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CHAPTER FOUR

Riley


“Ri?” 

I blink and look up at Dad. I feel the smile return to my face. It feels less natural — not because I’m not happy talking to him, but because I’m distracted. Dad’s executives and most of his employees have always felt like adults with a capital A. I grew up in this company, and think of most of the long-timers as aunts and uncles. They watched me run around these halls as a little kid then graduate to odd jobs as I grew older. I cleaned the office when it was in its old location, while Life of Riley was still a little unknown developer trailing far behind the big names building communities in Inferno Falls — names known by the entire country. I answered phones in my teens and did clerical work right up until it was time to head off to college. This company knows me, and I know it. We share the same name.

But Brandon Grant didn’t strike me as an adult. At least not with that capital A. He had to be at least twenty-five, maybe older, but he looked as out of place in that suit as I’d look in a chicken costume. I doubt Daddy sees it, but it’s plain to me. 

He didn’t feel like an uncle, but like a generation younger, still in the family, like a brother. Yet that’s definitely not right, based on the way my heart started to flutter the second his hand touched mine.

But Brandon isn’t why I’m here. I had four years of college and four years of high school to be flighty and boy crazy. There’s no doubt what my father expects of me now. And as he and I discussed on the phone, I’m now ready to prove my newly enhanced worth to this company … whether he thinks I’m ready or not.

“Yes, Daddy?” 

“So what do you think?” 

“Of what?” 

He nods toward the closed door. “Of Brandon.” 

There’s no way I heard that right. It’s like Dad can see right through me, even with my big, innocent smile.

“Does he strike you as vice president material?” 

“Oh.” I keep the relieved sigh inside me. “I don’t know. You know him better than I do.” 

“He’s young, with zero executive experience. But he’s smart, and he’s had to do some acquisitions work as project head for a few sites. He’s a natural networker. He’s magnetic. People just like him.” 

Magnetic? Brandon certainly polarized something inside me, but he didn’t strike me as the kind of person my father would characterize as “magnetic” or even a “natural networker.” He seemed subdued. Maybe even awkward. 

“He seems shy.” 

“He’s usually not like that,” Dad says, his face now curious. “I think he was intimidated. We just had lunch, and I took him around the office. He knew a lot of these people from talking to them on the phone, but he usually works on site. He came up through the ranks and got his start in construction. Not as a foreman, either. As a carpenter.”

“Oh,” I say. 

“But he’s smart. And when I say ‘magnetic,’ I don’t mean loud and boisterous. I mean an understated kind of smart, and not from books. Thoughtful, I guess. He’s heading up Stonegate. On the south side of Cherry Hill. Where those little rock faces are?” 

I nod. I’m trying to listen like a vice president myself instead of a girl with a flutter. 

“It’s a tricky project,” Dad continues, “but when the architect and planner were having some little petty spat, Brandon played peacemaker then suggested much of the plan himself. Didn’t take or want credit, either; I only know because I was on site and saw him sketching through a street plan hitch and some drainage issues. Somehow, we came in under budget despite a lost week with the squabbles and tricky planning. And the best part is, even though I and a few other people have explained to him how astonishing that is — not just to come in under budget and on track, but to do so after a dispute — he just shakes it off. Thinks we’re blowing smoke.” 

“Well, he seems nice,” I say. God, I sound lame.

Dad shrugs. “I’ve got a few other people who want the new VP slot, but my gut says Brandon’s my guy.” 

My gut says something about him, too. But I just nod and pretend this is just a boring discussion. 

The topic must be closed for Dad too, because he sort of resets, exhales, and practically claps his hands. 

“Well, now! My little girl is home. I’m glad. What should we do to celebrate?”

“Want to follow me home and help me unpack my car?” 

“I’m not that glad.” He laughs. 

I sigh. “I’m pretty tired.” 

“Late night?” 

I wonder if this is an unintentional dig. Is he asking if I’ve been out partying? I never had a history, when I lived at home, of staying up to study and further my academic pursuits. I was a good student without effort, so I rarely bothered. I used each class in high school to ignore the teacher and do the homework for the previous class. It’s a bit unfair, now, that he’d characterize me as negligent just because school rarely required much effort. 

I try to step into my father’s shoes and see things through his eyes. He raised me mostly by himself. Of course he’d notice my social life more than the time I spent staying quietly at home. The former causes more problems for fathers than the latter.

“Just a long drive, Dad.” 

“Want to go to the Inside Scoop? Get some ice cream?”

That does sound good. But it also sounds like the kind of thing we used to do when I was eighteen. Or fifteen. Or ten. I’d scrape my knee, and we’d go for ice cream. So after a long drive, I guess we’d do the same. 

“No thanks. I just want to settle in.” 

“Your room is just how you left it.” 

I see a look on his face that I’ve imagined on the phone a lot recently — eyebrows up, asking a question without a question being asked. His words are like a hanging statement without a period, because there’s more if I leave him an opening.

“I’m not staying,” I say. “I need to get my own place. I’m barely going to unpack. Just long enough to do some apartment hunting.”

“It’s a huge house. You can keep to one end, and I’ll keep to the other.” 

“Dad, no.” 

“There’s even the private entrance. Remember? We had it put in when it looked like Grandma might come and live with us. Just close the hall door, stick to your kitchen and living room. You can pretend I’m your creepy old guy neighbor.” 

“Dad … ”  

He sort of sighs, and I watch his shoulders sag. The big, powerful Mason James, humbled. But he knows all of this. I made it clear. 

“Okay. I hear you, Princess.”

I decide to let that one go, but I’ve done my time being the princess. I’m not too proud to take help, and it’s not like he didn’t pay for school. But I can’t live at home. I can’t be a burden. I can’t be a spoiled little rich girl, accepting all that I’m given. Not because it’s a drain on Dad, but because it’s a drain on me. There were plenty of times I believed I was a princess: the nice house, the free car on my sixteenth birthday, the nearly instant fulfillment of pretty much anything I wanted. I don’t resent or regret any of it. I love my father, and I’m grateful for all he’s done for me. But the problem with princesses is that nobody works to become one. My mother and father (then just Dad) built this kingly empire from nothing, and now Life of Riley is Inferno’s largest developer — big enough that its work influences the economy, builds schools and parks. By contrast, I got my crown at birth. 

“I’ll head over now. I just needed to stop by and pick up the key.” 

“Marta’s there. She could have let you in.” 

“Then I stopped because I wanted to say hi.” I squeeze Dad’s hand, because I think I just gave him too harsh of a shove. I need my space, but he’s still my father. “And because I thought I might need to fill out some sort of paperwork. With human resources or something.” 

That look crosses his face again. “Why don’t you wait until Monday? Give yourself a week to get settled before leaping in.” 

“I’d really rather start tomorrow.” 

There’s a pause in which he seems to be considering a few things at once: my new hire paperwork, maybe; all the things I’ve been telling him lately over the phone for sure. Perhaps our mutual past. My future. Who I was and who, I’m sure, he still thinks I am. 

He finally sighs. “Okay. Talk to Harold on your way out. Be sure to spell your name carefully so he gets it right.” 

I laugh. Harold was one of my father’s first employees, apparently still happy as paperwork puppet master after nearly twenty years. Even if my name weren’t on the company stationery, he knew me in pigtails. 

I’m halfway to the door when Dad says, “Forgetting something?” 

I turn around. He’s holding up a small keyring. I recognize the shine, meaning they’re newly duplicated, and the fact that there are three: two for the front door’s knob and deadbolt, then one more. Almost certainly the second entrance. 

I take the keys, kiss him on the cheek, and say thanks. 

“Welcome home, Riley,” he says.