Never Bargain with the Boss (Never Say Never Book 5)
Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 1

“Grace! Hurry up or you’re not going to have time for breakfast!” I call up the stairs, checking my watch. Again. And grumbling at the sheer number of minutes that have ticked by since my daughter proclaimed she was ‘almost ready’. I knew it was stupid wishful thinking, but I really did hope she meant it.

“MeeMaw H is taking me by Starbucks on the way to school,” she calls back, “So I don’t need to eat at home.”

I shake my head, rolling my eyes. I wouldn’t admit it, but I’m not sure whether she gets that ugly habit from me or I got it from her. Either way is entirely plausible because anyone who lives with a twelve-year-old girl and doesn’t roll their eyes has got to be a robot if you ask me. I love my daughter like crazy, but she drives me absolutely mad sometimes.

“No, she’s not,” I declare in a tone that invites no discussion on the matter. “You’re not having a Frappuccino for breakfast. You need something healthier than that.” Under my breath, I mutter, “And definitely not caffeinated.”

My daughter pops into view as she leans out her bedroom door upstairs. She’s the spitting image of her mother, which is the nature part of the equation, but her attitude? All mine, and solidly from the nurture portion. And since she’s had a long-term exposure to only my grumpiness, she glares down at me from her vantage, her iceberg blue eyes full of challenge and matching my own current state of frustration. “I don’t get Frappuccinos for breakfast. They’re for after-school snacks and treats.” There’s an implication of ‘duh’ in every word. “Breakfast is a pumpkin spice latte, single shot, with cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top, and a slice of pumpkin bread. Because fall, Dad.”

A sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my head, right behind my left eyeball.

“It’s barely September,” I argue, glancing at my watch to confirm it’s only September sixth. But the ticking of the second hand reminds me of the real issue. “And no Starbucks before school. Let’s go. Breakfast is already on the table.” As I twirl a circle in the air with my hand, hopefully rallying her to hustle, I make a mental note to have a curt discussion with Mom about giving espresso drinks to my daughter. Even if it’s a single shot, Grace doesn’t need the caffeine at her age—I think it stunts growth, if I’m not mistaken, but also, since I’m not sure, I make a mental note to look that up. Regardless, she doesn’t need that much processed sugar before school. Or ever.

If it were solely up to me, Grace wouldn’t even know what Starbucks is. But that’s not the reality when I depend on others to help manage our busy schedules, and I can’t exactly tell a nanny—or my mother—not to drink coffee when they’re with Grace. There’d be a mutiny, and I don’t have the time nor energy to deal with that. Plus, I’m well aware that roughly half the seventh grade at her school walks into first period hopped up on coffee, energy drinks, or worse. It’s a hotly contested debate on which drive-thru is best, with vehement proponents for Starbucks, Dunkin’, and Dutch Bros. My daughter is obviously in the Starbucks camp.

Grace makes a growling sound of frustration before disappearing back into her bedroom, where I hear shuffling, so I at least know she’s getting ready. And probably hexing me too. I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately.

Beyond the obvious, I mean. Was I this much a pain in the ass at twelve, constantly acting like I was going on twenty-five and full-grown? Probably, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.

As a single dad, I’ve had all the puberty talks with her, discussing how hormones can fluctuate and make her cry, feel happy, and want to murder someone with her bare hands, all within the blink of an eye. With her starting middle school, we’ve talked about friends, boys, and staying focused on the things that matter, namely her classes and grades. I’m engaged, attentive, and dialed in on the dad front as best as I can be. Yet, I am still utterly baffled by Grace’s whiplash changes from the little girl who called me Daddy to the pre-teen who now calls me Dad, with the occasional three extra ‘a’ syllables for good measure.

What happened to the gap-toothed kid who pleaded for piggyback rides and was only satisfied when I galloped around the yard like the horse she wanted, neighing as she kicked her little legs?

You bought her a horse, dumbass.

Yeah, that’s true. I did do that, and the piggyback-slash-horse rides stopped about the same time, so I guess that’s on me. Like everything else.

In the kitchen, I sprinkle a bit of powdered sugar on Grace’s microwaved pancakes as a goodwill gesture and finish packing my briefcase for the day while simultaneously chugging a protein shake that’ll keep me going until lunch.

“Dad?” Grace’s voice has gone soft, and when I turn to her, she’s standing in the kitchen doorway, looking uncertain and seeming so much younger than she did just moments ago.

I freeze, something about her tone stopping my clipped movements in their tracks as my mind instantly begins to race. Has she started her period? Is she confused about where babies come from? Did she fail another math test? Is she about to throw up? Am I?

“Yes?” I grit out, praying I’m overreacting, which is something I don’t do. Well, something I don’t think I do. My family might have a conflicting opinion about that, but they can keep that judgment to themselves for all I care.

“Does my hair look frizzy?” She begins twisting a long strand of her natural curls around her finger as she stares at it critically.

I swear to God, I almost laugh. Her hair? That’s what the tone is about, not some catastrophic puberty-oriented disaster? Thankfully, I catch myself before the patronizing dismissal passes my lips.

This is a moment. One of the ones I’ve been warned about in the numerous books I’ve read. To me, her hair looks fine. The same as usual. To her, the question is a sign there’s something bigger going on than hair.

I run my hand over her head, patting her affectionately. “Not at all. It looks healthy and clean, and your curls are gorgeous. They hang well off your shoulders, in my opinion. Why?” I ask cautiously.

She releases the lock she’s wrapped around her finger, throwing it behind her back as she shrugs. “I dunno. Hannah said I should straighten it so it’s not frizzy.” She wiggles her hands on either side of her head as if her hair is standing out wildly and not laying down her back in perfect ringlets.

“Ah,” I say, nodding wisely as I look at my daughter’s hair again, betting this is why she’s running late this morning. But this isn’t about hair, not really. It’s about Grace and Hannah, her best friend. “That wasn’t very nice, was it?” She shakes her head sullenly. “Did you tell her that what she said hurt your feelings? I’m sure she’d apologize if she realized.”

The girls have been friends since the first day of sixth grade, and according to the books I’ve read about the teenage years and my own common sense, having someone at your side through the rough days of middle school is of the utmost importance to have a positive experience. Grace and Hannah have been that for each other, clinging together even inside their larger friend group.

“No, I didn’t say anything to her,” she huffs, plopping down at the island where she starts shoveling pancakes into her mouth at rapid-fire pace. I’m not even sure she’s chewing them and not just sucking down whole chunks like the Dyson we have for the living room carpet. Either way, she certainly doesn’t give a shit about my peace offering of powdered sugar.

“You should,” I suggest.

She grunts, sounding oddly like me rather than her usual talkative self. Barely a minute later, a horn honks out front. “That’s MeeMaw, gotta go!”

Grace makes it sound like she was the one rushing and I’ve been holding her back, not the other way around, but that’s okay. As long as she’s out the door, goes to school, and doesn’t get into trouble, it’ll be fine.

For a bit longer.

But I do need to find a nanny. Grace ran off the last one nearly two weeks ago, and none of the candidates the agency has sent over have been right, so my search continues. And though I hate to admit it, I do need help. I have an entire division at Blue Lake Assets to run, billions of dollars of investments to oversee, and a daughter whose schedule resembles the queen’s to keep out of trouble.

“Grab your backpack.”

“Yep.” She snatches it from the island and starts toward the front door.

My heart drops into my ass. Did she forget?

I know the time is coming when she’ll leave without our usual goodbye tradition, but when that day comes, I will be absolutely gutted. Of course, I haven’t told her that. It’s not her place to carry the weight of our traditions. It’s mine. I carry them all, because it’s just me and Grace against the world. We have help, like Mom waiting to take Grace to school, along with the rest of our family, who tag-team with me for anything we need, but at the end of the day, it’s me and Grace.

Thankfully, she stops and turns around, a sparkle in her eye. “You thought I forgot, didn’t you?”

I did. I truly did, but I paste a bright smile on my face by force. “No way. Get over here,” I mock growl, jerking my head for her to come closer even as I go to her. We meet on the side of the island, and she leans her head toward me for a goodbye forehead kiss. “Have a great day at school,” I say affectionately, then add more firmly, “and talk to Hannah.”

She smiles as she shoves one last bite of pancake into her mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks, Dad. Don’t forget, you have that big lunch meeting too. Eat something other than boring chicken and veggies. Maybe go wild and have… pasta.” She makes a face of horror, knowing that I would never do something that potentially messy while eating with a client or associate.

“Har-har,” I deadpan. I’ve been called uptight on more than one occasion, usually by my sister, Kayla, who is rubbing off on my dear daughter, it seems. But it doesn’t escape my notice that of course Grace knows my schedule as well as I know hers. We’re a team of two, taking the world by storm, one day at a time.

Grace flashes me one more grin, looking more like her usual bubbly self, then she’s gone for another day of school and I’m off to work.