The Boss's Daughter

by Aubrey Parker

  “Sure,” I say. “Where specifically?”

  Instead of giving me an address, a vague description, a parcel number, or GPS coordinates, Margo tells me that I’ll get everything I need on arrival.

  Margo seemed plenty smart enough to realize what’s wrong with this request, so I give her a few minutes to recognize it without my pointing it out. But once she’s closing the conversation and preparing to hang up, I interject.

  “Hang on,” I say. “I still need an address or something, at least.” Maybe I’ll get all I need when I get there, but how the hell am I supposed to arrive without knowing where I’m headed?

  “I don’t have it on hand,” Margo says. “Sorry. I’m away from home.”

  “But … ”

  Margo laughs. “Oh, right. I guess I forgot something kind of important.”

  I ready my envelope and pen. Vague directions, here we come.

  “She’ll pick you up. That way, you’ll have the survey equipment, which is in one of the company trucks.”

  “Who will pick me up?”

  “Mason’s daughter. Looks like she’s the new intern.”

  I’m already thinking about the promotion to vice president. I was just wondering how to make Mr. James like me better than the other candidates. And for some reason, Margo’s words are a wrench in the works. I feel nervous in a blink. Jittery. Like I might start sweating, even though it’s cold in here.

  “That sounds fine,” I lie.

  CHAPTER 8

  Riley

  I weave down from Cherry Hill to Old Town, trying to stay awake.

  Margo told me to pick Brandon up at Hill of Beans coffee shop, which struck me as strange since Margo made the rules and set the pickup time for 7 a.m. I assumed I’d be going to his house, but for some reason she said he’d be at the coffee shop. I told Margo yesterday that I’d want to stop for coffee anyway and that I’d just pick him up and then drive through Starbucks, which is on the way and doesn’t require us to get out of the truck. But she said Brandon had been specific: He wasn’t there to pick up coffee. He was there because he’d already be there, implying he’d been there for hours.

  I wonder if I really want to spend my morning with someone so eager. I hate playing into clichés, but it’s true that I got used to staying up late and sleeping in at college. I sprang up and out of the house with a smile so that Dad would see I’m capable of holding a normal schedule, but I started to droop once inside the truck. I haven’t had my coffee either. Getting dressed took all the time I could eke out of this morning’s wee hours.

  I could have moved faster if I’d just pulled my hair back, rubbed on some deodorant, and gone out in whatever I could dig quickly out of my still-unpacked boxes. But I didn’t sleep that well and dragged myself out of bed at just after six. It seemed proper to shower. It then felt proper not just to pull my hair back, but to take ten minutes to dry and tame it. My decently prepped hair looked funny without makeup, so I put on a low-key, five-minute face, mainly trying to hide my tired eyes. By then it was sunny out and I knew the day would be warm, so I said what the hell and put on a light sundress. Choosing my sandals took the rest of my time, and now, as I pull to a stoplight, I catch my reflection. I flash the mirror a toothy smile and realize that it all seems fake. I look like a moderately cute zombie.

  And in that instant, I feel ridiculous.

  I’m not in my little car. I’m in this huge truck. It has double wheels in the back, and I’m constantly afraid I’m going to sideswipe the people around me. The mirrors stick out too far, and I had to open the window while driving to manually adjust them. It blew my hair everywhere, and I haven’t been able to tame it. Now I look stupid. I’m a tiny girl in an enormous truck, in a sundress and strappy sandals. Why didn’t I just wear jeans? There’s survey equipment in the back, and I have to assume we’ll be tromping about since the goal is to investigate a large swatch of land.

  I should have brought a picnic basket. That would fit my look so much better.

  I pull the enormous Life of Riley truck into the Hill of Beans parking lot. Like everything in Old Town, Hill of Beans is in a hundred-year-old building along a street never intended for modern traffic. Everything is too narrow, and I have to thread this behemoth between buildings to reach the back lot. By the time I’ve parked, I already resent Brandon. I’m tired. I really will have to get out of the truck, as opposed to hitting Starbucks, which has a nice, wide drive-through and sits on a more contemporary street.

  But as I’m about to unbuckle, the passenger door opens and Brandon is climbing into the cabin, drink carrier in hand. He settles then takes one of the two cups and extends it toward me.

  “Do you drink coffee?”

  I look down. It’s like he’s given me a million dollars. Or a puppy. Or an orgasm in a paper cup. I take it eagerly, resisting the urge to pour the desperately needed fuel down my throat.

  “Yes! Thank you.”

  “I didn’t know if you’d want it with cream or what, so I got a bunch.” He shakes a small paper bag he’d balanced in the carrier. I take it and doctor my coffee. He’s managed the perfect recipe: three little creamers, two packets of Equal, and a stirrer. Literally nothing goes to waste.

  I sip the coffee. I know it’s all in my head, but the first tablespoon that drips into me is like liquid energy. I feel instantly better. More alive. I give him a genuine smile, hopefully not too much like a cute zombie.

  I turn to look properly at Brandon. He’s worn a dress shirt and slacks. It’s not nearly as fine as yesterday’s suit, but he certainly looks like a pro.

  He looks at me and says, “Margo told me to dress down. Didn’t she tell you to dress down?”

  I actually look away. I almost say, Oh, you mean this old dress? Instead I say, “You don’t seem dressed down.”

  “Dressed down more than you.” He’s looking me over. His eyes spend too much time on my legs.

  “You’re not dressed down at all.”

  “We might have to hike through weeds.”

  “Good thing I’m in a summery dress, perfect for skipping through meadows then.” It’s not a bad answer. But Margo did tell me to dress down because we’d be off site and trekking through undeveloped land. I think her specific advice was to wear jeans and boots. I’m not sure why I didn’t listen. I must be exhausted.

  Brandon shrugs. I catch a flash of his blue eyes before he looks away.

  He sips his coffee. I catch myself looking at his arms, wondering back at the things Phoebe said about watching him shirtless.

  “Don’t you have a bag?” I ask.

  “Bag?”

  “Weren’t you working?”

  It takes him a minute to understand, but then he looks away again. I’d assumed he’d come here with something — a computer, papers to peruse, something he’d be working on before I’d shown up. But he has nothing.

  “I just wanted to get a cup of coffee,” he says.

  “I told Margo it’d have been easier to drive through Starbucks.”

  “I wanted Hill of Beans.”

  “Is this on the way? Starbucks is on the way. I could have picked you up at your place.”

  “Jesus!” he snaps. “Starbucks? Really? How about supporting our local businesses?”

  I blink. He’d seemed so quiet yesterday, but today the guy’s touchy. Maybe he’s not an early riser, either.

  I don’t respond. I’m annoyed by his holier-than-thou dig at my sense of town pride, but I guess I can give him the benefit of the doubt.

  I press the brake, wishing he’d be chivalrous and offer to drive but not willing, after that burst of snippiness, to ask. I have the seat almost all the way up and can still barely reach the pedals.

  As I start the arduous process of turning around in the small Hill of Beans back lot, I catch Brandon looking at me. I jockey back and forth, exaggerating the difficulty with much sighing and grunting so he’ll get the point and relieve me. He never stops watching.

  By the time
the truck is fully turned, annoyance has replaced fatigue. Brandon not offering to take the wheel now feels like an affront, and every second he refuses to help is like giving me the finger.

  “What?” I snap.

  Brandon’s head flicks away, his gaze now out the windshield.

  “Nothing.”

  “You keep looking at me. Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  But I’m sure there is. He’s been assessing my dress, which has ridden up on the truck’s seat. He’s seeing my insensible footwear. He’s probably noticing the way I did my hair and put on some makeup. I don’t wear much jewelry, but I’m sure that right now my small silver hoop earrings look overly delicate. I must seem naive to him — a girl out of her element.

  I’ll bet he even talked to my father. In fact, that’s probably what all of this is about. I told Dad I was ready to start work at the company I hoped to one day take over, but instead of being proud of me and explaining Life of Riley’s profit model, he essentially patted me on the head and gave me a token job suited for ill-prepared, silly-little-rich-girl college kids recently home from school and deluded about their futures. He says I’m an all-purpose intern so I can learn the ropes from the bottom, but let’s face it: I’m here to fill space. To stay occupied. To have something to do during the day, before I go to the clubs and dance all night with cute guys who my silly little brain can’t help but giggle endlessly over.

  Dad probably sent me to pick up Brandon so he could keep an eye on me.

  Now, Brandon, don’t expect too much from her. She’s just back from school and is feeling all bright-eyed and overly optimistic. She’ll want to help, but make sure you watch her if she tries. Supposedly, she has her degree in business, but let’s face it — that’s just because the college board knows me. Keep her safe. Make sure she doesn’t twist an ankle out there. The ridiculous little thing will probably do something absurd, like show up for a survey in sandals and a sundress.

  My jaw has been sliding back and forth, assessing Brandon as he looks through the windshield. I watch him swallow, as if he’s afraid of me.

  Finally, I slide the transmission into drive, and we pull out of the lot, onto the street, turning toward the lands outside Old Town, between the historic center and Cherry Hill.

  “Why do you wear that beard?” My voice sounds angry in my ears. The question is clearly loaded — spoken as more than an idle query — but I don’t care. If he and my father are going to discuss me behind my back, I’m allowed to be bothered. And if he’s not going to offer to drive the truck like a man, I’m allowed to be gruff. I keep both hands on the big wheel. I want to drink more of the coffee, but now it seems tainted.

  “I just like having a beard.” His eyes flick toward me then away. I don’t like that gaze. But I also kind of want him to keep doing it.

  “It makes you look like a lumberjack. What successful person has a beard?”

  “Richard Branson.”

  The question was supposed to be rhetorical. I’m irritated that he answered, especially so fast.

  “If you really want to get the vice presidency, you should shave it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s unprofessional.”

  “It’s hair.”

  “It doesn’t look right for a vice president.”

  “Now you’re judging me on my appearance,” he says. “What if I were black?”

  “That’s not remotely the same.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “No it’s not! I am not racist!”

  “You’re just beardist.”

  He’s really annoyed me. He’s really, really, really annoyed me. I need to stay angry. I don’t like being called a racist. Not that he called me one. But he made the analogy. In order to point out that I’m a total beardist.

  I catch movement in the corner of my eyes and look over to see him looking at me — but this time, at my face.

  “Fucking dirty beardist,” he says, deadpan.

  That makes me laugh hard enough that I almost rear-end the car in front of us. But it’s okay. Because after that, things are better, and we ride the rest of the way to Reed Creek in amicable quiet while the sun slowly rises behind us.

  CHAPTER 9

  Brandon

  I have no idea why Riley wore what she wore for this job. I hate it. I hate it because the fabric falls perfectly on her small frame — inch-wide straps hanging from sun-kissed shoulders, the rise and fall of her body evident from the way the dress lies against her skin, the way the seat belt separates her breasts and gravity causes the dress to sway downward between her knees. In the morning sun, her blonde hair shines like gossamer. Her profile is beautiful. She has a small nose and ripe-looking lips that are somewhere between pink and red.

  If I saw Riley in a bar, I’d definitely talk to her. If she weren’t my boss’s daughter, I’d definitely try to take her home.

  But she is my boss’s daughter.

  And if I saw her in a bar and took her home, that would sink my chances of rising at Life of Riley. It might even end everything for me at the company, and leave me with three years down the drain.

  But still, I can’t stop peeking over at her.

  I loved what happened with her face when she laughed a moment ago. Her smile is wide, white, and all teeth. It should look odd, but it doesn’t. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. And when she laughed, that wide smile split in the middle and her blue-green eyes narrowed to slits. It was such an innocent, almost helpless exhalation of emotion. A tiny moment of bliss. I’d done that to her to her, and I wanted to do it again.

  I look over now. She’s so small behind the wheel of the huge truck. I should probably be driving, but I can’t make myself stop gawking at how she looks over there. There’s something primal at play, watching her handle the largeness and boldness of it all, juxtaposed with how young and sweet the outfit makes her look. As if she were shooting a gun in that pretty little dress, or cranking a giant machine.

  But she catches me looking again, and I remind myself to keep my eyes forward. She’s off limits — there’s no point in thinking anything other than the most professional thoughts.

  Which is why I’m so annoyed that she wore what she did. There are sure to be dicey places in the land we’re about to check out, but it’s summertime in Inferno Falls, and that means there will be a lot of tall grass, too. She’s going to walk through that grass, and I’m going to look over at her and see this perfect vision of feminine purity: the girl in a dress walking a meadow. Maybe there will be little wildflowers. And maybe she’ll pick some and slip them behind her ear. Maybe she’ll gather enough for a bouquet, and I’ll have to watch her walk toward me, toward the truck, flowers clasped in front of her, her legs long, hair flowing, smile full of youthful wonder.

  I don’t want to see that.

  I want her in jeans.

  Baggy jeans.

  Dirty jeans.

  Maybe smelly jeans.

  I want her in a big, stained work shirt. I want her hair in a ratty mess. I want her feet in clodhoppers. I want to see her picking her nose, wiping wax from her ear, throwing up drunk. I want to be repulsed. But then the truck is stopping, and I look over to see her turning to step out. I catch the swish of fabric. The shift that brings her hem up too high. The long, graceful swing of toned legs. The turn of her head, swinging hair, her face turning as she exits with another one of her big smiles.

  I sit in the cab for an extra second. The door closes, but instead of waiting for me, Riley is already moving into the undeveloped property, and I have to watch the dress move on her body.

  I get out. I nearly step into a puddle, ruining my good pair of shoes. And that’s when I realize that I should have done as Margo suggested. I should have worn old jeans and boots and a T-shirt, but for some reason I couldn’t. Same as how I couldn’t let Riley pick me up at the Regency and see where I live.

  I tell myself I did those things because impressing Riley is the same as im
pressing Mason, and that seeming pro in front of her will raise my standing with her father.

  I almost believe it.

  In front of me, she turns. “I know this place.”

  I look around. I definitely don’t.

  “Reed Creek is over that way.” She points. “My friends and I used to explore it. Follow the water. See where it went.”

  She starts to walk away. I think she might be headed somewhere, but she’s just craning around for a better look. This land is on a hill, but it’s not a remarkable hill in itself. It strikes me as the perfect kind of land to develop. Done right, building here will enhance the look of this place rather than appear as a blight. As I’ve moved up at Life of Riley, that’s been a goal of mine: to improve what needs improving, but leave things as they are if best left alone. Over and over, I’ve seen wonderful bits of land filled with ugly houses, so I don’t want to do the same. If I get the vice presidency and find myself in charge of Land Acquisition, I’ll be specific about our chosen sites. This property, for instance, is near Reed Creek, land that I’d never dare disturb. It’s beautiful down there. This? It’s just sort of nothing.

  “I know Reed.”

  “But this land?” Riley looks around then points in the opposite direction. “We used to play horses out here.”

  I don’t know what that means, and I must look it because she laughs.

  “My friend Eva and me. She lived just there — ” She points a third time. “And so when I went to her place, a lot of times we ended up here. Well, not here, but down there, just past that ridge. How far does this land go?”

  I tell her I don’t know. I’m not a surveyor. If I get the job, I’ll probably try to learn a bit more, and I’m sure there’s a GPS thing they use, but for now I use the transits as telescopes. There are surely boundary pins out there somewhere, but I don’t plan on stumbling through the grass to find them. I’ll ballpark it. If the company and seller are serious, and if I end up being the man in charge, I’ll return with a crew and do this better, more accurately.