The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Aren’t you going to come give your dad a hug?” I smile. I’ve missed hearing his rich and calming voice.

  “Let me finish this email.”

  “Ah, always working. I should have taught you to have some fun too.” He rounds my desk and leans over to give me a hug. I know his eyes are fixed on my computer while he does it, because even though he trusts me in this position, he’s still very much invested in the company. Looking over my shoulder has never been something he’s hidden. And in many ways, it’s given me confidence over the years. He’s often had words of encouragement and well-timed suggestions.

  I return the hug and finish my email quickly, while he takes a seat across from me. I save it in my drafts so I can review it one more time before pressing send and then direct my attention to my dad.

  “How are you?” I smile at him. I’ve been a daddy’s girl for as long as I can remember, and even though I have a strong relationship with my mom, my father and I have a more dynamic bond. I love my dad more than anything. “Enjoying your time in Chicago?”

  “Always. I love it here. I can see why you wanted to stay and establish roots. It has a New York City quality to it but not as dirty.”

  “Plus the food is amazing.”

  He pats his stomach. “I think I’ve put on a few pounds since I’ve been here. Your mother keeps dragging me to all these places on her Yelp approved list.”

  “Mom just loves finding holes-in-the-wall, doesn’t she?”

  “You could say that. She found this place the other day that didn’t have one window in it. I thought we were done, that was until we snuck into a basement and had some of the best dim sum I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

  “Better than the dim sum you had in San Francisco in Chinatown?”

  “Dare I say, yes?” He chuckles, a good hearty sound. “Although, don’t tell your mother that. She’d divorce me. We still make trips to San Francisco so she can have that dim sum a few times a year.”

  “She knows what she likes, and you can’t fault her for that.”

  My dad shakes his head. “I never would. She’s an angel, and I plan on keeping her as happy as can be.”

  What I wouldn’t give for a relationship like what my parents have. They met before my dad started making a ton of money, before his company really boomed. Growing up, they told me stories about their humble beginnings, in the small studio apartment in Los Angeles they lived in for two years, the bed working as a dining room table, a place to sleep, and my dad’s home office. I don’t know how they did it, but they still tell me to this day, it was some of the best times they had together. They struggled through occasional disagreements and frustrations, and sometimes found the four walls a little . . . cramped . . . to say the least. But the perseverance it took to keep the company and their marriage together—and the learned knowledge that humor was often required in spades—was what grew their relationship from friends to lovers to best friends and more.

  Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever share the same experience with a man.

  “Tell me, how did you think dinner went the other night with the Carltons? We haven’t had a chance to deconstruct it.”

  I fold my hands on my lap and lean back in my chair. “I think it went well. Heller and Parks tried to blatantly stick their noses up the Carltons’ asses, it was almost sickening to be in the presence of them.”

  Dad chuckles. “They’ve always been like that. Nothing I haven’t seen before. I enjoy going to dinner with them because it feels like a circus show. Quite entertaining. I was proud of you though, you held your cool, spoke about the Carltons and their interests rather than the acreage we’re trying to accrue. You showed interest in them as humans and asked intelligent questions, thought-provoking but nothing that would spark a debate. I was very impressed.”

  “Yeah?” I can’t contain my smile. “I worked hard to prepare myself. They value a strong family bond, so I made sure to focus on that.”

  “They do. It’s one of the reasons they started speaking with us, because they know our family dynamic is strong.”

  “I think we can use that to our advantage.”

  “I agree. Let’s keep it in our back pocket for now.” He checks his Cartier watch and winces. “I spent a little too much time laughing it up with your employees. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late to dinner with your mom, and you know how she feels about being late.”

  “Don’t let me keep you.”

  He stands but then pauses and points his finger at me. “I almost forgot. Did I see you won a date with Jason Orson, the catcher for the Rebels?”

  Where the hell did he hear about that?

  “Uh . . . what now?”

  I pick up my pen and scratch the side of my head, trying to look as casual as possible, which only makes my dad tilt his head back and laugh wholeheartedly.

  “Dorothy Domico, you are a titan when it comes to business, but your personal life is a shitshow.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He shakes his head. “It was in our company newsletter. Domico’s very own wins date with new Rebel. Quite an interesting read. Ten thousand dollars, huh?”

  “It was a miscommunication.” I sigh and rub my temple. “But don’t worry, I cancelled the date.”

  “Why?” My dad’s brow pulls together. “Jason Orson is nothing to sneeze at. His stats alone will give the Rebels a shot at the playoffs next season. It was a huge acquisition for them.”

  “Yes, he’s great. He was amazing in college. But I’m not into dating right now, as I just want to focus on work.”

  He nods, his short silence startling. I know that look in his eyes. He’s mulling over something and I don’t think I’m going to like it.

  “I love you, Dottie.”

  “But . . .”

  He shakes his head and buttons his suit jacket. “No but. Just wanted to tell you I love you.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I laugh. “You always have a hidden agenda.”

  “Not this time. You’re a grown woman and can handle things on your own. I will tell you this though, I would hate for you to go through life without a partner in crime, someone to keep you grounded. Even though I thank God every day for you, your mother has been the biggest blessing in my life.”

  “It was easier for you back then to meet someone. I’m in a different position.”

  “How so?”

  “Uh . . . most of Chicago knows who I am.”

  “So?” He shrugs. “You’re a good judge of character and know how to filter out the losers from the good ones. Go on that date with Orson; you never know what will come of it.” That’s the thing, though. I’m not a good judge of character. If I was, I never would have fallen for Nick, and I never would have allowed him to take advantage of me.

  My dad walks out of my office with a quick wave and a parting smile.

  I’m not surprised that he came in here, laid down a pool of thought for me to wade through, and then left. I don’t think there’s been a time when he hasn’t done that. I should know by now what’s coming.

  But go on a date with Jason Orson?

  I mentally shake my head.

  No way. He would be amazing to look at, but I know we wouldn’t work.

  * * *

  Noooooo.

  My head falls in my hand.

  Fuck.

  I stare at my screen, reading the email one of my on-site managers sent me about an infrastructure we’re working on downtown.

  Water main break is the subject. Flooding is in the body. Estimated total cost in repairs: over two hundred thousand.

  I lean back in my chair and bounce my foot up and down, trying to steady my breath.

  I take a deep breath and stare at the email again.

  Shit.

  Dad is not going to be happy. I told him about this property, saw it myself, told him to take a chance on it. He was concerned with the structural integrity. I told him it was old, but holding up well. N
ow with this . . . God, he’s going to give me the look. The disapproving look. The I told you so look.

  And just like that, I feel my emotions start to build up and my throat grow tight. My eyes begin to water but before I let the tears fall, I take a deep breath, sip some water, and attempt to compose myself.

  It’s okay. Accidents happen all the time in projects like these. It’s why we have a cushion of money, but two hundred thousand dollars eats up that cushion pretty fast.

  My lip trembles again and I inwardly curse myself as embarrassment washes over me. I swore I would never make another mistake while working under my dad, not after the last time, not after letting him down. And here I am again, putting myself out on the line for a project I believed in.

  I quickly pull up the account file and look over the numbers. I factor in the two hundred thousand dollars in repairs and quickly do the math. We will be cutting it close, but we could do it.

  I quickly type out a response to the project manager about an emergency meeting tomorrow. I can take care of this. I don’t need to tell my dad. I can do this on my own.

  Shaken with my anxiety on full alert, I send the email and try to calm myself.

  “Miss Domico.” Jessica appears at my door, a nervous look on her face, startling me.

  I quickly wipe at my cheek, just in case a tear escaped and I say, “Jessica, what are you still doing here? I told you to leave at six. That was five minutes ago.”

  “Yes, well, there’s a visitor for you.”

  “A visitor?” I try to peek around to the outside of my office, but I don’t see anyone. “Did my dad come back?” Please, no, please don’t let him still be here.

  “No, not quite. Um”—Jessica bites her bottom lip—“I’ve been told not to announce who it is.”

  I groan, tossing my pen to my desk. People have stress balls, I have pens. I click them, flick them, chew on them, they are my go-to when I’m stressed out, need to think, or I’m just flat-out bored. Jessica keeps a bin full of the pen I like so I never run out.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve had a visitor not want to be announced and guess who it always is?

  Lindsay and Emory. And when they don’t want to be announced, it’s because they have some elaborate game or dinner or plan to “help me escape” my workweek. I’ve been putting in the hours this week after the Carlton dinner, which means I’ve been ignoring both of them, so I’m not surprised they’re here. After that email, it might be nice to see my friends.

  “Send them in,” I say. I’m hoping they at least have brownies or something. I could really go for a dessert despite not having dinner yet. Never eat your feelings, that’s what my chef says. Whoever doesn’t eat their feelings isn’t dealing with mishaps and pain correctly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’s fine.”

  Jessica leaves my office and while I wait for Emory and Lindsay to come barging in, I reach up to my hair and pull out the pen I have stuffed back there. Just as my hair floats around my shoulders, a tall, broad figure walks into my office.

  Starting at his feet, I work my way up past his jean-clad thighs, to the narrow of his waist, to the taut fabric of his button-up shirt that stretches across his chest, to his strong jaw, to . . .

  Oh . . .

  Mother . . .

  Fucker . . .

  “Dorothy Domico,” he says with a smile.

  My stomach bottoms out. What is he doing here?

  Nerves bloom in the pit of my stomach as I try to pick my mouth up off the floor. Standing in the doorway of my office is the one and only Jason Orson.

  I swallow hard, digging deep within my soul to find my inner businesswoman and put on a strong face, to not be intimidated by his handsome features or sucked in by his kind eyes. My staff know I’m not a walkover, and this man before me needs to know too.

  Pushing my chair away from my desk, I stand tall, and clasp my hands together. “Yes, how can I help you?”

  Straight-faced, stiff back, firm set in my shoulders, I don’t show one ounce of insecurity or nervousness, even though I feel like throwing up inside.

  Can you believe he’s even more good-looking in person?

  The way he just stands there with confidence . . . it’s both enticing and annoying. The sleeves of his button-up shirt are folded to his elbows, showing off the sinew in his forearms that ripples when he moves. His ruggedly handsome face, with a sprinkle of five o’clock shadow, his compelling green eyes, and the firm set in his jaw, it quickens my pulse, speeding up my breath.

  He steps farther into my office and shuts the door. From behind his back, he holds out a small bouquet of flowers—daises to be precise—and says, “These are for you.”

  Oh God, what is happening?

  Flowers?

  He’s here in my office?

  He’s smiling?

  What the hell did Knox and Emory tell him?

  “I’m confused, why are you here?”

  He steps even closer, but approaches slowly, as if I’m a scared animal, ready to flee any second. He’s right. I’m not above scurrying out of this office when the opportunity presents itself.

  “For our date, of course. It’s Friday.”

  “That was cancelled. No need to be here. Jessica can show you out.” A firm brush-off, just what he needs.

  “Ah, but I don’t work like that, you see.” He takes another step closer, his cologne filtering into my personal space, making me feel dizzy with lust.

  Yes, lust.

  I’m lusting. I’ve lusted after this man for so long that seeing him here, in the flesh, it’s doing all sorts of weird things to my body, like heating it up inappropriately for the workplace.

  “Mr. Orson—”

  “You can call me Jason.”

  Exhaling, I fold my hands together. “Jason, thank you for stopping by, but I have work to get done.” I motion to the door. “Jessica will see you out.”

  “I heard you the first time about Jessica, but I’m in no hurry to leave. You paid for a date with me, so I’m here. Let’s date.”

  “First of all”—I hold up my finger, my irritation of him not listening starting to grate on my nerves—“I did not pay for a date with you. My assistant accidentally donated money to your Charity Hustle fundraiser that was supposed to be donated to a different charity. I, by no means, was looking for a date with you, nor do I care to go on one either. So, please leave.”

  His face falls and for a brief moment, I feel guilty for telling him the truth. I’m sure no one wants to know a donation to a foundation that’s close to your heart was a mistake. I should clarify that I was impressed with his charity, but hadn’t chosen to donate at this time. But of course, out of my depth, I remain mute.

  With a brief nod, he sets the flowers on my desk and then backs away, making my conscience take over my emotions.

  Man, I feel like a dick.

  And I wasn’t even that bad. I’ve said worse, more harsh things to people, but the way he’s walking out of here like I just told him he has the worst swing in baseball, it cuts me deep. Which is EXACTLY why I need to stay true to my decision. I don’t need someone cutting me deep with emotions.

  Emotions can destroy your demeanor in the boardroom, it can throw you off your ability to make a deal. They can affect your head, play games with you, making it impossible to be the stiff-armed, businesswoman I’ve trained myself to be.

  One of the biggest things I’ve learned about being in this position of power, one that’s usually held by a person with a penis, is there’s a stigma; women are too emotional. They base their decisions off emotions rather than facts, making them weak. At least that’s what I’ve heard from many chauvinistic assholes—thankfully, none of them have been my dad—and I’ve made it a point to never be that woman they speak of.

  I’ve become strong, inflexible when necessary, and I go after what I want with no shame.

  That’s not going to change because the boy from college, who I deemed the pe
rfect man, just came waltzing into my office with flowers and the idea of taking me out on a date.

  He leaves, and I keep my chin held high when I sit back in my chair and pull myself closer to my desk. That was the right decision.

  Sending him on his way so I don’t spend another second soaking in his masculine scent or the smooth, alpha-like movements of his body.

  Yup, the right—

  “I hope you like burgers,” his booming voice declares. Instead of flowers, he’s carrying a cardboard tray of food and two drinks . . . into my office.

  What on earth . . .

  Without even asking, he moves some of my papers to the side, along with my jar of pens, and makes room for the food. He unfolds a few napkins and lays them across the cool glass of my desk. Next, he goes back outside and then brings in a canvas bag. Like Mary Poppins, he starts extracting plates, cups, silverware, and a vase for the flowers, which he expertly shuffles the daisies into followed by a dash of water from a water bottle.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Setting up our date. I know what you said about me leaving. Don’t think I didn’t hear you.” He pulls on his ear. “Because I did, I heard you loud and clear, but I chose to ignore it.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “What did Knox tell you?” I ask, cutting to the chase.

  “Nothing actually. So, no wishing one-fifty batting averages on him.”

  Okay, sure, Knox didn’t say anything.

  “He clearly told you something if he let you know about the threat.”

  “Nothing gets by you.” He looks up and smiles, and brilliant white teeth flash at me. Damn it. “But he told me he wasn’t telling me shit because of your threat. Carson was the one who figured everything out.”

  Crap, how could I forget about Carson?

  I don’t hang out with him as much, it’s quite rare actually when we’re in the same room, but if I wasn’t so bogged down with staring at the bulge in the “towel picture” then I might have sent him a quick message to keep his mouth shut too.

  See what happens when I’m distracted? I lose my ability to think clearly.

  “Honestly, I was offended that you cancelled the date. After spending so much money, I thought it was because I posted something you didn’t agree with on social media. I was scrolling through my feed trying to figure it out. I knew it wasn’t my potato salad.”