Page 48 of The Girlfriend Zone

“You don’t think it’ll be weird if I work here? If it happens, I mean. It’s just three months to cover his paternity leave.”

“If ‘weird’ means ‘good,’ then yes. I do think so.”

I roll my eyes, but it does feel warm and fuzzy that he likes having me here. “Are you sure? I don’t want to step on your toes. This is your space, after all.”

He sticks out a sneakered foot. “Step on them, please.”

I am so grateful for his support. He’s always been that way. Where other parents would be protective or hesitant, he’s always had my back.

“Fine, I guess I will.” I was already leaning toward yes. I’d only needed to know he was on board. “Ifshe offers officially,” I add.

“How could she not?” he asks. “I’ve seen your pics.”

True, but I have a hunch he skims over the boudoir ones on my website, focusing mostly on my other work. At first, while I was dabbling in boudoir photography I didn’t mention it to him. I wasn’t sure what he’d think of me building a business around sexy photos. I’ve since told him, and he wasn’t weirded out at all, so maybe the worry had all been in my head. A fear that the one parent who adores me might not want to think of his little girl taking, and posing, for sexy shots. But now that I think back on it, maybe the real worry was that he’d be disappointed.

Like Mom was. When she invited me out to New York for the launch of her newest handbag line a year ago, she took me to lunch at a see-and-be-seen eatery on the Upper East Side and asked what I was up to career-wise. When I told her, she tutted, shaking her head over her arugula salad and Perrier, then said, “Darling, I just don’t understand why you spend so much energy on...that.Imagine what we could create if you channeled your talent into something lasting—like handbags. Real art. Something people actually value. You have so much potential, and it’s such a shame to see it wasted on photos that end up hidden away in bedside drawers. Now, let’s put your abilities to real use.”

So, yeah. I guess that’s why I didn’t tell my dad at first. Once burned, twice shy and all. Turns out I didn’t haveanything to worry about. His response? “That’s terrific. You’re so talented and it sounds like you find it empowering.”

I should have known he’d be behind me—he’s always supported my dreams.

Like now, and it’s great he’s so thrilled about this opportunity. It makes it easier to imagine working here—though I’ll need to be extra cautious with Miles, for both my sakeandmy dad’s. I can’t risk causing any complications for him. This is his turf; I won’t mess that up.

“Thank you. I actually really want it to work out,” I say, but I don’t tell him how badly I want to make my marknow. The future is too uncertain.

He takes another sip of his coffee. “Now, maybe we can get Riley a job here too? She could be an usher. Scan tickets, maybe?” I can see the wheels turning in his eyes.

“Yes, let’s definitely encourage her to drop her science and chem homework for that,” I say dryly.

He snaps his fingers, pointing my way. “You’re right. We’ll let her finish school. Get a couple degrees. Then get her in here when you’re full-time, and she can be too—she can be chief statistician for the team.”

I just laugh and drink my tea. “Keep dreaming,” I tease.

“Speaking of dreams, how’s the search going for your own place? I can help with rent if you want.” Steam wafts from his coffee mug as he speaks.

“Dad,” I warn, though I wonder if I’m being stubborn by refusing his help.

“Leighton,” he says, giving it right back to me in a firm voice too. I bet it’s the voice he uses with his players.

“Noah,” I say, sterner this time, matching him.

He parks his elbows on his desk, fixing me with a serious look. “What’s the point of me working this hard and making good money if I can’t spend it on my daughters?”

I don’t really have anything to say to that—except, well,this: “I need to learn how to make it on my own.”

He growls but relents. “Fine. Then I’ll just save more for you.”

Like I figured he was doing anyway. “Sure, threaten me with your money market accounts, Dad.”

“I will,” he says, lifting his coffee for a long sip. It’s probably scalding, but he doesn’t seem to notice. That’s so him. He’s impervious to heat, to cold, to spice. He’s both iron and ice.

The other thing that’s so him? He’s ridiculously happy we’re working together, and, honestly, so am I—or I will be if it all works out. “Thanks again for being cool about the job. I won’t come in every day asking questions, and I definitely won’t step on your toes.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t worried.”

“I know, but I want you to know I respect your role,” I say, then briefly wonder if I’m overselling myabove-the-boardness.

My father tilts his head, studying me, like he’s trying to figure out why my words don’t quite add up. Shit. I am overselling myself.

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