Page 73 of Bad for Business
“I was in everyone else’s,” he finishes.
“Exactly.” I smile at him before resting my head on his shoulder.
We’re both quiet as we soak in the moment. It’s a beautiful evening, the bright afternoon sun shifting into a brilliant orange. The first thing that pops into my mind is how much I’ll miss this place once the summer’s over.
Neither one of us has mentioned what happens when he does get the board’s approval. I think it’ll happen sooner rather than later. Part of me is excited about that. If we get the job done, then he’ll no longer be my client.
Would we be able to continue whatever this is in Manhattan?
Would he even want to?
Or once we aren’t forced together anymore, will I even be someone he still wants to spend time with?
There’s a pit in my stomach when I think about returning to Manhattan. I’ve always loved the city and my job. My entire life has revolved around being the best damn publicist I can be so that I could one day get my father’s approval. It’s what I want most in this world, for him to trust me with the company he built from the ground up.
At least, that’s what I used to want.
Now, I can’t stop wondering if the drunken words Ryker said to me out of spite have any truth to them.
Will my father make me a partner at the firm? Or will he come up with another excuse about why it’s not the right time? The end of this job means finding out the answer to the question that’s been nagging at me since the night Ryker spoke my biggest fear into existence. I hate to admit it, but the thought that hemight not trust me wasn’t even one that Ryker put into my head. I wondered it myself the moment Dad said he didn’t believe Ryker would ever get the board’s approval. I just wanted to believe it wasn’t true.
I blink a few times, trying to rid my mind of the thoughts. Worrying about them won’t change anything right now. All I can do is keep doing whatever I can to help Ryker impress the Davenport Media board. I’ve been avoiding calls from my dad in the process. Partly because I’m scared of letting it slip that I’ve been sharing a bed with my client and partly because I don’t want to hear him tell me to stop the forward momentum. He doesn’t want me to succeed at this job—something I don’t want to think deeply about—and it’s getting harder and harder to pretend we aren’t making progress.
“I wish you could’ve met my mom,” Ryker says, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. “Actually, the two of you might have been trouble together. She loved to call me on my shit, just like you do.”
“I would’ve loved to have met her.” While Ryker was at lunch today, I spent my time wandering the house. I tried to work, but there isn’t a lot for me to do right now. I’d done a lot of the heavy lifting with the research in the beginning. Now, it’s more dependent on Ryker carrying through with impressing the board members and me assisting as needed. While I was exploring the house, I found an album filled to the brim with photographs. I don’t tell him this, but I spent over an hour looking through the pages, loving the glimpse into how completely normal Ryker’s childhood was. His mom—and his dad—both seemed like incredible parents. They had family pictures together on the beach, candid photos in the house, ones at the club. It really showcased a perfect family.
I looked at their photos, wondering how many my own family has. I know it isn’t a lot. There are ones of me taken by my mom,and even some of just me and Mom together, but not a lot with Dad since he was always working. After Mom passed, we never took pictures. Dad never wanted to. To be honest, I don’t think he cared to have pictures with me. I was just a reminder of her. I wonder if he regrets it…not having many pictures with Mom. He loved her. Sometimes I wonder if the only things he’s ever really loved in life are her and Vaughn PR.
“When she first got diagnosed, all of her doctors were optimistic about her future. They thought she could beat it.” He stops talking, and I don’t fill the silence. I don’t want to ruin the moment. I want him to feel comfortable enough to open up about her.
I twist my body so we’re face-to-face.
I hate the sadness in his eyes. Someone who radiates sunshine like him shouldn’t be allowed to look sad. But he does. He looks so fucking sad that it breaks my heart a little.
“Things got bad quick. One moment, she was still with us, and the next…” He looks away from me, his eyes focusing on the water. “She was gone.”
I reach out to touch his face, wanting to run my fingers along his cheek. My hand stays in the air between us for a moment as I wonder if this is something he’ll let me do.
As if he can read my mind, his fingers clasp around my wrist and pull my hand to his cheek. I flatten my palm against his skin as I try to ignore the way my heart races with the way he looks at me.
I’m trying to fight the feelings I’m developing for him, but it’s getting harder and harder to do. I want to let him in, but I’m scared to. I’m not good at letting people in, but the way Ryker looks at me right now makes me want to try.
“I’m sorry,” I finally tell him, knowing that my words do nothing to dull the pain of the loss of a mother. Losing my mom as a teenager just about destroyed me. She was my everything.She was the only person in this world who loved me. Losing her and dealing with her death completely alone shaped me into the person I am today. He’s still clearly dealing with the grief that comes with the loss of a parent, and I don’t even want to pretend that anything I can say can help him with that grief. “I really wish I could’ve met her. She raised an incredible son.”
His eyes close for a moment. “I don’t know about that,” he says, his words coming out barely above a whisper. “But I’m trying to be.”
My thumb traces over his cheekbone, and something about this moment feels important. He looks at me with so much vulnerability in his gaze that I can’t imagine him ever putting his guard up again. I can’t imagine putting mine up either.
I just don’t know where that leaves us.
THIRTY-SEVEN
RYKER
“Your mom would be soproud of you,” Camille says, her voice soft.
No matter how softly she delivers the words, they hit me right in the heart. I wish I believed her. I wish I thought Mom would be proud of the man I’ve become since her death.
