“I’ll be honest, Brandon,” he says. “Like Margo said, we’re at the stage where we really should have had someone dedicated to Land Acquisition for a while now. Until now, we’ve just had … well, you know, you scouted Stonegate. But that’s not the job of project heads, and it’s sure not the job of foremen. So we’re ripe for this, and I’m down to a short list of applicants. You’re a good candidate. I like your ambition. Most of all, I like what I hear about your integrity, which is rare, and your solid ability to make smart decisions, which is even rarer. But you’re still new to leadership and untried as an executive, and my records keep reminding me that you were swinging a shovel just two years ago. So I don’t know. There’s a few other people internally who’ve been looking for something like this — it’s a wheeling-dealing job that means getting a lot of new connections. Have you considered the connections you’d get as VP of Land Acquisition here, Brandon?”
“Not really.”
“Exactly. And that’s why I like you. I don’t think you’re angling for something better. It doesn’t feel like a stepping stone for you from where I’m sitting.”
“Okay.” I’m unsure how to respond. Is my lack of ambition a good thing?
“How long have you been with Life of Riley?”
“Three years, sir.”
The “sir” feels a bit phony on my tongue, but the moment seems to demand respect. Luckily, Mason doesn’t mock me.
“You strike me as two things above all else. I think you’re loyal, and honest. Land Acquisition is a perfect position for a sniveling, oily shit, but I don’t think that’s you.”
“Um … ” Again, I’m not sure if I’m being insulted or praised, if I’m being given pros for my candidacy or hearing cons.
He picks up a file — my file, apparently — and starts flipping papers. “You started laying bricks. We kept moving you up, though. Three years to project head is fast, given our size and rate of expansion. If I may be frank, you’ve had chances to screw us when you were shoved in to negotiate things that were above your position, and again that’s our fault because we’re growing quickly. But you didn’t screw us, even though you could have. You did your job. And you stayed where you were without complaint, content to pay your dues.”
“Thank you.”
“The mark of a good second man is the ability to make hard decisions. That’s even truer for the big boss, and it’ll be a few weeks before I make mine. I like you, Brandon, but don’t want to say anything either way, so let’s just leave it at that. I’ll talk to the others; you keep impressing me in the meantime. Make me believe I can’t not hire you. Does that sound like a deal?”
I allow a smile to form on my lips as I nod. It’s a small smile, but now that I’m here, I’m wondering if Bridget was right. Maybe I don’t give myself credit for all I’ve accomplished and what I’m worth. From where I’m standing, I’ve always been a normal working Joe. At first, I mixed concrete and operated big machines, then I started working with surveyors and architects, walking land for possible purchase. I used to only talk to the other construction guys, but then I started talking to bankers and investors. I’ve taken it for granted, but the way Mason talks, that’s not how things usually go.
“There’s just one problem,” Mason says. He sits behind his desk in what I suspect is meant as a power chair. He’s not a master manipulator but does manage to intimidate people by default, as if he has a gift. Right now, his face is serious. I don’t see any more praise or complimentary words. Now I only see gravity.
Something is wrong.
“What’s that?” I ask, my breath going shallow.
“That beard. I don’t know that I can have a veep with a beard.”
I’m about to respond seriously when he laughs and stands. His hand is out, presumably to shake goodbye, when the office door rattles.
I figure it’s Mason’s assistant, but instead the newcomer turns out to be the most breathtaking girl I’ve ever seen.
CHAPTER THREE
Brandon
MY HAND IS ON MY beard, right above the scar, when the girl looks over. I must look like I’m thinking something ponderous¸ possibly pretentious. And she’s probably noticing the way this suit doesn’t fit me quite right because it’s borrowed, or maybe just the fact that it doesn’t look right because it’s me inside it. Me, who didn’t even graduate high school. Me, who has no business wearing more than a sweat-stained undershirt to work.
I swear thirty seconds must pass while I’m looking right at her with my hand on my face, but it’s probably more like three. Then I’m looking away because the girl is jumping into Mason’s arms. He’s been so intent on watching the time; now I see why. So who is the girl? Is she a fling? Mason must be over fifty, but I’ve never heard mention of a wife.
They embrace for a long time, and I’m considering sneaking out — or at least clearing my throat to remind them that I’m still here — when Mason lets the girl go and turns to me with a bigger smile than I’ve ever seen, or even thought possible on the man. Mason has always been friendly and even fatherly to me. He sometimes jests, but his jokes are always indirect at best, and I’m never sure if I’m supposed to laugh.
So this is what he looks like happy. I realize all of a sudden that, even as many casual encounters I’ve had with Mason (mostly on job sites, where his passion for creation is always in bloom), I’ve never seen him a tenth as pleased as this.
“Brandon,” he says, “I’d like you to meet my little girl. And Riley, I’d like you to meet Brandon Grant. A man with a beard unbefitting a vice president.”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to shake her hand. This isn’t business. Among my friends, the girls have always hugged, and the men have always shaken. I’m not going to walk over and hug the boss’s daughter, but shaking her hand seems so awkwardly formal.
She saves me by holding out a hand first. I take it. Her hand is tiny compared to mine, and I don’t have large hands. I do have rough hands, though, and as she holds on, I’m sure she can feel every scratch, scrape, and callus. Vice president? she must be thinking. As if!
Her fingers are gone, and there’s a half second where I’m hanging onto a limp fish. I blink then force myself to let go. I give her a tight-lipped smile and a nod. It’s taking all I have to study her, top to bottom. She’s not tall at all; I could probably pick her up and swing her around like a kid. She’s dressed like she’s just come in from trotting around town in the sweltering heat — short khaki shorts and a plain pink, slightly wrinkled tee. She has big eyelashes and wavy blonde hair. Her smile is all bright white teeth. I’ve never seen one like it — the kind of smile that looks like it’s trying hard to bottle unbridled glee — the kind of unabashed joy that proper adults, once they reach seventeen or so, are no longer allowed to show the world.
I’m wondering if I should address the beard joke. There must be something witty I could say that moves the encounter forward without making concessions … because there’s no way I’ll shave my beard given the scar behind it.
But I’m at a loss. I’m trying not to look at Riley, and I’m also trying not to look deliberately away. My sense of decorum has abandoned me. How can I not know where to look? The only choices seem to be staring and averting my eyes. I’ll either creep her out or offend her.