Never Bargain with the Boss (Never Say Never Book 5)
Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 8

It’s just after eight when Grace bounds into the kitchen. “Are we ready to do this?”

I can’t help but grin at her enthusiasm, not only for today’s outing to the thrift store, but for life in general.

“Of course I’m ready. I live for this stuff. The question is… are you?” I answer, giving her a once-over.

She holds her arms out so I can inspect her outfit. As we discussed, shopping at the thrift store requires some pre-planning and preparation if you’re going to do it right, because more often than not, there aren’t fitting rooms available, so try-ons happen in the aisles. Grace’s outfit matches my own—black leggings, a slim-fitting tank top, a cropped cardigan, shoes that easily slip on and off, and good socks. For serious outings like this, I even leave my jewelry at home, so my neck and wrists are uncharacteristically bare.

“Looks good,” I tell her, and she preens. Pointing at the island, I tell her, “Eat and we’ll head out. The store opens at nine.”

“Oh, let me wake up Dad, then. He needs to get ready so we’re not late!”

Like a bat out of hell, she’s off, hurrying through the formal living room and down Cameron’s hallway quicker than she should possible on an empty stomach at this hour. Most teens would be drag-assing. Grace? In hyper mode, as always.

“Grace!” I hiss, following her as quickly as I can. “I don’t think he’s coming with us. Let him sleep in.”

Cameron didn’t mention coming with us today. In fact, when he got home from his business dinner last night, he’d fallen to the couch next to Grace, stuck his hand in her bowl of popcorn, and asked, “What’re we watching?” after releasing a heavy sigh. But he also had the distinct scent of perfume on his jacket. Which is fine. He’s a single dad and free to date whomever and whenever he’d like. Like today. While Grace and I shop, he could… date, or work, or work out.

Or sleep.

Because the man is a machine. He’s up before the sunrise every morning, hitting the home gym. His footsteps on the treadmill have become the accompanying song of my morning work, and when he comes through to grab his shake, he’s already on his phone, checking the markets. He’s gone all day and comes home surrounded by an aura of exhaustion that he shakes off the longer he’s with Grace. But once he tucks her in, he’s back to work, either on phone calls or clicking on his laptop.

I don’t think he relaxes, ever. He’s all go, go, go, and I think he could use a day to unplug, unclench, and unwind.

Today’s the perfect opportunity for that. Unless Grace wakes him up on the one day he’s slept in past six thirty.

I’m too late to catch her, though, and from the hallway, I see her leaning over Cameron’s bed. His room is a lot like the man—serious and crisp, in deep navy blue and bright white, minimalist and unfussy, with everything having a purpose and a place.

“Come on, Dad. Get dressed,” Grace whispers. Well, for her, it’s a whisper. For most people, it’d be considered speaking in a normal voice. She also pokes her finger into his ribs, which wakes him up quickly.

“What’s wrong?” he grumbles in a sleep-roughened voice, throwing an arm over his eyes.

I cringe. Not because she’s bothering him, but because the sheets are puddled around his waist, leaving his chest bare, and with his arm over his eyes, his biceps bulge obscenely. I wouldn’t have thought so, but beneath his tailored shirts and suits, Cameron is in immaculate shape. He could be a model for one of those marble statues, with cut abs, V lines that disappear below the gym shorts I usually see him wearing in the mornings, broad shoulders, and muscled arms. He clearly does more than just the treadmill, his forearms are the stuff of porn, and I vaguely wonder if he ever rolls his sleeves up at the office. If so, I’m sure he’s got women all over Blue Lake Assets as hot and bothered as the school secretary is.

It’s a good thing I’m not one of those women.

Nope, not me. I haven’t noticed him at all—not this morning, looking like raw sex with mussed hair and a dark blonde scruff on his face, and not at all during the last week-ish I’ve worked for him. I’m totally unaffected by my boss and there’s not a single dirty fantasy running through my mind. And if you believe that, I’ve got some oceanside property to sell you, right in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska.

I would never act on the thoughts—which I still blame on Miller for planting that stupid seed—but I can’t help but notice Cameron. I mean anyone would, so I certainly understand why the previous nannies—and every other woman in the Tri-State area—might be willing to throw themselves at him.

But not me. No siree, not Riley Lynn Stefano, the friendly but transient, loner nanny. I’m just gonna gawk a bit, take a few mental snapshots for later usage, and go on about my business.

I should move. Go back to the kitchen and quit ogling. But my feet don’t seem to be working.

“Get dressed. We’re going to Starbucks and shopping,” Grace says, acting like she’s reminding Cameron of something very obvious.

He cracks one eye open, the blue orb glaring at her. It’s a common expression for the man but he doesn’t usually turn that look on his beloved daughter. “What?”

“Starbucks. Shopping. Me. You. Riley.” She says each word as if they’re a complete sentence and she’s dumbing it down for his sleep-addled brain.

“Riley said you two were shopping, but I’m not going.” He seems to be not only awake now, but firing on all cylinders.

“Yeah, you are. Thirty minutes. Get dressed.” She pokes him in the ribs once more for good measure and then spins, coming toward the door. “See? I told you he was coming with us,” she tells me.

Cameron’s head pops up and his eyes find mine instantly. I watch as he shifts, pulling on the white sheet at his waist, and his eyes darken like he’s accusing me of something.

Shit. I’m totally busted, standing here like a pervert, staring at my boss while he sleeps half-nude. Hell, maybe totally-nude for all I know, given I haven’t seen that many pairs of underwear in the laundry I’ve done. Not that I’m counting, but I might’ve noticed that Cameron wears designer, trunk-style briefs because folding his laundry is the closest to sex I’ve been in a while. And yes, I’m painfully aware of how pitiful that sounds.

From somewhere behind me, Grace shouts, “Twenty-nine!”

I spin, virtually sprinting away from Cameron’s doorway and hoping I don’t get fired for going into Peeping Tom mode when I was only trying to let him have a relaxing morning of sleep.

“I’m coming!” Cameron bellows back, answering Grace. But I think he must realize the possible double-entendre a split-second later because, sounding frustrated, he adds, “Don’t leave without me.”

I press my lips together, fighting off a grin because there’s no way in hell a man like Cameron announces ‘I’m coming’ when he actually orgasms. He’s probably the silent type, barely letting a grunt out. I giggle at that. He really is uptight.

Back in the kitchen, Grace is eating, but even chewing, her mouth is turned up in a self-satisfied smile. “Told you he’d come with us.”

I blink at her complete faith in her ability to get Cameron to do anything she wishes. “You are terrifying, Grace.”

It’s not exactly a compliment, but she takes it as one, smacking her lips before saying, “I know.”

Twenty-four minutes later, Cameron enters the kitchen, proclaiming, “I’m ready.”

I studiously don’t look at him, feigning intense interest in the wrapper of the granola bar I’m near-inhaling. But the tiniest side-eyed glance tells me everything I need to know.

He’s freshly showered, but unshaven, and the scruff looks good on him, roughing up his hard edges. He’s wearing nice jeans, an untucked button-down, and lace-up Oxfords. It’s the most casual I’ve seen him—other than in his workout gear—but he looks ready for a day at the country club, not a thrift store. He’s going to absolutely hate everything about this—the clothes, the digging, the sense of everything being used. Hopefully, by the end of it, he doesn’t hate me.

Because he’s already frowning deeply, his eyes locked on me like I’m a puzzle he’s going to solve. But good luck with that. If I haven’t figured me out, no one else is going to. And why waste a single passing moment on that when they could be spent doing something fun to make the most of them?

Like going shopping.

“Yeah! Let’s go!” Grace shouts. “Starbucks before or after?”

“After,” Cameron answers his daughter’s near-constant request to go for an iced Frappuccino.

“Before,” I say at the same time.

When he turns his piercing blue eyes my way, I explain, “So we can shop and sip slowly. Not suck it down because we’re tired after hours of work.”

He seems to have totally missed the logical reasoning behind my suggestion, focusing only on one piece of what I said. “Hours? I thought we were going to one store?”

I flash him a devilish smirk. “We are. It’s gonna be epic.”

A quick stop, a Frappuccino, and two coffees—Cameron’s black, and mine with cream and sugar—and we arrive at the thrift store right as it opens. Along with about twenty other early bird shoppers.

“Are they giving stuff away?” Cameron jokes dryly. But when an older woman in a nylon wind suit shoves past him with a hard shoulder bump, he frowns.

“Move it, GQ,” she mutters, hustling toward the purses. Every step is accompanied by the swish-swish-swish of the slick material of her pants.

Cameron looks left and right in confusion, and I don’t hide my laugh.

“Thrifting is a competitive business, and I bet they just got a fresh shipment,” I explain. “It might not be whatever it is you do…” I have no idea what Cameron actually does, but it’s obviously something fancy and smart. “But it can be cutthroat.”

He doesn’t look like he believes me, so I point over to the purses. He turns just in time to see Ms. Wind Suit arguing with another woman, each of them with a white-knuckled death grip on a handle from a single purse. They pull, fighting over what appears to be a Louis Vuitton but is probably fake, and Cameron moves closer to Grace, putting himself between her and the tussle like she might be in mortal danger from the women who are now both repeating ‘I had it first’ in a never-ending loop.

“Follow me,” I tell them cheerfully, leading the way to the clothing section, which is thankfully the opposite way of the purse situation. At the first rack, I remind Grace, “If you like it, grab it, but don’t fall in love until we do a detailed look-over to make sure it’s in good condition or salvageable.” She nods as though my bare-bones instructions are of the utmost importance.

“What about me?” Cameron asks, sneering at the racks of brightly colored clothes like they might jump out and attack him. Actually, he looks like he’s mortally offended, as though the smells of mothballs and sweat might permeate into his flesh if he stays here too long. Granted, it’s not Barney’s or Sax with their commercial-grade air purifiers and deodorizers, but Lysol Sanitizer in a wash load can go a long way toward cleaning thrifted items, and for some of us, places like this are the only way we can afford a wardrobe.

For me, for a long time, even shopping at a thrift store was a luxury beyond my means. Now, I could shop at department stores, but why? I’d rather find unique pieces and create a style all my own. And yes, I’m well aware of the fact that I spend my time choosing items with a past, that have been thrown away in a donation pile, and rehome them to where they’ll be loved, like the clothing version of the social workers I used to have assigned to me as a foster child. I’m well-adjusted, but not undamaged by my past.

“Shopping cart duty,” I proclaim.

He looks back toward the front door and then to Grace like he’s measuring the distance between the two points before he quickly strides off to get a cart. As he crosses the store, I keep one eye on him, not entirely convinced he won’t make a run for it. I don’t think he’d abandon Grace, but he’d definitely leave me here without a second thought or a ‘See ya later.’

Grace and I get started, flipping through items as we slide the hangers down the metal rod. “What about this?” she asks approximately four shirts in.

I eye the tie-dyed, cropped T-shirt with a cartoon cat and mouse emblazoned on it. “Do you like Tom and Jerry?”

“Who?”

“Seriously?” I ask, pointing at the labeled characters.

She frowns, puts the shirt back, and continues to look through more. Cameron returns, and I set my coffee plus the shirt I found into the cart. “How do you know what to get?”

I don’t stop sorting through the rack, but I explain, “I shop for two things—myself and resale. For myself, I need to truly love it. That’s it. For resale, I look for things in high demand, like Western brands, single stitch T-shirts, especially concert or band merch, and the current big seller is ‘grandparent chic’ pieces.”

“Grand. Parent. Chic?” He sounds out the words like they’re totally unfamiliar to him.

“Mm-hmm, like crochet pieces, skirts that look like floral couch fabric, Grandpa tweed trousers.” I feel Cameron’s eyes on me, and when I glance up, he’s looking at me like that explanation didn’t help in the slightest. In fact, it might’ve only confused him more. “You’ll see. I’ll show you when I find it.” There’s always a stash of good finds if you’re willing to look hard enough, and I am a thorough and experienced thrift shopper.

But while I’m shopping, Grace is simply flipping through clothes aimlessly, her eyes ping-ponging from the rack to me, and I realize she’s simply mimicking me. When I glance to Cameron, I find him sipping his coffee while staring at his phone.

Nope, this won’t do. Not on my watch. We’re having a fun outing, not whatever this is quickly dissolving into.

“New game plan,” I announce, grabbing their attention. I move to the closest rack, and looking at Grace, I say, “Tell me when to stop.” While she’s still processing, I start walking my fingers along the hangers, one at a time.

“Stop!” she says, smiling even though she has no idea what I’m up to.

I pull out a white T-shirt proclaiming Jones Family Reunion 2013 in royal blue and hold it out, nearly forcing it into her hands. “Your mission is to create an outfit using that.”

Her smile falls instantly. “This is ugly, and my name isn’t Jones.”

She’s right on both counts, but I tilt my head, surveying her. “It’s for fun. Make a silly outfit, a cute one, an awful one. What could you match this with to make it better?” I drop my voice to a whisper like the two of us are conspiring against the game I’m creating on the fly and challenge, “Or worse?”

She snorts out a laugh, eyeing the shirt critically. “I don’t think anything could make it worse.” But she heads toward another rack to scavenge.

Cameron leans my way. “She’s going to make the ugliest outfit imaginable. You know that, right?”

“Maybe.” I shrug, pleased that he’s paying attention. “Maybe not. You’re not off the hook either. Tell me when to stop.” I at least have the decency to choose a rack of men’s clothing for his journey into thrift store outfit creation. But he doesn’t say a word as I flip through the hangers. Instead, he defiantly shakes his head like he’s not participating in this adventure. But he is, like it or not. I pick one at random for him and hold it up like I’m sizing it—and him—up. “Good luck.”

I lay it over his chest and pat his pectoral muscle, registering that it’s rock hard at the same time I realize it’s completely inappropriate to touch him this way—especially after this morning’s peep show—and quickly let go of the hanger. Luckily, the shirt stays, stuck on his broad shoulders, and I pin him with a look, daring him to refuse.

He slowly drops his gaze to the linen shirt, which is a short-sleeved, button-up with vertical cream-colored stitching on a black background. It’s vaguely vacation-like, but not quite Hawaiian. Honestly, it’s a much easier assignment than Grace’s, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate the gift I’ve given him. When he scoffs at the not-that-bad shirt, I sing-song, “I could choose again. I’m sure it definitely wouldn’t be anything uglier.” I delicately tap one finger on a hanger that’s holding a particularly busy, neon print shirt and offer a sly smirk that promises a much worse fate.

“Fine,” he mutters, catching the shirt before it falls, which is a good thing because thrift store floors aren’t the cleanest of places and Cameron’s already being snotty about being in here. I don’t imagine he’d touch anything contaminated by the floor.

The silly exercise is the icebreaker we all need because in minutes, Grace and Cameron both come back with completed outfits in their hands. Grace has found a pair of blue and green plaid shorts that do in fact match the T-shirt, and a hat with a huge blue flower on it. Cameron went the easy route and brought back taupe linen slacks, but the fact that he participated at all is a win in my book.

Grace is holding her outfit up with a victorious sparkle in her eyes. Cameron looks slightly less constipated, but only very slightly.

“Great job!” I tell them, clapping and acting like they succeeded at an impossible mission. “Can we have a little fun now?”

“Yeah!” Grace says, her smile back. “The shirt is awful, but I actually like these shorts. Can I put them in the cart?”

“Absolutely.”

As Grace starts to flip through the racks again, considering each piece, I give Cameron a teasing grin and ask, “What about you? Feeling like the shirt or slacks are representative of Cameron Harrington?”

He arches one brow, giving me a dead-eyed glare. “No.” But a heartbeat later, he leans my way and, quiet enough that Grace won’t hear, says, “Instead of the linen ones, I should’ve grabbed the old man golf pants just to fuck with you. They were ivory, black, and red plaid.” He shudders like they’re the worst possible thing to ever exist, which piques my interest to find these amazing pants.

For science.

And maybe to fuck with Cameron a bit. Because I think I just got a tiny peek into his sense of humor. I wasn’t sure he had one. But maybe it’s in there, deep down below all the seriousness. Way deep down, under the rules and restrictions he lives by.

Testing that theory, I suggest, “You still could. I would even get them rush dry-cleaned tomorrow so you could wear them to the office on Monday.”

“People would think I’ve lost my mind.” He glances around us at the thrift store and adds, “They’d probably be right.”

But there’s not the same venom in the judgment now. It almost seems like he’s poking fun at his own assumptions about this place.

“It’s pretty great, right?” I whisper.

He scrunches up his face like he got a fresh whiff of mothball. “I don’t know if I’d go so far as great. Maybe unexpectedly not-entirely-horrific?”

I give him a single, firm nod and a winning smile. “I’ll take it.”

By the time we make it through a few more racks, I’ve found two shirts for myself—one a vintage T-shirt with a cute cat screen printed on it, and the other an oversized green- and white-striped button-up—and three for resale.

I feel like I need to explain my selection process to Cameron so that he understands that I’m good at what I do, not only with Grace, but with my side hustle. “See? This one is a Wrangler brush popper. You can tell because of the thick material.” I rub the fabric between my fingers, and though he looks at me like I’m weird as hell, he touches the shirt too and nods like he understands. “These are high demand, especially in bright colors and patterns like this. It needs a patch, but I can get creative with that and make it even more desirable. And that sweatshirt with the collar and the embroidered flowers? Granny chic, and it’ll go with a skirt I already have listed, so hopefully, they’ll sell together. This one falls under Grandpa style.” I hold up my latest find, a brown argyle sweater vest.

“That looks like oatmeal on whole wheat toast,” Cameron says, but his lips quirk ever so slightly like he might be trying to smile. Or have a stroke. One or the other, for sure.

“Ooh, good marketing phrase,” I tease. “I might have to use that on the listing. What do you got for this one?” I hold up the Wrangler shirt, examining the turquoise-green buttons to make sure none are missing. That’ll be the motif I go with for the patch too, adding extra flair.

“Terrifying?” Cameron suggests dryly, but there’s another tiny hint of laughter in his tone.

“It is a little whoa,” Grace agrees, holding a hand out like she might stop the shirt from getting any closer.

“You’ll see. It’ll be my fastest seller, guaranteed.”

A few minutes later, Grace finds a denim skirt. She virtually has hearts popping out of her eyes as she holds it up for me to see. “Look! There’s a little buckle on the back.” She flips it around, pointing to the attached belt to cinch in the waist.

“That’s adorable.” It is, but I can already see an issue with the skirt. It’s short, in micro-mini, club-going, poster-girl-dress kind of way.

“Absolutely not,” Cameron scoffs, sounding like he expects his word to be the final say-so on the issue.

“Daaad,” Grace groans, rolling her eyes like she thinks he’s being utterly ridiculous.

“That’s not a skirt. It’s a wide belt at best. I said—” His voice is getting more clipped and harsher with every word, and I can see Grace’s excitement fading into shame.

As subtly as I can, I elbow Cameron in the ribs, much the way Grace did this morning. I do not get the same sleepy-eyed, sweet response to the maneuver. I get an oof and a ‘what the fuck’ scowl, which might be deserved, but I’m afraid he’s about to say something he can’t take back.

“Slip it on over your leggings so you can see how it fits,” I tell Grace, and when she starts to step into it, I cut my eyes to Cameron sharply. The glare I shoot him is such a shock that he doesn’t argue, but rather, stands there with his mouth hanging open as he stares back at me. But that only lasts a split second before he remembers the hierarchy of who he is and who I am. Still, I hold up one finger, telling Cameron to wait a second, and he frowns deeply at my overstep.

Because that’s exactly what it is. But I’m hoping for a tiny sliver of leeway for a good cause.

Once Grace has wiggled her way into the skirt and buttoned it, she smooths the fabric over her thighs. Well, the tippy tops of them, because that’s as long as the skirt is. “What do you think?”

“What do you think?” I repeat, directing her toward a mirror on the end of a long rack.

Cameron is about to explode, his opinion written all over his face.

Grace twists and turns, looking at her reflection. “Uhm, it is a little short,” she finally says, and I swear everyone in the store hears Cameron’s sigh of relief.

“It’s definitely way too short,” he agrees.

But that’s not the end of it. This is where I shine. “That means you have a choice to make. If you feel like it’s not meant to be yours, you leave it here and it’ll eventually find its way to where it belongs. If you love it, then you think out of the box about how you can make it work.”

“Like what?” Grace asks, seeming confused but still staring at herself in the mirror with a look I know all too well. She’s falling in love with the piece of denim that’s barely wider than a cummerbund.

“Riley.” Cameron’s voice goes stern as I test his patience.

My survival instincts are top-notch, cultivated and grown out of necessity over a lifetime. So if I really thought Cameron was gonna do something, I’d shut up. Conveniently, I don’t, so I ignore him completely and give Grace my full attention.

“It’s short, so either wear something under it, like leggings,” I say, pointing at the outfit she has on now, “or add fabric to the skirt. Here…” I pick up a hanger with a tablecloth folded over it. “You could sew something to the bottom of the denim and make a one of a kind, uniquely yours piece.” I hold the fabric up at the hem of the skirt, letting it drape over her legs so she can visualize what I mean.

Grace reaches out, her fingers rubbing over the tablecloth as she murmurs, “I can’t sew.”

“I can.”

Her attention bounces up to me. “You’d do that for me?”

I laugh. “Even better, I’ll teach you how.”

Her eyes widen as she searches my face for any sign that I’m kidding, but she won’t find one. I mean it, I’ll happily show her how to sew and guide her through this first project. “Really?” When I nod, she claps her hands excitedly. “Thanks, Riley!” But then she gives the tablecloth a dubious look. “Does it have to be that fabric, though? Or could I pick something else?”

“Anything you want. Tablecloths and sheets are the best yardage for the price, though, and would probably give us enough fabric to do either a couple of tiers or a few layers.” I side-eye Cameron, making sure he hears me. “We can make it as long as you want it to be.”

He’s gritting his teeth, his jaw set, but the blue eyes he turns on me don’t seem cold this time. There’s fire burning in their depths, almost… nope, not going there. Too terrifying.

I smile blandly, knowing full well that Cameron has several things he wants to say to me, and the only thing holding his tongue is his daughter’s presence. And because I’ve never been accused of making good decisions, I goad him further. “Hey, can you show me those plaid pants you were talking about? I want to see if they’d be good for resale.”

“Yeah, they’re right over here,” he replies crisply, gesturing with an arm to guide me away from Grace, who’s happily oblivious and searching for fabric to add to what’s likely going to become her new favorite skirt.

Once we’re alone in an aisle, I turn to face him fully and invite him to do his worst. “Go ahead, let me have it.”

Cameron bends down, nearly looming over me, and demands, “What. The fuck. Was that?”

His entire body has gone hard as stone and his eyes stare into my soul. I don’t flinch, and I don’t back down. Hell, I might actually lean into it… just a little. Because on some deep, dark level, I’m testing him to find out where his edge is. Everyone has one and if I know where Cameron’s is, I can stay away from it.

Or push him over it.

Keeping my voice between us, I say, “JT Morrison, nine years old.”

His brows slam down in confusion at my non-sequitur response. “What?”

“I was nine years old, standing in the kitchen, getting a drink of water because I’d been outside playing all day and was hot. That was the first time I heard the word ‘whore’.” I throw my voice, mimicking the foster dad I’d only had for a short while, “Those shorts are way too short, girl. Got half your ass hanging out of ‘em like a whore for the whole neighborhood to see.”

He blinks reflexively at my course language but then narrows his eyes, his gaze hard and unyielding. “I hope you are not suggesting that I would call anyone—least of all, my daughter—such a thing.”

“Of course not. But what you say has power, especially to Grace, and can have unintended purposes.”

Cameron swallows roughly, and I swear he’s pushing down a thousand questions. Finally, he asks one. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay?”

I didn’t expect that to be his concern, and normally, I wouldn’t share this much of my backstory with anyone—especially my boss—since I try not to dwell in the past. But I’m the one who started this, so I might as well finish it. “Yeah, I dealt with that a long time ago.” I wave a hand dismissively, leaving it all where it belongs—behind me. “In the moment, I asked another kid what it meant and she told me. To be fair, the shorts probably were too small, and he probably didn’t mean anything sexual by it, but they were the only ones I owned, so I sweated my ass off in jeans for the rest of the summer. I can’t even tell you what he looked like anymore, but his words echo in my head, and to this day, I still don’t wear shorts.”

“I’m sorry, truly, that you went through that, but that’s not what’s going on here,” Cameron bites out.

“I know,” I agree, softening my approach. “But that was an opportunity to empower Grace to decide for herself, not just declare the skirt to be a ‘no’ off-hand, when all that demonstrates is that you have zero trust in her decision-making abilities.” The accusation of what he was this close to doing is as clear as day.

Cameron’s head whips back like my words are a slap. “You are not her parent. I am.”

“Agreed.” And I could leave it there, but of course, I don’t. This is too important—for Grace. And for Cameron too. I want him to understand why I did what I did, and maybe understand me a bit more too. “But Grace is growing up, and part of that is learning to trust yourself. Sometimes, that starts by falling in love with a ridiculously tiny skirt that you have to perform miracles on to make work. Maybe she’ll learn to choose something easier next time, or maybe she’ll learn the work is worth it when she loves the result. And yeah, that’s a great lesson for life in general too, especially in regard to people.” I eye him like I’m trying to decide whether he’s worth the work I’m putting in here, but deep down, I’m pretty sure he is. Grace definitely is. “Either way, she’ll learn to sew, which is a skill that’ll serve her well for the rest of her life.” I look him directly in the eye and fight to keep my voice steady as I say, “But most importantly, she’ll learn that her dad trusted her enough to not rush in and override her before she’d even had a chance to think it through.”

My breathing is so fast that I’m nearly panting, my heart is pounding in my chest, and I’m certain I just got myself fired. Not because I’m wrong, but because I’m not sure Cameron is ready to hear what I’m saying. I get it… to him, Grace is his little girl and he wants to protect her from everything, even herself.

Nearly nose to nose, he stares back at me, his eyes full of cold fury, but I can virtually see him processing what I’ve said. I’m ready for him to reject it outright. He has no reason to value my opinion over his own where Grace is concerned, at least not yet when I barely know her and he barely knows me. But I know girls, and women, and the process it takes to get from one to the other.

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses, throwing his head back to stare at the fluorescent light above us. I think he’s looking for divine intervention, but I’m not sure if it’s with me or his daughter, but it feels like a rare peek behind his rigid façade, and maybe even an acknowledgement that there’s at least one tiny chink in his otherwise perfect armor. After a long, heavy moment, he scrubs a hand over his face. His palm on his stubble makes a scratching noise, and when he brings his attention back to me, his eyes are virtually pleading for mercy. “I just thought it was a criminally short skirt.”

“I don’t think it even qualifies as a skirt. I was thinking cummerbund.” I hold my finger and thumb up a scant four inches apart, which is an exaggeration of how short the skirt is, but not by much. He looks surprised at my expression of utter horror, and I laugh. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let her go out in that scrap of fabric. I just wanted her to realize it was inappropriate. That’s how she learns.”

I swear a metric-ton of anxiety lifts off Cameron’s shoulders when he hears that I absolutely agree with him. Tilting his head, he asks, “You don’t mind teaching her to sew?”

“Nope, she’s gonna be my stitch bitch.” When his eyebrows slam down low over his eyes, I press my lips together, fighting to hide my grin. “Which is absolutely not what I’ll call her, because that would be inappropriate language,” I say stiffly. Well, as stiffly as I can because I’m seriously fighting off laughter now.

Cameron shakes his head. “You should hear what Kyle says in front of her. Stitch bitch isn’t remotely the worst thing she’s heard.”

Our eyes meet, and it feels like we’re both on the same page—one with Grace’s name at the top in big, bold, bubble letters. But I can see that he’s still processing what I shared. He won’t let something like that go, which is exactly why I told him. He’s a great dad, but even greatness can falter every once in a while, and as much as what that long ago foster dad said echoes in my head, I think what I told Cameron will echo in his, and both he and Grace will be better for it.

“So, about those pants?” I ask, not really caring about them at all but wanting to lighten things up and hoping these supposed atrocities of pantsdom will make Cameron smile. His whole face changes when he does that, and he deserves those little momentary pockets of happiness amid all his stress and seriousness.

I’m rewarded by a full, white-toothed grin. It’s like watching the sunrise, and I instantly want to see him smile like this again. “They’re over here, and probably even more awful than I made them out to be.”

He’s right. They are absolutely dreadful, which is why I buy them immediately.