CHAPTER ONE
By the time I reach Dad’s office, my eyes are definitely wet. There’s a sensation in my chest that feels … unsettled, as if I’ve forgotten something, or as if something bad happened during the drive that I don’t remember. But on top of all that, I’m mainly just happy to be home.
I kill the engine, unable to decide which should bother me more: that I feel this phantom sadness when I should be happy … or that I feel happy when, all things considered, I should put more focus on being sad.
I flick down the rearview mirror. Because the thing is long and narrow, I see a pair of hazel eyes looking back, darkened by a thin sliver of liner that Candace applied before I left, “for old times’ sake.” It broke my heart a little. We had breakfast at the old place before going home — no big deal. With my car packed the night before, I was half-sure someone would steal it while we were scarfing pancakes. And it was just supposed to be pancakes. My roommate wasn’t supposed to feel it occasion enough to do my makeup like we were going to a club. Or like we might never see each other again and this was our last chance.
It would have been so much easier to leave without saying goodbye.
Fortunately, the mascara is as waterproof as its claim. I didn’t really cry; I just misted up — probably because for the entire drive, I haven’t been sure whether I was actually sad. And Candace was subtle enough not to cake me up like a hooker on the prowl. I’m not great with makeup myself. It’ll probably be strange to start seeing these hazel eyes without all the extra black. Odd to see my blonde hair as it hangs, rather than elaborately done up, the way Candace styles it.
About the time I find myself starting to wonder about my former roommate’s future, I force myself to blink back the moisture. This is ridiculous. College is over, but that doesn’t mean those friendships are. It just means that those days are done.
Which is a good thing, right?
I nod as if someone asked me the question aloud, give my eyes a final check, then flip the rearview back to where it belongs. I’m still nodding as I stuff the phone back into my purse then hunt for my ChapStick, which may have rolled into the gap between the console and the passenger seat. If it rolled the other way, I can forget it. Even if my Pottery Barn plant stand thing wasn’t wedged there, upended and filled with all the crap that littered my desk for the past year, it’d be lost in the abyss of gas station receipts, napkins, and broken pens that claims my car’s nooks and crannies even during normal days.
I find the ChapStick, give my lips a sheen of wax, and smack them. Then I’m getting out, looking at my Beverly Hillbillies packing (I had to leave one of the back windows open to accommodate the corner of one of my storage crates), wondering if I should be worried about someone stealing my stuff. Then I realize that this parking lot is exalted Cherry Hill thanks to all the developments my father’s built there, and that nobody steals in Cherry Hill.
And besides, I won’t be here long. I’m also parked beside Dad’s BMW, which makes a much better target. If I’m doing anything wrong by stopping here before heading home, it’s embarrassing the company with my overstuffed collegemobile and my admittedly left-leaning bumper stickers.
I slide out of the car then pause to readjust myself in the driver’s side window. I fluff my hair. I try to smooth my shirt and shorts from the drive. I ask myself if I’d be hiring material at the company I’m about to enter, all other things being equal, given the way I look now.
The answer, without question, is no. I’ve been driving for three hours, and my air conditioning hasn’t been blowing cold at all (probably because all my crap is pressed against the vents), and I can feel my shirt sticking to my back. My hair should be in a ponytail and feels gross, even though I washed it last night. Oh, and I stopped for Taco Bell. So I probably smell like Taco Bell’s version of beans.
Again, I consider going home first. But Dad’s office is on the way, and it’s another twenty minutes to the big house where I grew up. I’ll want to sleep the minute I get there. Dad asked me to stop by, so I won’t want to run out again.
I could let it go like everyone expects me to. I could head to the big empty house, take a shower, then lie on the couch and figure out whether or not I’m sad to have left my friends and all I’ve known for the last four years. And then when Daddy comes home, I could greet him in the bubbly way he expects, because that’s how Riley always is. Happy little Riley, who never had to work for anything because her father is Mason James.
Nobody would fault me for doing that. I don’t have to be here, about to enter an office, smelling like beans with my sweaty shirt sticking to my back.
But if I expect Dad to take me seriously — if I expect him to believe what I said on the phone last week — then I need to be here. Because I said I would stop by on my way to the house … and these days more than ever, I’m a girl who keeps her appointments.
If I were anyone else, I might try to psych myself up right now, tell myself that I could nail the interview and get this job. But fortunately, I have an in. My name is literally on the sign.
I leave my stuffed car and tap the sign for luck as I pass. It says Life of Riley, just above a line about the luxury communities Dad’s well known for building.
I look at my phone. It’s 12:55, giving me five minutes to get inside and be exactly on time, just like any responsible young woman who can be trusted with … well, anything.
My challenge at Life of Riley Homes is different than most applicants.
I don’t need to get the job. I have it already.
But I need to make sure that the job my father gives me is real rather than nepotism — a fact no one will admit to, even though it’s plain as day.