CHAPTER THREE
My hand is on my beard, right above the scar, when the girl looks over. I must look like I’m thinking something ponderous, possibly pretentious. And she’s probably noticing the way this suit doesn’t fit me quite right because it’s borrowed, or maybe just the fact that it doesn’t look right because it’s me inside it. Me, who didn’t even graduate high school. Me, who has no business wearing more than a sweat-stained undershirt to work.
I swear thirty seconds must pass while I’m looking right at her with my hand on my face, but it’s probably more like three. Then I’m looking away because the girl is jumping into Mason’s arms. He’s been so intent on watching the time; now I see why. So who is the girl? Is she a fling? Mason must be over fifty, but I’ve never heard mention of a wife.
They embrace for a long time, and I’m considering sneaking out — or at least clearing my throat to remind them that I’m still here — when Mason lets the girl go and turns to me with a bigger smile than I’ve ever seen, or even thought possible on the man. Mason has always been friendly and even fatherly to me. He sometimes jests, but his jokes are always indirect at best, and I’m never sure if I’m supposed to laugh.
So this is what he looks like happy. I realize all of a sudden that, even as many casual encounters I’ve had with Mason (mostly on job sites, where his passion for creation is always in bloom), I’ve never seen him a tenth as pleased as this.
“Brandon,” he says, “I’d like you to meet my little girl. And Riley, I’d like you to meet Brandon Grant. A man with a beard unbefitting a vice president.”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to shake her hand. This isn’t business. Among my friends, the girls have always hugged, and the men have always shaken. I’m not going to walk over and hug the boss’s daughter, but shaking her hand seems so awkwardly formal.
She saves me by holding out a hand first. I take it. Her hand is tiny compared to mine, and I don’t have large hands. I do have rough hands, though, and as she holds on, I’m sure she can feel every scratch, scrape, and callus. Vice president? she must be thinking. As if!
Her fingers are gone, and there’s a half second where I’m hanging onto a limp fish. I blink then force myself to let go. I give her a tight-lipped smile and a nod. It’s taking all I have to study her, top to bottom. She’s not tall at all; I could probably pick her up and swing her around like a kid. She’s dressed like she’s just come in from trotting around town in the sweltering heat — short khaki shorts and a plain pink, slightly wrinkled tee. She has big eyelashes and wavy blonde hair. Her smile is all bright white teeth. I’ve never seen one like it — the kind of smile that looks like it’s trying hard to bottle unbridled glee — the kind of unabashed joy that proper adults, once they reach seventeen or so, are no longer allowed to show the world.
I’m wondering if I should address the beard joke. There must be something witty I could say that moves the encounter forward without making concessions … because there’s no way I’ll shave my beard given the scar behind it.
But I’m at a loss. I’m trying not to look at Riley, and I’m also trying not to look deliberately away. My sense of decorum has abandoned me. How can I not know where to look? The only choices seem to be staring and averting my eyes. I’ll either creep her out or offend her.
“I thought Aunt Patty was vice president.”
Mason levels a look at me — the kind that says I’d better not reveal the softer side of Mason James outside of this room. He says, “Patty isn’t really her aunt,” then turns to Riley. “Different VP. We’ve added a few since you’ve been away. You’ll need to catch up.”
“VP of what?”
“Um. Land Acquisition.”
“Okay,” her smile hasn’t faltered. “So you’d acquire land.”
“Yeah.” I look at Mason, hoping he’ll save me. But Mason seems to have forgotten me entirely. He’s holding the girl at arm’s length, looking her over in a way I wish I could, asking her questions about a trip she must have just made and a college she must have just come from — possibly graduated, given the time of year and her overall look.
I’m not sure what to do here. Mason and I were supposed to be finished at one. Should I leave and let them have their moment?
But I don’t want to walk out. I want to hear what this girl has to say. I never went to college. I never had a relationship with my parents like she and Mason apparently have. I’m fascinated for some reason, wanting to hear it all.
And I’m trying not to stare.
She’s not dressed up, and what she’s wearing must be the most random of tossed-on outfits. Given my suit and her father’s, she looks young and out of place — not just in the room, but in the building as a whole. Her summertime look is ready for the beach. She could be a commercial for summer itself. But what strikes me most is how great ‘casual’ looks on her. She carries a strange mix of innocence and experience, like a girl on the cusp of something. She doesn’t know it, though. She probably walks down the street having no idea about all the heads turning to watch her pass.
Mason finally looks back, and I figure he’ll dismiss me. But Mason, like me, seems fascinated to hear what Riley has to say — though I imagine (and hope) his reasons are different.
But Riley doesn’t speak, and I realize I’ve been intruding. I feel stupid. I should have left, but here I still am — an uneducated, unqualified monkey in a borrowed suit, harboring schoolboy fantasies about the boss’s daughter … if, that was, I had any schoolboy days worth remembering.
I nod to Mason. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“Okay,” Mason says. “Thanks for coming in, Brandon. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, Mr. James.”
“Jesus, Brandon. If you don’t stop calling me ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. James,’ I’ll fire you instead of considering you. It makes me feel old.”
“Sorry.” I nod awkwardly then turn to Riley. “It was nice to meet you,” I say, not quite able to meet her eyes.
But she isn’t as shy as I am, and for a few seconds I find myself looking directly into light-hazel depths, her face open and welcoming. I feel ridiculous having checked her out. She’s just here to see her daddy on her way back from college, and here I am — a man who’s supposed to be focused, loyal, and honest — and I blew these impressionable minutes by checking her out.
I try to tell myself I was surprised. I didn’t know Mason even had a daughter. I didn’t know he was married. Our encounters have been amiable but all business, and Mason doesn’t wear a ring. I was caught off guard. That’s all.
Riley makes her tone almost conspiratorial and whispers, “I’ll see you later.”
I nod and am out the door before I register what I’ve heard.
See you later?
Why would I ever see Riley again … unless she’s come home for a job?
I don’t like that at all. I don’t like that her too-wide smile unseated something inside me. I don’t like that she looked at me as if she had no idea who I am or where I come from — or that I’m a fraud. I don’t like the way her innocence clashed with the cloud that’s always kind of around me, making me wonder if I’ve been seeing everything wrong.
If I have to see more of Riley James, I’m going to have a hell of a time pretending to be the proper executive I’m supposed to be.
But I long to see her later all the same.