Page 13 of Never Bargain with the Boss

“Sometimes, now is all we get, so let’s make the most of it.”

“How?” Grace asks, interest blooming in her eyes.

“Homework. Dinner.” I point at her and then at myself.

She’s definitely not excited by my plan but goes along with it without argument. It’s the new-toy theory. Once the shine has worn off and I’ve become the annoying person who reminds her to do her homework over and over, she’ll move on to rebellion. It’s a time-worn process and it’s the same every time I start a new job. But for today, she’s agreeable.

In the kitchen, she sits down at the island with her laptop as I pull open the refrigerator to take an inventory of what’s available. “What do you usually eat? Any allergies I need to know about?”

“I think the chicken on the bottom shelf is for tonight. Dad usually throws it in the oven with some sort of sprinkly stuff from the cabinet.” She points at a door behind which I find an array of seasonings. “And he makes veggies or rice or noodles on the side. No allergies, but I don’t like super spicy stuff.”

“Okay. You get started on your homework and let me see what I can do here.”

We both get to work, and in no time, she’s finished her assignments and has begun helping me set the island for dinner since that’s where she says they usually eat.

“Something smells delicious,” a gruff voice says.

Cameron’s coming into the kitchen with his suit jacket laid over his arm, loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his dress shirt. He instantly looks more human and less stiff, but I don’t miss the way he meticulously examines the room with the barest of glances. It’s like he’s searching for what I screwed up in the three hours since I picked Grace up, because with Cameron, it’s notifI did, buthowI did it.

“Dad! You’re home!” If you told me that Grace hadn’t seen Cameron in days or weeks, I’d believe you based on her energy as she runs to him, but I know that they had breakfast together this morning, which somehow makes her excitement that much sweeter.

“Hey, Gracie girl.” He places a quick peck to the top of his daughter’s head, but his eyes are on me. “Hello again, Riley.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was waiting for me to quit on the spot and walk out the front door. I’m just not sure why, exactly. Today has been great so far. Grace and I have gotten along fabulously, and now, I’m hoping that the evening goes just as well.

“Hi, Mr. Harrington.”

“I prefer to leave the Mr. Harrington title at the office.”

I find that hard to believe. Everything about him screams formal and proper, but I take him at his word. “Okay… Cameron,” I say, trying his name aloud to his face for the first time. “Cam? Cammy? Cama-lama-ding-dong?” My grin grows exponentially the deeper he frowns.

“Cameron.” His declaration is firm, his eyes are narrowed, and there’s a new twitch in his cheek. I might eventually get away with Cam, but Cama-lama-ding-dong is definitely out the window.

I catalogue that away—cheek twitch equals irritated. Because he is definitely irritated with me.

Learning what makes people tick and deciphering their tells is a habit of mine, one born out of a need for safety but continued because with understanding comes predictability. And when someone is predictable to the point that I can accurately anticipate their reactions and behaviors, I feel safe, like a never-ending loop of reassurance.

Is that the result of spending my childhood years wondering, worrying, and wishing? Absolutely. But I choose to think of my attentiveness to others as compassion rather than considering myself broken.

“Fair enough, Cameron. Dinner’s ready.” This time, I say his name like we’re old friends, letting it roll off my tongue like I’ve said it hundreds of times before. Casual and cool, and I note that there’s no cheek twitch. Good deal for now.

“We made pepper-stuffed chicken,” Grace tells him, making it sound like it was a team effort. Mostly, she did her homework while I chopped and sautéed veggies, butterflied and filled the seasoned chicken breasts, and topped them with feta and cream before baking.

“That sounds so good,” Cameron groans, patting his stomach. “I skipped lunch.”

“Dad!” Grace scolds him, her hands on her hips as she pins him with a disappointed glare.

Unbothered by her reprimand, he answers unapologetically, “Had a meeting.” Not explaining further, he sniffs the air, seeming to appreciate having a home-cooked meal ready when he arrives, regardless of his lunch plans.

As the two of them quickly sit down, I pull the casserole dish from the oven and set it on a trivet in the middle of the island. They both lean forward, inhaling loudly and deeply. Grace looks unsure, but Cameron looks ready to devour the whole thing, so I plate the stuffed chicken over rice, setting one in front of each of them as fast as I can.

“You too,” Grace rushes to tell me.

Not sure if that’s allowed or expected, I glance at Cameron, but he looks as uncertain as I am, his brows raised and lips pressed into a flat line. Is that supposed to mean ‘get the hell out of here’ or ‘sit down and eat’? I have no idea, so I slowly move to get another plate from the cabinet, giving him every opportunity to tell me no, but he stays silent. I’m not turning down Grace’s invitation, so I fill my plate and sit down on the other end of the island, Grace between Cameron and me.

Waiting for them to take a bite first, I pray they like what I made. I feel like I still need a win with Cameron. He’s not sure about me—that much is obvious—but after just one day with Grace, I really hope he comes around because I like her a lot.

Luckily, after delicately cutting into the chicken and placing a small bite in his mouth, Cameron almost smiles as he chews before scooping another large bite into his mouth and making sounds of utter and complete contentment. “This is delicious.”

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