Never Bargain with the Boss (Never Say Never Book 5)
Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 9

Grace and Riley spend the entire afternoon working on her new skirt creation, and thankfully, by the end of the process, the denim portion is nothing more than the top section of a mid-calf-length skirt that twirls when Grace does a spin.

“Isn’t it adorable?” Grace squeals, asking me for at least the fifth time.

“The most adorable ever,” I agree solemnly.

More surprising than the now-completely-appropriate skirt is that I’ve spent the entire time simply watching them. I haven’t felt compelled to check my emails, log in to work, hit the gym, or anything else. Grace and I usually spend our weekends together, but as she’s gotten older, we’re not always attached at the hip the way she was when she was younger, so a bit of together time and a bit of doing our own things is our norm. We’ll watch a movie together, but then she disappears into her room to talk to friends while I do something else, like get in a long run on the treadmill or deep-dive into whatever project I’m working on.

But today, we’ve shopped, snacked, and stitched together. Well, Grace sewed and I’ve been sitting here, but I’ve enjoyed watching her learn something new, especially with Riley teaching her.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if Riley had whipped out a sewing machine from somewhere, like a magician with a rabbit in a hat, but instead, she handed Grace a thick silver needle and some thread and showed her how to slip the thread through the needle’s eye, which took several tries, some frustration, and a few giggles to do successfully. Then, they discussed ways to cut the fabric Grace selected, learned about ‘good scissors’ and grain, and ultimately, pinned the chopped fabric to the denim.

And that was when the real work set in.

I figured Grace would lose interest after a few minutes of repetitive up-and-down, up-and-down stitching, but she didn’t. Mostly because Riley was doing a project of her own on the cat T-shirt she bought, and in working side-by-side with Grace, she kept her engaged and entertained through the whole process.

I think Riley might be Mary Poppins, after all. In disguise, of course, but she definitely seems to have a bag of tricks she keeps unexpectedly pulling stuff out of.

It’s the only explanation for the way she’s turned my roller coaster of a daughter into one who sits, smiles, and talks for hours and is now putting on a fashion show, twirling around the family room.

“I love it,” Grace whispers, looking down at the skirt and touching the seam she created with her own two hands. “Thanks, Riley.” She rushes at Riley, who’s still sitting on the floor with her also completed project in her lap, and wraps her arms around her in a tight hug.

I swear there must be dust in my eye or something. That’s the only explanation for why they’re suddenly watering.

“No problem, Grace. You had a vision for it. I just helped you bring to life. And now, you can create whatever you want.”

“Yeah, I can!”

With Grace distracted by her skirt, Riley meets my eyes. I expect to see ‘I told you so’ in her gaze, because I definitely deserve that, but what I find instead is a sparkle of happiness, and that makes me smile almost as much as my daughter’s reaction to learning to sew.

“Your turn,” Grace proclaims, pointing at Riley’s cat shirt.

Riley’s cheeks turn a surprising shade of pink, nearly matching her hair. “Oh, that’s okay,” she stammers, but Grace isn’t having it.

Not one to take no for an answer—and I should know—Grace pulls Riley up and pushes her toward the bathroom to change. “We want to see. Right, Dad?”

Fighting to contain my laughter, I press my lips together. “Yes, of course. Strut the runway, Tyra.” I gesture at the edge of the rug Grace has been twirling along.

“Alright,” she concedes, not sounding sure about this but willing to go along for Grace’s sake.

A moment later, she returns and my mouth goes as dry as cotton. I don’t consider myself a man with base, primal desires. I’m not attracted to women who rely on their looks, and I’ve never been one to chase T&A. I respond to people who are accomplished and capable, which Riley certainly is, but that’s not what I’m reacting to right this minute.

Riley is still wearing the black leggings from today, but she’s replaced her tank with the cat T-shirt, which should be ridiculous or even childish. It’s not, not on her and not now. I watched her add thick red stitching to the hem and around the cat image to outline it but didn’t realize the full scope of stitch witchery she performed on the shirt, cutting it several inches shorter so it shows even more midriff than she usually does. And when she walks past me, I can see the bottom swell of her breasts from my seated vantage point. She’s definitely not wearing a bra.

I shouldn’t care. Fuck, I shouldn’t have even noticed. And I definitely shouldn’t be shifting in my suddenly too-tight jeans, searching for some relief that my zipper won’t provide.

But I do care, and I did notice, and I am rock hard. All over a stolen peek at her breasts. Not even all of them, just the barest edge, which somehow only makes me hungry to see more.

Hand on her hip, Riley pivots, embodying a runway model’s sass for a moment before dissolving into giggles with Grace. Somehow, the whole thing is sexy as hell, which is so very wrong.

She’s the nanny. She’s young. She’s my employee. She’s not Michelle.

“What do you think?” Riley asks Grace.

“Mee-yow,” Grace answers, curling her fingers like cat claws and grinning. “Don’t you think Riley looks cute, Dad?”

Riley’s eyes bounce to mine, and I try to smile. I swear I do, but something she sees in my expression causes her bright grin to fade and instead, the air between us grows thick.

Or maybe that’s just your dick, asshole.

Smile. Say something nice. Quit staring at her like you want to touch her.

“Yeah, cute.” My voice is gravel, the lie caught in my throat. Riley doesn’t look cute at all. She looks fuckable.

Like a pink-haired fairy that I want to ruin with my darkness.

And that’s a problem. A big one.

Riley licks her lips, and my eyes zero in on her tongue and then her parted lips as she inhales slowly. She knows exactly what I’m thinking about. It’s obvious, and I expect her to say something snappy to remind me of our situation. Or at least to be repulsed by my creepy old pervert ogling.

The only problem is, she’s thinking it too. I don’t flirt, or fuck around, but I sure as shit know what it means when a woman is looking at me the way Riley is.

And that’s an even bigger problem. Me, I can control. Her, I’m not sure she can even control herself, so I sure as hell don’t have a shot at doing it successfully.

Slowly, her smile starts to return, but it’s not the silly, giddy one she wore a moment ago. Instead, this one is… sex. And it looks good on her. “Okay, Cameron… your turn.”

“Excuse me?”

“To let your inner tiger… ahem, I mean, Tyra… out to play.” I’m not sure that was actually a misspeak. It seemed quite intentional. So does the finger she teases along the bottom edge of her shirt before pointing at Grace’s skirt. If she’s explaining what she means, I’m still not understanding. I haven’t done a sewing project today, or ever, so I have nothing to showcase like them.

But Riley has plans for me.

She digs around in her bag of goodies from today, and I groan, first at the curve of her hips right in front of me, and then again when I deduce what she’s up to. “No way. They haven’t even been washed,” I argue, using the no-further-discussions tone that’s served me well in numerous boardrooms.

But when she holds up the godawful plaid pants and gives me a pleading look, I’m done for. Hell, she’s got me wrapped around her finger as much as Grace does. And that’s dangerous for us both. “Please.”

I knew I was fucked before she said that, but it’s a sure bet now. “Fine. Give them here,” I say, sounding annoyed even though I’m barely irritated.

For some reason, Riley’s eyes home in on my cheek and then the tiniest smirk steals her lips, like she knows I’m exaggerating my exasperation, which is unnerving. She doesn’t know me well enough to read me that easily. No one does. I redacted the pages of my soul and closed that book a long time ago. Or so I thought.

In the downstairs bathroom, I don’t allow myself the stroke I desperately want and I definitely don’t look at myself in the mirror, too afraid of what I’ll see—an old man who knows his priorities, and it’s not playing dress-up with a too-young, too-sexy nanny and his impressionable daughter. Instead, I choose to ignore it, living in the moment instead of the past or the future for just a small second. I deserve that, I tell myself, trying to sound convincing and failing. The past and the future are where my heart and my head stay, respectively.

When I come back out, Grace and Riley are sitting next to one another on the couch, staring at me expectantly. I don’t know what comes over me—it must be a spell or maybe I’m coming down with the flu—because when I see their excitement, I strut like I’ve never strutted before.

Straight-faced and stoic, with one hand in the pocket of the ridiculous pants that are at least six inches too short and with a waistband three inches too big, I stride across the room like they’re bespoke designer-wear. And all the while, Grace and Riley cheer and clap for me like I look amazing.

It’s silly. It’s fun. It’s completely ridiculous.

And I can’t remember the last time I felt like this… light.

That evening, long after our fashion show has ended and we’re back in regular clothes—which for me is jeans, for Grace is pajamas, and for Riley is sweats—Grace proclaims the early morning is catching up with her and informs us that she’s gonna head to bed. I think it’s more likely the copious amounts of leftover pizza she consumed for dinner, but I go upstairs to tuck her in.

Afterward, I’m cleaning up from dinner, putting plates into the dishwasher when Riley comes in. “I’m gonna make some tea. Want some?” She opens the cabinet, takes out a mug, and holds it up, waiting for my answer.

I don’t drink tea. For a long time, my daily nightcap was a heavy pour of scotch, or sometimes two, that I’d sip while feeling sorry for myself because of the unpredictable turn my life had taken. Eventually, I’d realized that I needed to cut back, for Grace’s sake, and for the last couple of years, I’ve limited myself to an occasional scotch with dinner or a tiny bit more when I have to deal with my family and their never-ending shenanigans.

“Sure,” I answer, not because I want tea but because I want the excuse to talk to Riley. I feel like I owe her an apology, or an explanation, or something after today. I swear I nearly had an apoplectic meltdown when Grace put that skirt on, and if Riley hadn’t been there to stop me, I probably would’ve given my daughter a complex about her body, her choices, and herself before I was done and not even known that I was doing it.

I’m a good father. I make sure of it. But what Riley said and did today? That was on a whole different level, one I’ve never known existed. But now that I do, I have an entirely new goal to strive for, and if there’s one thing I’m skilled at, it’s meeting and exceeding my goals. I take that shit seriously.

I also give myself a stern talking to about the fashion show moment that flashed hot and then turned down to a bare simmer over the rest of the evening. This little tete-a-tete needs to remain polite and professional, with nothing remotely inappropriate said or done on either side. Rules and responsibilities are the name of the game.

You think she’s wearing a bra beneath her sweatshirt?

You know she’s not.

Motherfucker. Shut that shit up right now, Harrington. Get your head out of your ass, or more accurately, out of her shirt, and focus on the proper things—thanking Riley for today.

She grabs another mug, fills them with water from the fridge, and then puts them into the microwave, setting it for two minutes. Leaning back on the counter, she shrugs. “I know it’s not ideal, but I never had a kettle and got used to microwaving the water.”

“It’s fine by me.” I’m not sure I’d know the difference, anyway.

We wait, with only the whirring sound of the microwave to break the silence. When it beeps, Riley jumps to open the door and carefully removes one cup, then the other. “Chamomile?”

I nod in agreement, and she drops a tea bag into each mug.

“Want to sit out back?” I flip a switch by the sliding door, and the porch is illuminated by dim lighting.

She follows me outside, and I slide the door closed behind us, letting her choose a seat first. She curls up in the corner of the big sectional couch, tucking her legs underneath her and snuggling in. I choose the opposite end, sitting as far away as I can. For both our sakes.

She blows on her tea, peering at me over the edge of her mug, and I take a sip. It’s hot, scalding my tongue and burning all the way down my throat. The little flash of pain helps me focus and I admit, “Today was a good day. Thanks to you.”

A tiny smile tilts Riley’s lips up, and she teases, “So you didn’t ask me out here to yell at me?”

I huff out an unexpected laugh. “No, definitely not. If anything, I owe you an apology and my undying gratitude.”

“Today was no big deal,” she says with a shrug, though she seems relieved that I’m not shouting at her, which shocks me because the thought never crossed my mind. I’ve been thinking quite the opposite, that I don’t think we could go back to life with anyone else as our nanny. “I appreciate your letting Grace go shopping with me. I am sorry she woke you up” —her eyes unconsciously drop to my chest, and I wonder if she’s thinking about this morning the way I am— “and forced you to go along. You could’ve used the sleep, and I’m sure you had other things to do.”

Some people would say that with a questioning tone, like they want the personal details of your life without asking outright for them. But Riley says it with a period, a simple statement, not interrogating me for more, and her look is even, like she doesn’t expect me to give her some grand revelation.

Which is somehow more compelling, so I share, “I usually just hang out with Grace on the weekends. I’m pretty chill.”

“You think you’re chill?” The disbelief is evident in her tone, and when I nod, she laughs outright. “You are the most unchill person I think I’ve ever met.”

I’m unexpectedly hurt by her words, though I’m not exactly sure why. I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me. I sure as shit don’t care what anyone else thinks, and I’m paying Riley to be here so her opinion should matter even less.

But it does matter, a lot.

“What do you usually do on weekends, then? Go out and party?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them because they bring to mind a vision of Riley in a club-worthy dress and heels, going out with friends, dancing and drinking and having a good time. That’s what she should be doing at her age, but it doesn’t sit right with me for some reason. Probably because in the vision, she’s not wearing any of her jewelry or unusual clothes and is instead in a dress not much longer than the skirt I deemed criminally short today. The difference is, Riley would look good in something like that with her curves, because while she might be small-chested, her hips and butt are full, round, and decidedly gripable, and I’ve recently discovered I might be an ass man.

Very recently discovered—as in this morning when I saw Riley scurrying down the hallway in black leggings that hugged her just right. I mean, wrong! Because I don’t see her that way. Riley is my nanny, nothing more, and I don’t know where these thoughts are coming from.

I shift on the couch, placing an ankle on my knee and yelling at my brain to behave appropriately.

“I’ve never been a partier. Didn’t have the luxury of throwing away money like that,” she says, not sounding bitter, but maybe a little sad.

“Partying isn’t a luxury,” I reply. “It’s a waste of time, a waste of your life, and yeah, a waste of money.”

She blinks at my hostility, and I sigh, struggling to get my emotions in check, though I’m not sure why they’re all over the place to begin with.

Emotions? Pretty sure you mean your dick, asshole.

I’m a good-looking man. I know that. And I’m in great shape, especially for my age. That does not mean I should be getting random, uncontrollable erections around a woman I have no business seeing as anything other than an employee.

Maybe I need a release? The last few weeks have been filled with more pressure than usual, and while I’ve maintained my typical habit of a morning jack-off session, sometimes I need a bit more. Like this morning, because in addition to her ass in those leggings, catching Riley open-mouthed ogling my chest had me nearly bolting for the shower. And now, after the peek at her breasts, I’m on edge again and will likely need to fuck my hand before I can sleep.

But while I’m having a discussion with my dick, Riley is waiting for me to explain why I feel so vehemently about partying. Since I can’t explain my dress-vision, I go with another truth. “I partied a bit too much in college.” Thinking back, I share, “It was my first time away from home and the pressure of being the golden child, and I rebelled a bit too much. Took me until Thanksgiving to realize that if I didn’t get my shit straight, I’d be headed right back to that madhouse.”

“You rebelled for three whole months?” she gasps, dramatically putting a hand to her chest, and I long to replace her hand with my own, let it trace down the flat of her sternum and detour over to pluck at her nipples. I wonder if they’re as pink as her hair. Unaware of the traitorous turn my mind has taken, she taunts, “Let me guess, keg stands at frat parties, treating sorority girls like shit, and failing your classes? Oh, no, the absolute horror!”

“Something like that,” I admit, and though she lifts her tea, it doesn’t hide the small smile stealing across her lips.

She acts like that’s not so bad, but it was way worse than she’s making it sound. My only saving grace is that it was ages ago, a near-lifetime. For me.

For her?

Peering at her curiously, I ask, “Can I ask how old you are?” I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Mostly, I think I want to use the information to yell at myself and shut down this unexpected reaction I’m suddenly having to her.

“Twenty-five, but they’re hard years, and I started out an old soul to begin with, so they basically count as dog years, which makes me… doo-doo-doo-doo… 175 years old. You?” She actually makes the calculator sound, typing the numbers in the air as she does the mental math, which amuses me.

“Thirty-seven, but the last nine have been rough, so they’re the equivalent of a thousand.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense to her. “Two old fogeys, sipping tea at nine o’clock on a Saturday. Whoo-hoo!” she jokes, lifting her mug in the air as a toast. From across the couch, I lift mine in salute, and she makes a clinking sound before drinking again.

The silence between us feels more comfortable now, and after a few minutes, I ask, “Is being an old soul what makes you so good with Grace?”

She stares into her tea, and I almost regret asking, but finally, she says, “No, I’m good with kids because of the hard years.”

I don’t press her. I know what it’s like to have people demand your deepest, darkest, most painful thoughts and feelings like they have any right to them simply because they’re curious. Plus, she’s already shared something heavy today, and I imagine that’s still weighing on her. There’s always a rebound when you dig up old skeletons, which is why I like to leave them buried too. “Sorry, you don’t have to explain.”

She pulls her legs underneath her a little tighter, like she’s getting as close to the fetal position as she can to comfort herself. “It’s fine. I can talk about it, and you deserve to know who’s spending time with your daughter.” But then she swallows thickly like the words won’t come. After a long minute, she says, “Growing up, I never had a dad and my mom passed when I was five. I spent the next ten years in foster care, with around a dozen placements over that time. In each one, even when I was young, I took care of the other kids. It’s like that’s what I was meant to do, you know?”

Riley looks up at me like she wants to be sure I understand that this is more than a job to her. It’s a calling. Caregiving isn’t what she does. It’s who she is.

“We were all a little messed up,” she says with a humorless laugh like that’s somehow funny, “but I did my best to fix myself and heal my own damage, and then I started helping the others. Until I couldn’t anymore.” She stares into her tea and sighs. “I had to save myself. That’s when I ran away, leaving several kids at that home. They were mad, and hurt, and scared, and I felt… hell, I still feel guilty for abandoning them, but I just couldn’t stay there.” Her voice has gone a bit shaky but steadies as she says, “But I didn’t stop helping. I just did it differently. Like with nannying.”

She takes a sip of tea, licking her lips delicately, and she suddenly seems younger than her twenty-five years. Like I can imagine her as a child, mourning her mother while trying to comfort other kids not much older than she was. I don’t miss the parallel of her loss and Grace’s either, which is maybe why my heart aches for them both. Selfishly, I hope Riley is a peek into Grace’s possible future, one filled with light after an early tragedy. That’s what I want for my daughter—happiness.

I feel like everything she just shared is only the outermost layer on the onion that is Riley Stefano, and I regret that I judged her so quickly and incorrectly, because she is already proving to be so much more.

“You’re good at it. I’m sorry it came at such a high price, but you’re a total pro. Saving not only lucky kids, but stupid dads with zero sense too.” Self-deprecation isn’t my usual style, but the reminder of what I am to her—the bumbling father who signs her paychecks and nothing more—seems timely.

She blushes. Well, in the dim lighting on the porch, I can’t be sure she does, but she ducks her chin like she doesn’t want me to see her reaction. “Thank you. And you’re not stupid. You’re a great dad. Grace is lucky to have you.”

“Yeah?” I ask, startled by the praise. “I don’t feel like it.”

The admission should be difficult. I’m used to shoving my feelings down, hiding my anxiety away, and showing a façade of complete confidence to the world. I think that’s why I work so hard to make sure I’m doing a good job with Grace—because no one expected me to. Myself least of all. But she’s the most important thing in my life. She’s it for me.

Riley looks at me in disbelief, and with her sharing so much of herself, giving no regard for how vulnerable it makes her, the words come easier than usual.

“Most of the time, I feel like I’m wading in crystal-blue, beautiful water, thinking everything is fine, when I’m actually completely unaware of the dozen piranhas, two sharks, and killer whale hunting me, all ready to rip me limb from limb and eat me alive.”

Riley laughs, and a warm feeling spreads in my chest. I’m not a funny person, so making her laugh feels like a major accomplishment. “Graphic,” she says. “But you know you’re a good dad, so quit fishing for compliments.” Riley’s eyebrow arches as she waits for me to catch the silly pun.

I’m not a jokester, so I’m not sure what’s gotten into me today, but before I can question it, I mime casting a line and reeling in a whopper, then wave my hand like ‘give me something, please, anything’ and wait eagerly to see what she comes back with.

She tilts her head, her eyes going serious as she peers at me. Waving her hand between us, she says, “This is pretty chill.”

The words are weighted with importance and make me feel successful in an entirely different way than some deal negotiation does. Riley’s scrutiny is deeper somehow, and her approval hard-won.

And of course, she’s right. This is chill. It’s been a better Saturday than any I remember. Actually, I don’t even remember last Saturday. Today just became my new benchmark.

“Thanks to you.”