Page 20 of Never Bargain with the Boss

And irritates the fuck out of me.

“I’m going over to Janey’s for a bit this afternoon to help with some household stuff and watch Emmett while he sleeps.”

Baffled by the idea, I clarify, “Cole’s paying you to watch the baby sleep?”

She laughs at the simple question, shaking her head. “Have you met your brother? I think he wishes I would come stare at the monitor all night so he could get some sleep too.”

“Is Emmett not sleeping well?” Cole hasn’t said anything, but I’m not sure he would. He’s pretty private, though he’s virtuallyan open book compared to how secretive he used to be in the pre-Janey days.

She holds her hand up to her mouth like she’s telling me a secret and whispers, “Best sleeping baby I’ve ever seen. But his dad might be in my top five.” She arches a brow, and I recall her saying I wasn’t in her top five most difficult to deal with parents. I bark out a wry laugh at her too-accurate assessment of my brother, and she rushes to add, “Don’t tell him I said that.”

I hold up my phone, showing her the dark screen. “Already sent it to the sibling group text.” I didn’t, of course. But I might.

“You’re awful,” she tells me, laughing like I’m downright hilarious. To be clear, I’m not. At all.

“You’ve got the Timmons meeting tonight, right?” she asks, changing the subject as Grace comes sliding into the room. “Five minutes,” she tells my daughter, tapping her wrist, where there is nothing as sensible as a watch, but there are several bracelets.

Even at this hour, Riley is dressed for the day. This morning, her baggy jeans are hanging on her hips by a prayer and cuffed up to show the dark gray socks scrunched above her combat boots. Her t-shirt is boxy and loose, making me wonder if she’s even wearing a bra beneath it. Plus her jewelry, the black-framed glasses she sometimes wears that I’ve deduced are a part of her ‘look’ and not actually prescription, and her hair is half-up and half-down, with two small buns on top of her head that look vaguely like Mickey Mouse ears.

Her outfits are quite my morning’s entertainment while I put on another black, gray, or navy suit each day, only going so wild as choosing a subtly patterned or solid tie, while I wonder what combination she’ll show up in this time. I don’t know why it’s become so intriguing, but it has. Though I would certainly never let that interest show.

“Yes, so I’ll be late tonight,” I answer Riley’s question. “Feel free to order pizza for dinner, and no set bedtime since it’s Friday.”

“So what I’m hearing is…” She grabs the island and the back of Grace’s stool, caging her in, and then pins Grace with a look of excitement written all over her face, and I find myself just as eager to hear what she’s going to say as Grace is. “Pizza-movie marathon party!” she exclaims, making it sound on par with the Superbowl and a Taylor Swift concert all rolled into one. She even waves her arms in the air, dancing around. Well, it’s sort of like dancing, but more like one of the wiggling car wash inflatable tube guys. It’s almost cute, in an odd sort of way.

“Pizza-movie marathon party!” Grace repeats, though at several decibels louder.

They dissolve into a discussion of which movie series to binge while I listen and watch the two of them. I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who could match Grace’s vivaciousness, but Riley does. Her eyes are just as sparkling, her smile just as bright, and her hands are moving just as wildly as my daughter’s through the whole conversation. It’s reassuring and uplifting in a way I don’t think I realized I needed. Once upon a time, I lived by the motto ‘happy wife, happy life’ and made sure that was the case, but for a while now, for me, it’s been ‘happy Grace, happy life’, and my girl is happy with Riley.

It's only been a few days. She could still bail like all the others.

While true, the reminder is only a mild damper on my appreciation for the scene playing out in front of me.

Before I know it, Riley is telling Grace it’s time to go, I’m kissing Grace on the forehead, and they’re out the door, heading to school. I look around the kitchen, feeling like the energy dropped by ninety percent with their exit. I take a deep breath, and a sense of rightness settles over me.

I didn’t think Riley was the right nanny for us, but I’m changing my mind. I even wish I could participate in the pizza-movie marathon party too, though it’s not my usual style. But it’d be infinitely better than going to what promises to be a boring and unneeded dinner with an investor who needs a bit of handholding before making the decision to sell to Blue Lake. It’ll be a waste of time, stroking his ego and paying for his fancy meal and whiskey, when I could be at home.

A sharp,stabbing pain shoots from my foot up my shin, and I jerk beneath the table. I glare at the three other people seated with me and easily find the culprit because there’s only one person who would dare to shove their stiletto heel into my foot. And it’s not Mrs. Timmons, who is wearing sensible block heels, nor Mr. Timmons, who has on Oxfords.

I grit my teeth and scowl at my sister, Kayla, who stares right back, unbothered by my ‘what the fuck’ glare. In truth, her face is utterly placid, her smile as charming as ever. It’s only in her eyes that she’s screaming at me to get my shit together… now.

I tune in to what Mr. Timmons is saying, annoyed with myself that I zoned out. I don’t do things like that, especially when it’s my acquisition on the line.

“I just never thought the day would come when…”

Jesus fuck. Is he still droning on about how he thought he’d eat, sleep, breathe, and die in his office and never dreamed he’d end up selling ownership to a vulture capital company—ahem, I mean venture capital—like Blue Lake?

Yes, he is. Timmons thinks he’s the first man to ever devote himself to his company, as if he discovered sacrificial company building and quite possibly capitalism.

He’s blathered his way through cocktails, the salad course, entrees, dessert, coffee, and now another drink, and while this is a Big Deal—yes, with capital letters—to him, to me, it’s simply the next contract, the next negotiation, the next deal. And there will be another after this, ad infinitum.

Fortunately, he’s sipping the barest remainder of his expensive brandy so this dinner will be coming to a close any minute. Especially if I have anything to do with it.

“I know change can be difficult, but the zeros on the check help alleviate some of that,” I say dryly. Mr. Timmons blinks, his face immobile, and I realize my attempt at humor is ill-placed and unwelcomed. Trying to save the moment, I add, “As does the ability to prioritize things you’d like to focus on, like your lovely wife, family, and the other potential business opportunities you’ve mentioned.”

Mrs. Timmons reaches out, taking her husband’s hand with a soft smile. “It’s time, dear. Mr. Harrington knows it, I know it, and though you don’t want to admit it, you know it too.”

He stares at the way her thumb is tracing back and forth over his hand andthen sighs. “Okay, Harrington. Send me the contract. I’ll sign it.”

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