And now here I am at work. On time, like a chump. Wearing one of my nice shirts, again because I’m a chump. I feel for the entire morning like I’m walking around bent over, so willing to do whatever the company needs of me, no matter how degrading.
I’m in charge here, so I guess it says nothing, the way nobody has told me to leave. But there’s been no call from Margo or anyone else at the office asking for one of my foremen and wondering why I’m here instead of the unemployment line.
I do my job and slowly decide that the minute I can afford it, I’ll march back into Mason’s office and demand the vice presidency. It’s that, or I quit. And I’ll mean it. Because the longer I sit here, picking up the slack nobody else ever picks up, doing my job better than anyone else does theirs, going above and beyond without recognition, the angrier I get.
Mason treated me like a criminal. He didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt. He did exactly the opposite. For some reason, I was guilty until proven innocent. He wouldn’t listen, as if he’d already decided I wasn’t just late because of something reasonable, but was instead because I’d been busy robbing a liquor store.
Or having angry sex with his daughter.
But he doesn’t know that unless Riley told him. So as soon as Bridget’s check comes in and I get my money back, I’ll turn the tables. I’m going to demand a promotion, or I walk. I’ll make a list of everything I do, everything that would be dead if I hadn’t intervened. And I’ll shove it down his throat.
I’m out of here. I had a naive love of this company, but I’m over it now. The company doesn’t love me back, or it would believe in me.
“Hey, boss,” Shaun’s voice says from behind me, in the small trailer that functions as our on-site office. “Someone to see you.”
I see Shaun standing beside a tall black man when I turn, wearing clothes that are nicer than mine. He’s vice president of finance at Life of Riley, and I’m pretty sure his name is Marcus. I’ve met him before, but it was in the hurly-burly of the office tour a thousand years ago, back when I’d thought I might get a vice presidency myself.
I swallow my anger. Marcus is just a guy like me, doing a job. And today, he’s probably here to ask for mine.
We shake hands, and I fake a smile.
“We just stopped by to get your projections, as we talked about last week.”
“Projections?”
“You said you were on schedule and under budget.”
I understand his words, but they don’t make sense. When I talked to Marcus, he’d been gathering information from Mason’s candidates for vice president of Land Acquisition. It was kind of like a live resume, or a reality show contest. Whoever looked best, with the best credentials, won. But Marcus must not have missed the memo: I’m now persona non grata in Mason James’s eyes … or at least persona not worth trusting with real responsibility, like that of a company VP.
“Sure,” I say, handing him a folder. I copied the documents in more certain times — happier times, when I’d still thought I was a candidate. They’ve been sitting atop my desk for days, neatly collated and ready for delivery.
“I’ll run these back after lunch,” he says.
But earlier, he said we. And now he’s saying I.
“Who’s with you?” I ask. Because it’s Mason. I’m sure it’s Mason, because even if they’re still pretending I have a shot at the VP job, Mason would want to check up on me. Because I’m that irresponsible, and need to be watched like a child.
But he doesn’t need to answer, because now I can see Marcus’s car through the doorway.
It’s not Mason.
Standing beside the car, looking like she doesn’t want to be here any more than I want her to be, is Riley James.
CHAPTER 30
Riley
The look Brandon gives me from the office trailer chills me even in the warm air. I’m wearing the most professional outfit Phoebe could find, and it’s suitable for a meeting with any number of stodgy feminist groups. But still I feel like I’m standing here naked, all of my girl parts visible for Brandon to stare at.
I feel intimidated by his gaze. I feel like I’m being judged. I feel like he’s staring at this strange nakedness I’d swear is real, but he’s not turned on; he’s embarrassed for me instead. He’s looking down on me, like a fool. This isn’t like entering a man’s bedroom naked, it’s like walking into a big room full of people while not wearing clothes.
I want to cover myself up. I want to turn away.
Instead, I stay where I am, trying not to look directly at him or away. Every little gesture and movement of my body feels deliberate, and not in a good way. Would a person who didn’t care about being here cross her legs and lean back? Or would she stand ramrod straight, as if on review? Should I go forward to show him that none of this is a big deal, or should I start sniffing around the job site as if searching for loose ends?
I went to bat for Brandon, and still he’s looking at me like he has no idea. His stare says he hates me. Like he blames me for everything, and not just what happened since the weekend. My family was rich, and his was poor. I had both parents once, and kept a father, whereas he probably knew neither. I’ve never had to do more than say please to get what I wanted, while Brandon always had to slave away for weeks and months and years.
I’m everything he’s always struggled against.
And as I stand next to this expensive car in my lady-suit, I find there’s nothing I can do to make myself less hateful. If I’m stoic, I’m sure he’ll feel I’m here to judge him — which, if you read between the lines of what Marcus probably just told him, is exactly what I’m here to do. But if I’m light and casual and friendly, he might think I’m still on the hook. He’ll think I’m recalling what happened between us and wanting more, which I definitely am not.
Except that sometimes, I kind of am.
Before the ride home, we were doing remarkably well. We had fun at dinner. Famous levels of fun, too — not just polite, well-mannered banter. The stuff we bonded over was deep-me, not surface-level Riley. And it must have felt deep for Brandon too because after we talked about music, he took me to hear some.
I tingle at the memory of his touch — the innocent brushes before things became serious.
I wonder if we could ever move beyond this. If we could erase the last handful of hours spent together and cut things off before I climbed inside his truck. He’d offered to call me a car, and as I watch him now, I’m wondering what would have happened if I’d taken it.
I’d have gone home, feeling good about this handsome, ambitious man who’d so impressed my father.
I’d have drawn a bath.
And if I’m honest, I’m fairly sure I’d have detached the sprayer and done what felt right, recalling our long and sensuous evening.
The brush of his fingers on mine.
The way he looked when we listened to Gavin play his haunting song.
The looks Brandon gave me all night long.
And if all of that had happened, I’d be here just the same, standing beside this car. But there wouldn’t be this horrible tension. This feeling that Brandon blamed me for something, the feeling that I’d betrayed myself and my intentions to be serious for once rather than the flighty girl my father expects.
Ironically, if we hadn’t had sex, right now a part of me would be dreaming of it. Only it wouldn’t just be sex. My fairy tale mind would be looking forward to the day we might make love.
But not here. Not now.
If you think he’s our man, Riley, my father told me, then you go there today with Marcus, and find out.
After speaking again with Chief Wood and learning that Brandon wasn’t the man who busted up Room With a Cue — something he wouldn’t have found out if I hadn’t pressed — I think my father feels sheepish by Morgan James standards. He’ll admit when he was wrong to most people, but to me he’s still hedging. The best he can manage is a reluctantly apologetic manner. And a reluctantly conferred positio
n of responsibility.
It’s interesting that what’s saved Brandon’s skin at this company is the same thing that’s letting me prove myself.
And right now, it’s like Brandon knows it. As if, looking at me, he’s thinking that I orchestrated this all on purpose. Maybe I seduced him to save him and move up the ladder.
Brandon and Marcus come forward. Marcus doesn’t seem to know we’re acquainted, so I allow him to introduce us. Brandon follows my lead, and soon we’re shaking hands and saying it’s nice to meet each other.
I hold Brandon’s hand, and my traitorous mind recalls the way it felt on my bare ass, the chilly night air kissing my skin. I look into his eyes and remember the hungry way they locked on mine. The sense that he meant to devour me. And, paradoxically, I remember the way they looked earlier — the opposite of lust filled. At the Overlook, they’d been soft, sad, deep. He’d seemed older then, and I’d felt much, much younger. But we’d both felt that music.
We walk around for a while, and it’s like there’s a magnet pulling us together. Marcus keeps ending up ahead while we both trail back, and there are a few times when, weaving around in-progress construction, we actually collide. I wonder if I’m making it happen on purpose. I look over at Brandon and wonder if he is. If I was wrong. If he’s not ashamed of what we did. If maybe he wants more.
I think of our dinner discussion. Our sprawling talk as we prowled Old Town’s streets. Our soft words spoken in the club, before and after the performance. Even our conversation back when we first walked the new land, and how I brought us to the creek.
Nobody really understands what it’s like to lose a parent. But even then, my heart wanted to trust him, because he did know. And more.
I look at his face. I remember all Bridget told me because I’ve been playing it over and over in my head. And every time I tried to hate Brandon for what happened and the way he acted, I can never quite believe it. Because I was there too. And because I like Bridget a lot, and she loves this man with all her heart. He’s her rock, and she’s his. I’ve never had anything like that. I never had a sibling, and my friends always stayed at arm’s length. Mom and I were close. Dad and I — maybe because of what happened with Mom and how that broken bond made me feel — were always more distant. I wouldn’t let him as close to me.
Looking at Brandon, I remember what Bridget told me about his face in particular. About his beard. About the story behind all that happened.
And I can’t hate him. I can’t let him hate me. I can’t believe he’d hate me.
As we’re crossing beside an open foundation, my heel catches, and I totter. I’m far from falling in, but Brandon doesn’t watch me wobble. He doesn’t offer me a hand. Instead, he takes me around the waist as if he’s sure I’m about to plummet to my death. It’s not until afterward when he seems embarrassed, as if he should’ve known better.
I watch his profile and try to see what Bridget told me was there in her early morning whisper — a story written in flesh.
He sees me looking and turns, but this time his eyes are softer. We break the gaze a second after it forms, but that was long enough.
We’re back at the car.
“I guess we’d better get to the office. I have a 1:30 I’m about to be late for.” Marcus nods toward me. “Did you see all you needed to?”
Instead of answering, I look at Brandon as if he holds the answer.
“That’s everything, right, Brandon?” Marcus asks.
Brandon looks at me. There’s a moment that Marcus probably sees as the passage of seconds, but to me it feels like a thousand years. I can’t read his expression and don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if he’s judging me or desiring me or loathing me. I don’t know if he wants me or hates me. If he blames me. If I’m his enemy after so recently being his friend and lover.
The gaze lasts another long beat, Brandon’s expression unreadable.
And then he says to Marcus, “Actually, if Miss James has the time to see the south quarter now, I’d like her to stay.”
CHAPTER 31
Brandon
Marcus leaves, and I find myself facing Riley in the little dooryard ahead of the office trailer. I’m immediately sure I’ve read her wrong.
This, in itself, bothers me. It’s not hard for me to read women. Ever since high school, I’ve never struck out much. Bridget says it’s because I radiate confidence, which is odd because there’s so much I’m not confident about. But either way, I can tell which girls will be receptive if I say the right thing — and honestly, if they’re already into me, there’s little I can do, practically speaking, to mess things up. The decision is made. I just need to seal the deal.
But Riley? I can’t read her.
Or rather, she’s giving me something different to read.
Other girls give me fantasy, and Riley is giving me literature.
Other girls give me English language books, and she’s asking me to read in Russian.
It’s foreign. It’s different. This isn’t a bar, and we’re not trading glances down a long expanse of oak or walnut. Her unspoken question isn’t whether or not I’d like to take her to bed. My unspoken question isn’t whether she’d go if I asked.
This is something different, and as Marcus raises dust to leave us alone, I can feel the eyes of my crew upon us.
They’re going to start laughing, I know it.
I had friends who weren’t good with women. They asked me for tips, and I never knew what to say. You just talk to them. If you’re both into each other, you seal the deal.
But this, here? This must be how my awkward friends felt.
I’m sure I’ve done something stupid. I thought she was saying one thing, but now I’m certain she’s saying the other. There are fluttering nerves in my gut, but it’s more than just my job or promotion I’m fearing for. This is more primal. I’m sure all of these people around me — folks who would have me believe are simply nailing boards, placing siding, and running gutters — are actually peering at me every time I look away, gibbering.
Look at that fool. He thinks the girl wants to talk to him, and he’s about to do something stupid.
I look to Riley, careful not to look too hard. What happened between us — and by what happened I mean the night as well as the sex that capped it — was a drunken indiscretion. Never mind that we didn’t drink all that much or that the night was plenty long for those drinks to boil away and leave our heads clear. It was like that day at the creek. Riley showed something she shouldn’t have, and I was supposed to know enough to look away without taking advantage.
I don’t know why she makes me so nervous. I’ve been on a hundred dates, with or without the actual date. I’ve had many female coworkers, many attractive. I’ve even slept with a few.
But this is different.
I watch her, trying to find the line. I’ve acted. I’ve put myself out there. I asked her to stay, having (apparently wrongly) assumed she wanted to. Which would be nice if it were true because that would let us put the other night behind us. I need her not to give me up, and I’d bet she doesn’t want her father knowing she gave it to one of his grunts.
That’s all I want. To talk.
I think.
But she just stands there, dressed to the nines, covered with a lot of fabric as if she’s working hard not to be sexy. Her hair is up somehow, but not in a girlish ponytail. She’s not fooling me, but it looks like she’s trying to fool someone.
This is not a woman who wants me to touch her. I read those signals wrong, too.
And she’s not a woman who wants to talk about the … well, the thing that I assume we’re both supposed to understand never happened. I was stupid to think she’d want to discuss it. You don’t talk about things like that. You keep on keeping on, averting your eyes.
Now we’re stuck. Because I insisted she stay.
I look at Riley for a sign that I’m wrong (about being wrong; I can barely keep things straight), but she won’t return my ga
ze.
So I do the only thing that comes to me — show her the south quarter. But first, I have to decide what “south quarter” means because that’s not a term we use, and it’s not something we’ve designated.
“Hang on. I just need to get some paperwork.” I say it professionally. The way I’d say it to someone I’d never met. Maybe a banker, or an IRS agent.
I pace up the short flight of temporary metal stairs and begin to rummage pointlessly through the papers on my desk. I gave Marcus everything I’d prepared, so now I’m going to have to grab something random and pretend she doesn’t ask to see it and know I’m bluffing.
The door closes behind me.
I turn to see Riley with her back to the door. The blinds are drawn because I’ve only got a window AC, and it gets hot if I keep them open, so after being out in the bright sun, this feels claustrophobic, like a cave.
“We should talk,” she says.
“Just let me get these papers.”
“Not about the south quarter. Not about Stonegate Bridge.”
I turn back halfway. She’s still at the door. She looks scared, but I feel even more afraid than she looks.
She’s going to drop the hammer. She’s going to take away the chance of promotion that Marcus so recently dangled, now that he’s out of the picture and she can speak straight. I hauled ass out of that corn shack’s dirt lot without a goodbye, and after I’d recovered from the alarm of trying and failing to make my meeting, I’d thought about that. I treated her like a one-night stand. Because that’s what it was. And I’d convinced myself she understood that: We both scratched our itches, no need for more. But I’d wondered if she felt used, and now I’m looking at proof.
“What about then?” I say, pretending like a coward.
“About the other night.”
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