RILEY WALKS BACK TO THE truck as if she’s wearing hiker’s gear and crampons on her sandals. There’s purpose in her gait, and it’s barely ladylike. All the innocence and femininity that so practically hypnotized me on the way down is gone. It feels like a farce. As if none of this is genuine, and she’s striding purposefully away to make a point.

Something happened back there, and I’m not entirely sure what. She’s acting like I forced her to the creek, but it was never on our survey sheet. It’s probably a half mile or more from the property we drove here to see.

It was a place she went as a kid, with her parents. I get that much. The rest confuses me. She seemed drawn there then stormed off with an accusatory glance. And the way she talks about her mother in the past tense — clearly she’s gone. It’s possible she ran off, but my money is on her being dead. It’s not the kind of thing I can ask. Not after the look.

And yet there was a span of a few seconds, when I had her by the arm, when I almost thought she was about to grab me back. I just wanted to get her attention, but something animal happened when I held her. It was gone in a flash, but I felt it too.

That thing you see in movies, where two angry people square off and end up falling into a furious kiss? I understand that now.

The turnabout — from quiet Riley to upset Riley, from lusty eyes to averted gaze — has me reeling on the walk back. As before, Riley leads. As before, I don’t speak. But the mood is different. On the way down, I felt like I was being led. This time, I feel like I’m scrambling to follow … and part of me feels sure that if I say anything, she’s going to spin around and yell at me to get the fuck away from her.

Which is absurd. I’m already one of this company’s project leaders. If I read Mason right yesterday, I’d say there’s a decent chance I’m on the short list to make vice president. Meanwhile, Riley is Mason’s daughter … but as far as the company is concerned, she’s a summer intern if anything. I doubt she’s in my direct chain of command, but I definitely outrank her. I can tell her what to do here. And really — given the way time is getting away from us, with 8 a.m. come and gone — I probably should.

Calm the hell down, Riley. This isn’t a field trip. 

Go grab one of the tripods from the truck, Riley. 

Stop giving me attitude, Riley. 

Stop acting like I’m somehow mysteriously supposed to understand what’s going through your head, Riley. 

Slow down, and turn around and look at me, Riley. 

Lie down in the grass, Riley, and beckon me to lie beside you.

Jesus. I don’t like where my mind is going. The farther we walk and the faster she plods, the angrier I get. I want to grab her again. I want to feel her skin again. And when I hold her again, I want her to fight me just a little. Just enough to pretend it’s me she’s really mad at.

But I say nothing. Because I don’t know my role. I’m a maybe-vice president, and she’s a girl fresh out of college, but I’m not dumb enough to believe I outrank Riley James in life. She grew up with everything I never had. She lost her mother? Well, I lost both my parents, and given what I remember about my drunken junkie mom, I think I’d have been better off with a dead one. I feel a sudden need to blurt that out — to establish something that might put us on equal footing. Or maybe to show her that if anyone is going to win the inner turmoil contest today, it should be the guy without a past who literally can’t buy a cup of coffee.

But I just watch her trod off, taking big steps to keep up. I let it happen because she’s inadvertently doing our jobs correctly. A few minutes ago, we crossed back onto what I ballpark is the property we’re here to inspect. Now we’re crossing the southern edge, damn near what I’d guessed was the survey line.

I try and ignore her. To make it back to the office in time, I figure we have a half hour, tops. I’ll drive on the way to Cherry Hill, to headquarters, and I can get us there faster than Riley would. So I turn my attention away from her stalking footsteps, resisting an urge to point out that I’ve done nothing wrong, and focus on the land’s potential.

I picture the main community entrance near the hill’s top, where it connects to the state route.

I imagine the interior roads and how they’d branch like arteries and veins inside a body. Then the split-offs. The cul-de-sacs. I can’t picture it all, of course, because I’m not sure of the boundaries and what the utility companies might say about where we can and can’t dig. We’ll need an environmental impact survey, too, but I think I can get close enough for a feel.

Riley stalks us to the far corner. I’m counting steps and estimating distance. I’d need to look at the spec sheet, but I’m guessing somewhere between 160-180 acres. The land isn’t flat, and there are a few inhospitable areas we’ll want to landscape, so that’s maybe somewhere between two to three lots per acre on average, allowing for a nice clubhouse and pool complex. So maybe 350 or 400? Maybe less; we could give people more land and not lose it on price because it overlooks the valley. Turn the hillside to our advantage.

Riley turns and marches back to the truck. I’m picturing erosion lines, predicting where water enters the land and where it leaves. I don’t see her face. I’m not a soil engineer so I can only guess, but given that we can’t change the in- and outflows, I think drainage is fairly straightforward. And if that lip collects effluent and funnels it across the lots? Fuck it. We’ll make a big lake in the middle, flanked by stone-laid canals. Lose a lot or two but gain a place for people to feed swans. Unit price goes up a few grand for ambiance. Win.

By the time we’re back at the truck and Riley’s climbing into the bed to pull out equipment, I have what I need. She’s done my job for me already. An expert tour, given through spite. I should follow angry women on all these jobs. I’ll make VP in a snap.

“Leave it,” I tell her.

She has one foot up on the foothold. If that were me, my next move would be swinging my leg over to stand in the bed before rummaging for equipment. But Riley’s wearing a dress. She does that, and she’ll practically flash me.

“I’m getting you a tripod,” she says.

“I’ve got all I need on this property.”

“But you haven’t even scoped it.”

For some reason, the fact that I’ve better than scoped it while she’s been busy punishing me for whatever’s in her head is immensely satisfying. I want to say something clever. I want to take her hand and pull her down onto the ground where she belongs. I want to ask her why she’s so bitchy all of a sudden. Because there’s no reason for it. I’m a guy doing my job and trying to get a promotion, and she’s given me nothing but attitude. I want to correct her. Remind her that I’m the boss.

I want to push her against the truck and wipe the scowl off her face with my lips.

But she just climbs down. And something must register — either inside her head on its own, thanks to my expression — because her mood softens. She almost looks apologetic for a second, as if she’s realized that whatever’s going on isn’t appropriate. As if she’s embarrassed for dragging me into any of this.

“Do you need to see the folder?” she says. It’s almost quiet.

I tell her I don’t, but thanks.

Then, just because, I pull a tripod and a transit out on my own. I have to ballpark everything because I don’t know how to work the digital features and I’m not sure how to do it manually, but I’m not doing this for information. Time needs to pass. Whatever came over Riley down at the creek, she needs a few more minutes to let go. Because it’s not my problem, and I don’t feel like being blamed for nothing. I have enough problems of my own.