Never Bargain with the Boss (Never Say Never Book 5)
Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 17

“Get me the updated numbers on the Timmons deal. Now.” I release the button on my phone, turning off the speaker, but the urge to press it again is right there in my hand. I want to press it harder.

Scratch that, I want to punch something. Hard.

I’m not a violent man. I don’t think I’ve ever balled up my fist in anger, but the impulse to do so now is strong. I vaguely wonder if this is what my youngest brother, Kyle, feels like before he unleashes on someone. He doesn’t do it often, especially now, but when he was a mad-at the-world kid? Yeah, he was a nightmare back then, and a few times, I drew the short straw and had to be the unlucky one to promise the local police that he would ‘never do anything like this again’ while knowing full-well it was a lie, all in an attempt to get him out of a cop car without charges.

Is this what he felt like? A vague sense of rage that he didn’t understand, but nonetheless was as real as the beating heart in his chest? If so, I don’t blame him for being such an asshole.

Well, maybe I don’t blame him as much. He doesn’t get a total pass because while I’ve been in a foul mood all day, I haven’t actually punched anyone or anything. Yet.

Instead, I tried to run the anger out on the treadmill this morning, increasing my pace until I couldn’t keep up with the whirring belt’s speed and my breath was fire in my lungs. I tried to jerk it out, fucking my hand hard and fast in the shower and cursing harshly when I came. I sped to the office this morning, wishing all the other cars on the highway would get the hell out of my way.

And now, I’m being short with analysts who’ve done nothing wrong.

The worst part is, I don’t know why.

Yeah, you do. You just don’t want to admit it.

I refuse to agree with myself, but this mood did start last night when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the same old man staring back at me that’s always there. For a while, out on the patio, talking to Riley, I’d forgotten. Both who she was and who I am. We’d talked about everything and nothing, and it’d been exactly what I needed… what I didn’t even know I needed. That connection is something I haven’t had, or allowed myself to have, in a long time.

I’d felt lighter, happier, and yeah, younger. And though I don’t want to admit it, her acting like I’m not some perverted geezer was like a shot of rocket fuel to my ego.

And my dick.

After we’d reluctantly said good night, I’d nearly floated to my room with a smile stretched across my face that I could feel. That high had lasted until I laid eyes on the faint lines on my face—around my eyes, beside my mouth, and across my forehead. And the gray hair that’s starting to sprout on my chest, just one or two strands, but they’re there. Because the mirror doesn’t lie and the truth is… I am old. Way too old to be playing ‘date night’ with someone Riley’s age. And that reminder was a painful, cold dash of truth on the rest of the evening, ruining my sleep last night and my continuing mood today.

When my door opens without a knock, I look up, expecting to see Jeannie because she’s the only one with instant, constant access to me, though she typically knocks before entering. Instead, Kayla closes the door behind her and struts across my office to place a file folder right in the middle of my desk. Trapping it there with one perfectly manicured fingertip, she informs me, “Whatever the fuck is wrong with you, don’t take it out on the analysts. You’ve got them shitting in their suits, thinking someone down there fucked up.”

I blink. How my mood might affect them didn’t even occur to me. Usually, I don’t think of them at all, other than as a resource to complete things I want done. “Sorry.” It’s an automatic response, not an actual apology, but she dips her chin once in acknowledgement before sitting down in one of the chairs in front of my desk without invitation.

“It’s fine,” she says airily. “I told them you were the fuck-up, not them.”

I want to demand she go tell them otherwise, but it would do no good. She probably didn’t say that, anyway, but is using it as a conversational pry bar to get me to open up, expecting me to argue back with her instinctively. It’s a good thing I’m genetically averse to spilling my guts, having learned from the best—Dad.

Kayla examines her nails, seeming like she has all the time in the world to wait me out, so I lean back in my executive chair and clasp my hands in front of me on the desk. Two can play this game, and while Kayla’s good, I’m pretty damn good at it myself.

When I stare blankly at her, intentionally keeping my expression flat and unyielding, she sighs. “Fine. Speak or don’t, your call, but I’ve got a meeting in five.” She glances at her watch, a delicate gold Rolex Dad bought her when she graduated and officially joined the company. It’s remarkably similar to the one I have in a drawer at home that he gave me for the same reason. “Tick-tock.”

She probably doesn’t have a meeting, but after a long thirty seconds of silence, I pop open like a piñata since historically, she’s the only one I talk to, and I trust her to tell me the truth about how severely I’ve fucked up.

“I have a problem.”

“A problem, singularly? Cam, I could name three problems you have off the top of my head, and probably five more if you give me a minute to put some thought into it.” She smiles at the easy taunt while throwing it at me. She’s one of the very few people who would dare to speak to me that way, and more importantly, part of the select group I would allow to do so, and she has no qualms about taking advantage of that privilege.

“Do you want to hear it or not?” I snap. I’m at the end of my rope here, scrabbling to keep a grip on my sanity, and she’s joking around.

She sobers, then gives me the signature Ice Queen look that has reduced more than a handful of men to rubble at her feet. Thankfully, I’m used to it and don’t so much as tremble. “By all means, proceed.” The crisp retort comes with a regal wave of her hand, giving me the floor.

“I told Riley about Michelle.”

Five little words, but I may as well have set off a bomb in the room. I see the shockwave roll through her—she visibly recoils, her mouth drops open, and her eyes widen in shock—but just as quickly, she schools her face, hiding her astonishment at my throwing my wife’s name out so bluntly, out of nowhere. As a rule—my rule—we don’t talk about Michelle. Not to me, not to Grace, and not even to each other, though I’m sure they’ve broken that commandment when I’m not around.

“Okay, that’s… unexpected, but not exactly a problem, right?” Kayla asks, peering at me like she’s trying to piece together what I’ve said with the obvious anger I’m feeling. “How’d that come up?”

I rise, pacing back and forth behind my desk before coming to a stop as I stare out the floor-to-ceiling window. The cloudless blue sky is before me as the bright fall day envelopes the city. People scurry about, rushing to meetings with opened camel hair coats layered over their suits, and there’s the occasional pair of warm Ugg boots paired with a business skirt. My sister would never make that sort of fashion disaster choice, but I don’t think Riley would give a shit. She’d wear a twirly skirt over a pair of jeans, a cardigan with a too-short shirt beneath it, and pair the whole layered mess with combat boots. And those fucking bracelets. Always with those damn things. I swear I can almost hear them now, even though I know she’s not here. Fuck, I almost wish she were.

I glance over my shoulder. Kayla’s perfectly done eyebrows are halfway up her forehead at my obvious avoidance of her question. “She asked. I told her.” It sounds so simple when it’s anything but.

In the days and months after Michelle’s death, I went to therapy. Mom looked up therapists, made an appointment, drove me there, and dog-walked me into the office. She’d deemed it non-negotiable, but of course I resisted. I’d sit on the couch, glare at the therapist, and clamp my mouth shut for the entire hour. Week after week, month after month, she asked question after question and I gave her nothing beyond harsh frowns and narrowed-eyed glares.

That had been Mom’s attempt at forcing me to grieve in a healthy way, and she’d failed spectacularly. Even drunk and depressed and weaker than I’d ever been, I’d fought, sullenly, disrespectfully telling both her and the therapist to fuck off and leave me alone.

So the fact that I told Riley is a big deal and Kayla knows it. More importantly, I know it. I face the window, hiding from my too perceptive sister, but it’s too late when I’ve opened myself up so completely.

“You just told her?” she echoes behind me, sounding more than dubious about that fact. I nod, confirming, and she still presses, “There was no alcohol involved, or torture devices, or bribery?” Barely turning my head to glance over my shoulder, I arch a brow, and she sits back in her chair, slumping like I’ve taken the wind out of her. “Wow, okay. That’s a good thing? That you’re talking… finally.” There’s a fair amount of judgment in her assertion. Like ‘finally’ should’ve come a long time ago, but grief doesn’t follow a scheduled timeline. Mine or Kayla’s or anyone else’s. It moves in fits and starts, then stalls and reverses, and apparently, makes inconvenient, staggering leaps forward when I least expect it.

“No, it’s not,” I grit out, reasserting, “it’s a problem.”

“Because you prefer bottling up everything you feel and stuffing it all down until you’re a cold, robotic asshole? Sounds like an example you should be proud of setting,” she suggests, pulling no punches. Not that I’m surprised. Kayla’s not known for being gentle, but rather for being skilled at cutting people off at the kneecaps in ten words or less.

“Riley’s an employee,” I remind her. “She’s there for Grace, not for me.” I have to say it again, not for Kayla’s benefit, but for my own. “She’s not for me.”

Kayla knows me too well—better than any of my other siblings, though I suspect they would all say the same thing about her—so when I hear my sister’s intake of breath, I take a cue from Riley and glance at Kayla’s reflection in the window. I find her smirking like she just figured out something important. I’ve seen that expression on her face at negotiation tables when her opponent has overplayed their hand, and I harden my defenses for whatever she’s about to come back with because it’s going to hurt.

Knowing I’m looking at her, she holds up two fingers and counts, “One, two problems.”

“Never mind.” Dismissing her, I move my eyes back to the city beyond the window, staring unseeingly.

I hear Kayla get up and come to my side. Leaning into my shoulder, she settles in to wait me out, but like her brilliance is bubbling up so quickly that she can’t contain it, she states bluntly, “You like her.” I glance down at her, the sharp disagreement on the tip of my tongue, but her eyes are fixed on the horizon the way mine were and I realize that it wasn’t a question, but rather a declaration. “You think problem one is that you talked to her, and problem two is that you like her. You’re wrong. It’s one issue—you talked to her because you like her. And that doesn’t have to be a problem, Cam.”

“Yes, it is. She’s an employee. She’s young. It’s ridiculous. It’s wrong.”

“And yet, you like her,” she restates, unswayed by my lackluster argument.

Coming to the only logical conclusion, I instantly decide, “I need to fire her. It’s the only solution to stop this madness.”

Even as I say it, my body physically reacts, rejecting the idea of Riley not being at home every day when I arrive, mourning the loss of her silly stories and unwarranted excitement over seemingly inconsequential things and yearning for the opportunity to see her, even if I can’t touch her.

In response, Kayla physically shoves me, forcing me to face her. “Don’t be rash.” She blinks in shock, like that’s something she never thought she’d say to me, of all people, which is understandable. I’m not known for my impulsivity. My sister and I are two peas in a pod—methodical, practical, logical. Or at least we are at work. She’s tight-lipped and private about her personal life outside of family dramatics, but I trust her advice implicitly.

Except when she’s giving me hope amid a situation where I don’t deserve to have any.

“Don’t fire her. By your own report, and certainly by Janey’s, she’s amazing, so that would be idiotic.” She makes it sound like that’s completely obvious, but when she sees my answering scowl, she suggests, “Maybe you just need to get laid? By someone other than Riley, of course.”

No one would expect Kayla, the prim and proper, always chic businesswoman, to say that. But she grew up with five brothers, so there’s not much off the table with her.

“I’m not some hormone-driven teenager who chases anything with a hole,” I tell her, disappointed in her cavalier attitude about something so dire. “I’m not horny. I’m attracted to Riley, despite every cell in my brain telling me—no, yelling at me—not to be.”

“Okay, then try being not so… you… and see where things lead with her.”

I grunt, not agreeing but also not arguing. Mostly because it sounds suspiciously enticing.

She hums, nodding like she understands my dilemma. “It’s definitely playing with fire. But fire can give life-sustaining warmth if you’re careful.”

I jerk my gaze to her, ready to debate my case because she clearly doesn’t understand what’s happening and what the risks might be, for me and for Grace. Hell, even for Riley, because I don’t want to hurt her. She deserves better than that. She sure as hell deserves better than me.

Kayla holds her hand up, shutting me up. “Do you know that it’s been nine years since you’ve said her name?” She doesn’t say Michelle, but we both know who she’s talking about. “Yet, you did. It rolled off your tongue like it was any other word, any other name.” I open my mouth to rebut that, but she keeps steamrolling over me. “If that’s Riley’s doing, it’s for your own good. Keep her around. Explore things a bit more.”

“That’s a bad idea,” I mutter. “It feels… messy.” To me, that’s a severe offense, and we both know it.

“Messy can be good… and fun… and healing. It’s about damn time you loosen up a little.” She wiggles the tie at my throat, pulling it tighter despite her advice to relax. “You deserve happiness, Cam. Michelle would want that for you. Just don’t hurt Riley in the process, yeah?”

My breath catches when she says my wife’s name. Riley said it the other night, but beyond that, it’s been so long since I’ve heard it from someone in my family, it hits me physically. It usually only echoes in my head, and not nearly as often as it used to. But the expected twinge of pain doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a teeny-tiny spark somewhere in my chest. It feels… good? Like I can see the happiness we had, not only the loss I experienced.

“What about Grace?” I ask quietly. “She loves Riley and I don’t want to mess that up.”

She waves her hands. “What about her? I’m not telling you to fuck Riley in the middle of the kitchen. Especially not when Grace is home. I’m suggesting you be open to seeing what happens.”

Unbidden, an image of Riley bent over the island, one hand twisted in her ridiculously pink hair, the other gripping her luscious ass, and my dick in her sweet pussy paints across my mind. I think I groan because Kayla smacks my shoulder.

“I said not to do that.” When I blink and refocus on my sister, she’s grinning like she knows exactly where my mind went. “But let me know if Grace and I need to have a girls’ night so you can get your freak on.” She winks suggestively at me, a grin pulling at her lips.

“You do need to organize a spa day with Mom for Grace’s Fall Ball. My treat for everyone to get their nails done. Riley too.” Kayla’s eyes light up with hope. “But I’m not doing what you said—pawning Grace off on you for an overnight or fucking Riley.” As I say it, I push down the desire that’s trying to build, refusing to consider Kayla’s ill-advised recommendation, but a too-bold confession falls off my tongue. “I very nearly did that already.”

“WHAT?!” Kayla shouts as she grabs ahold of my arm and jerks me back and forth ruthlessly. “Lead with that! What?!”

I sigh heavily, scrubbing my hand over my smooth face. I’m suddenly so exhausted, tired of thinking about this, of feeling this, of wanting this. It would be so easy to go back to when things were simple—when Grace’s nannies were virtually nameless, faceless women who’d disappear when I walked in the door, and it was just Grace and me. It was so uncomplicated.

And it was so boring. Every day the same, every smile forced. I was going through the motions of life, merely existing, not living.

I’ve been more alive the last few weeks than I have been in years. Nine, to be exact.

“We were talking and fell asleep on the couch,” I explain, mostly to stop Kayla’s continued attack on my arm. “I was dreaming, but it wasn’t a dream. When I woke up, I realized I was…” I stutter, trying to say this as delicately as possible. “Touching her. I immediately pushed her away and apologized… several times.” I tilt my head, wishing there’d been something I could’ve said that would’ve made up for what I’d done.

Kayla snorts as she releases me. “Gee, I bet she loved that.” Sarcasm is threaded through every word, and I swear she’s asking the wood-paneled ceiling for help in dealing with me given the way she’s now staring up at it.

“Definitely not,” I admit. “But we talked, and it’s okay. I think. Or as okay as it can be.” I’m hemming and hawing, two things I don’t do. “We agreed that it was only natural, but we’re not mindless animals and can make the choice to restrain ourselves.”

Kayla’s eyes lock on mine, boring in deep. “Our selves? As in, she likes you too? I thought this was some one-sided schoolboy crush I was going to have to help you cope with when it imploded. I’m already planning the ice cream binge nights to soothe your broken heart, and now you’re saying she likes you too? That changes everything.”

“It changes nothing,” I growl. “I’m still her boss, and old enough to be her… uncle.”

“And still a stupid asshole,” Kayla adds, most unhelpfully. But her eyes narrow and she adds, “How old is she? Does she meet the age halved, plus five rule?”

“Kayla! That is a gross simplification,” I scold. She doesn’t back down in the slightest. In fact, she gets right in my face, which is no small task considering she’s several inches shorter than me even in stilettos.

“How old is she, Cameron Harrington?”

“Twenty-five. Though she claims 175 in dog years because they’ve been rough.” A wry laugh escapes as I quote Riley’s self-description.

Kayla exhales heavily. “Thank fuck. This was about to go an entirely different way. But twenty-five is old enough to know herself and what she does and doesn’t want. If, for some unknown, godforsaken reason, she wants you too, that’s good.”

She makes it sound like I’m unwantable. Fuck, maybe I am. Anger starts to build again, directed at myself, not Riley or Kayla, who are only trying to help me. But I’m too far gone, too broken inside.

“No, it’s not good. We agreed to focus on Grace. I forgot for a minute, and that’s why I’m so furious today. At myself. I just need to remember what we agreed on,” I explain.

Kayla looks at me with disappointment, then walks back to my desk and picks up the folder she brought in with her. “Seems like that’s going well.” She drops it once again. “Look, Cam, see where things go with Riley. Start with not being an asshole to her or pushing her away, and maybe talk to her a bit more.”

“Fucking brilliant,” I deadpan. “That must be why you make the big bucks, Sis.”

She flashes me a sardonic smirk, her perfectly painted lips pursed angrily. “Yep. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some analysts who need reassuring that you’re not about to go on a firing spree. What did you say to them, anyway?”

Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “I don’t even know. Tell them I’m sorry.”

She laughs, the sound bright and tinkling. “Naw, it’s good for them to get riled up every once in a while. Keeps them from stagnating. Advice you could use too.”

Having laid another mental grenade in my mind, she spins and struts out the door, leaving it open so I hear her tell Jeannie, “He’s fine. Just pissy, as per usual.”

“Too bad. He’s been so much better lately,” Jeannie replies, intentionally loud enough for me to overhear.

I fall to my chair, staring at the folder Kayla left. Am I stagnant? Probably, but it’s comfortable and safe, two things I need. Two things my daughter needs. That stability is important for her, especially in the wake of such turbulence in her early life.

Does stability have to equal boring, though?

The question floats through my mind, challenging my own perceptions of what’s best for Grace and for myself. We’ve been having silly, spontaneous fun with Riley, and all the while, Grace’s grades are up, her riding lessons are going well, she’s not OD’ing on caffeine, and we’re all smiling, laughing, and doing well.

All of which is good. But is potentially getting something even better worth the risk of ruining it all? I don’t think so. Not for Grace. And I will sacrifice my own desires for her every time. It’s not even a question.

Grace first. Always.

Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth. Kayla had me hoping for a minute there, dreaming about what could be, but I won’t gamble Grace’s happiness on a shot at my own.