Page 68 of Boss with Benefits

Rachel nodded, pulling out one of the old yearbooks. "Let's look again."

We flipped through the pages, searching for any clue that we may have missed that would lead us to her dad. The yearbook was a time capsule filled with smiling faces and memories frozen in time. But there weren't any big giveaways, like her mom with her arm around some boy.

Once in a while, Rachel paused on a page, studying her teenage mom, tracing her finger over Jessica's face or arm. I wanted to ask what she was thinking, but she wasn't offering so I didn't pry.

"There's probably a school Facebook page," Rachel said, her eyes lighting up. "Maybe we can find more pictures from their year."

We dove into the school's Facebook account, scrolling through albums from the years she attended the school. It was tedious work, but Rachel was determined. Finally, we came across a picture that caught her attention.

"Here. She was in French Club," Rachel said, pointing to Jessica with six other people. She sat next to a White guy with a lopsided smile and shaggy blond hair. "Could it be him?"

We squinted, but there was nothing in his features that looked familiar.

"I don't think so," Rachel said.

We continued to the next yearbook, Jessica's junior year, when she would've been pregnant with Rachel. As if by instinct, Rachel flipped to the junior/senior prom. There were lots of smiling faces and couples laughing into the camera, but I was searching in the foreground.

"Look," I said, pointing to a girl who looked like Jessica leaning close to a boy at a table in the background. "Is that her?"

Rachel held the page close to her face. "I think so. Who's that kid?"

He had short brown hair that was styled in a fauxhawk. We flipped back to the class photos and immediately found him, the unique hairstyle a giveaway.

Rachel pulled the book closer to her face, studying his features. His mouth and chin looked strikingly similar to Rachel's. She covered his eyes and nose with her hand, and the resemblance was uncanny.

"What's his name?"

Rachel leaned closer, squinting. "Bradley DeLacey. That's an unusual name. It might help us find him online."

A quick search on LinkedIn brought up his profile. He was a banker right here in Manhattan.

"Do you think that's him?" Rachel asked, a touch of fear in her wide gaze. "What should we do?" I ignored the little flip in my gut by her use of we. "I can't just be like ‘Hey, dude, I think you might be my dad.’"

I pulled the computer onto my lap. "I have an idea." I opened my inbox in LinkedIn and typed a message.

Hi Bradley, I'm Derrick Jacques, the CEO of Dreamary Media Corp. I'd like to discuss a potential business opportunity and possible interview on one of our podcasts. Can we set up a meeting?

"Good?" I asked. Rachel nodded and I hit send.

To our surprise, he responded almost immediately. Rachel gripped my arm, her fingers digging into my skin as we read it together.

Hi, Derrick. I'm familiar with your company. I followed your recent acquisition by NOW Media. Impressive. I can meet tomorrow at 10 a.m. at your offices. Does that work? Best, Brad

Rachel looked dazed, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Is this really happening?"

"Yes," I said. "Are you okay?"

Rachel looked at me, her gaze full of panic. She hopped up and started pacing, her hands fiddling with the hem of her sweatshirt. It was like she was a windup toy that someone cranked too tight and now she was vibrating around the room with excess energy.

"What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he rejects me?" Rachel said, and I could practically see her mind whirling with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.

I watched her from the couch, concerned. "Rachel, you're going to wear a hole in my rug."

She stopped and threw her hands up. "I can't help it! What if he doesn't want anything to do with me? What if he doesn't remember my mom?"

I stood up and crossed to her in two strides. "Hey, hey," I said softly, pulling her into my arms. "It's going to be okay."

Immediately she relaxed into my chest, resting her head on my shoulder.

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