterly placid, her smile as charming as ever. It’s only in her eyes that she’s screaming at me to get my shit together… now.

I tune in to what Mr. Timmons is saying, annoyed with myself that I zoned out. I don’t do things like that, especially when it’s my acquisition on the line.

“I just never thought the day would come when…”

Jesus fuck. Is he still droning on about how he thought he’d eat, sleep, breathe, and die in his office and never dreamed he’d end up selling ownership to a vulture capital company—ahem, I mean venture capital—like Blue Lake?

Yes, he is. Timmons thinks he’s the first man to ever devote himself to his company, as if he discovered sacrificial company building and quite possibly capitalism.

He’s blathered his way through cocktails, the salad course, entrees, dessert, coffee, and now another drink, and while this is a Big Deal—yes, with capital letters—to him, to me, it’s simply the next contract, the next negotiation, the next deal. And there will be another after this, ad infinitum.

Fortunately, he’s sipping the barest remainder of his expensive brandy so this dinner will be coming to a close any minute. Especially if I have anything to do with it.

“I know change can be difficult, but the zeros on the check help alleviate some of that,” I say dryly. Mr. Timmons blinks, his face immobile, and I realize my attempt at humor is ill-placed and unwelcomed. Trying to save the moment, I add, “As does the ability to prioritize things you’d like to focus on, like your lovely wife, family, and the other potential business opportunities you’ve mentioned.”

Mrs. Timmons reaches out, taking her husband’s hand with a soft smile. “It’s time, dear. Mr. Harrington knows it, I know it, and though you don’t want to admit it, you know it too.”

He stares at the way her thumb is tracing back and forth over his hand and then sighs. “Okay, Harrington. Send me the contract. I’ll sign it.”

I give a clipped nod. “It’ll be in your inbox tonight. We’ll take good care of what you’ve built,” I vow.

He huffs out an ironic laugh as he unflinchingly looks me in the eye. “No, you won’t. You’ll strip it down, sell the pieces, and divest completely once you’ve sucked it dry. I know that, so let’s not pretend this is a pretty transfer of ownership. I know what you do.”

I’d feel offended except what he said is the truth. Blue Lake Assets isn’t in the business of running textile factories, which is what we’re buying from Mr. Timmons. We’re not going to come in like financial saviors, reassuring the employees that they’ll have jobs under our ownership, and take over his existing contracts with buyers. We’ll do exactly what he said—use what he’s built to maximize our profits however it works best for us, and when we’re done, Timmons Textiles will cease to exist.

But Mr. Timmons will be a wealthy man. A very wealthy man.

“Be that as it may, it is what’s best for you and your company,” I reply coldly, “and mine.”

His nod is as much of an agreement as he’ll give, and he places his napkin on the table. Mrs. Timmons quickly follows his lead, doing the same and rising when Mr. Timmons pulls her chair out. “I’ll be expecting to hear from you. You’ll have the contract back by Monday.”

With that, the couple leave, and I’m alone to deal with my sister’s sudden and hard-hitting attack. “What the fuck was that, Cam? Timmons was in the middle of an emotional plea for his company, nearly in tears, and you simply space out like you couldn’t care less?” Her hissed words are quiet but spit out so harshly that the people at the table next to us—a couple celebrating an anniversary, by the appearance of it—simultaneously jerk their heads her way.

“I did not.” I absolutely did, but I instinctively deny it, lest my sister scent blood in the water. Or outright stab me so I’ll shed some.

The waiter slows as he walks by, probably trying to eavesdrop on the spicy drama, and Kayla throws him a sharp glare, scaring him off before he has a chance to interrupt her. As he scurries away, I almost call him back, just so I can get a moment’s reprieve, but I’m too proud to admit that I need assistance in dealing with my younger sister and her seemingly innate ability to cut you off at the knees.

Kayla narrows her eyes, staring at me like she can see into the depths of my depraved soul, which I’m honestly not sure she can’t do, so I drop my gaze first.

“Spill it. Now,” she demands.

“Nothing to spill. I’m fine. Great, actually. Closed the deal. Hired a nanny. Grace is great. I’m fine.” Even I can hear the lie in my voice as I rush to list out all the ways everything is going well, so Kayla will definitely catch it.

She’s officially worked at Blue Lake Assets since she graduated college, and she did her business internships there too, the same way I did. The parallels in our professional lives end there, though. I came up at Dad’s knee as he took Blue Lake from a monster into a beast in the global market. By the time Kayla started, she had to swim in the deepest parts of the ocean with mythological demons. She should’ve drowned, she should’ve run, she definitely should’ve failed, but no one ever bothered to tell Kayla that she couldn’t handle it, so she simply… did. And she’s done it remarkably well. When Dad does actually officially retire and pass the torch along, I will be proud to inherit it at Kayla’s side.

Despite her business acumen, her real superpower is in her intelligence, which she gets from our mother. Both can read a situation, a person’s intentions, and the fucking future like they’ve got a crystal ball in their tiny clutch purses.

Those are the skills Kayla puts to work now… on me.

“Tell me about the nanny. Janey says she’s amazing.” Kayla picks up her water glass and takes a dainty sip. She finished her wine with dinner, which was over an hour ago, so she’s stone cold sober and will be at her best, which means I need to answer thoughtfully.

“Riley’s great too.” Concise and accurate, with no room for interpretation. Good job, Cameron, I think to myself.

So why is a smile slowly blooming on my sister’s lips? “Riley.” She simply repeated her name, but she makes it sound like there’s particular significance to the two syllables.

“Yes, Riley. I wasn’t sure about her at first, but it seems Cole, Janey, and Grace were right. This time.” I tilt my head, remembering their unusual team-up to get me to hire her.

“You’re smiling,” Kayla informs me.

I force my lips into a frown. “No, I’m not.” But I felt the position change of my mouth as I did indeed stop smiling. “It’s just nice having help again,” I say by way of explanation. “And Riley’s better than I thought she’d be.”

Kayla’s perfectly done brows drop down over blue eyes that match my own. “Why would you think she wouldn’t be good? Janey said she’s worked with kids her whole life.”

I grunt, not sure I should confess the snap assumptions I made to my sister. She’ll ream me a new one, with some trite ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ bullshit, when we all know that’s exactly what a book cover is made for.

“Should I get us another round?” she asks, holding her hand in the air to get the waiter’s attention. Her voice is the picture of serenity, like she’s offering out of some sweet siblinghood show of concern.

“No,” I snap, pushing her arm down. When I meet her eyes again, I can see the glee there. She played me like a damn pro. Of course, she learned at both Mom and Dad’s sides, so I’m not surprised. “I don’t want another drink. I want to get home to see Grace before she goes to bed.”

“Are you worried about her?” she asks, her triumph evaporating in favor of concern.

Resigned, I sigh. “No, Grace really is doing okay. Better than she’s been in a while, honestly. And Riley… I wasn’t sure about her because she’s young and a bit…” I’m not sure how to describe her, so after searching for a description and coming up empty-handed, I finally shrug and just say, “She’s stepped in and stepped up, making everything at home run better than it was, though I’m not sure how she does it. I swear she basically flits from one thing to the next like a damn hummingbird, but somehow, it all gets done.” I shake my head in confusion because I truly don’t understand how Riley functions with zero calendar, no watch, and no schedule while seemingly existing in each moment fully with no regard to the next. “They’re having a pizza-movie marathon party tonight, and I spent half of dinner wishing I were there instead of listening to Timmons moan and groan about the best buyout offer he’s going to get.”

Wanting to be home with my child isn’t something to be ashamed of. Grace is my priority and I have rearranged meetings, handed off work, and skipped out on business things for her many times over the years. It’s one of the benefits of being a Harrington and being damn good at my job.

“Most of dinner,” Kayla corrects. “So if Grace is fine and the nanny is too, why the urgency to go?”

I go to answer, my mouth dropping open to say something, but nothing comes to mind. I end up closing my mouth—my grandmother would say it’s ‘so I don’t catch flies’—and stare at the white tablecloth.

“It’s fine, Cam. Let’s get you home.” As she rises from the table, she slyly adds, “To Grace.”

It felt like there was a weird pause in what Kayla said, but it was probably just because she was standing up.

“Yeah, it’s getting late, and I need to send the contract over to Timmons tonight,” I say, agreeing with her completely.

We walk out of the restaurant and hand the valets our tickets. As we wait for them to return with our respective cars, Kayla gives me a hug. She finishes with an extra-tight squeeze. “That’s for Grace. Make sure to pass it along from me.”

“Will do,” I vow. As she steps away, I add, “And thanks for saving me from myself tonight. I needed Timmons to sign that contract.”

She shrugs. “He was going to anyway. Just wanted someone to play him a tiny violin first.” She rubs her thumb and index fingers together and flashes a feral grin. She’s as much of a demon as the ones we swim with at Blue Lake.

She swings her blonde hair over her shoulder and struts to her car. One valet is standing at her door, holding it open for her. The other valet, who’s returned with my car, smiles at her politely but drops his eyes to her ass as she passes, looking his fill. I clear my throat pointedly, and when his eyes jerk to mine, I lift my brows sharply, silently chastising him.

“Sorry, sir. Your car,” he stammers.

I press my lips into a hard line. My sister is beautiful, but also completely out of this asshole’s league, and we both know it.

I slip the twenty I had in my hand back into my pocket, making sure he sees the move. “Inappropriate and unacceptable.”

“My apologies, sir.”

“You’re lucky I was the one who saw, so you’re only losing out on a tip. If it were her, she’d have you fired, fileted over an open flame, and praying for salvation that would never come.”

He dips his chin deferentially, but his grin is pure devilment. “I’m not sure I’d mind that… if it were her.”

Ballsy idiot doesn’t know what hell he’s asking for, and it’s pointless to enlighten him, so I shake my head in disapproval and get into my car. I have better places to be tonight. Namely, watching a movie with my daughter.

Which is what I tell myself the whole way home.