“Sure,” I say, handing him a folder. I copied the documents in more certain times — happier times, when I’d still thought I was a candidate. They’ve been sitting atop my desk for days, neatly collated and ready for delivery.

“I’ll run these back after lunch,” he says.

But earlier, he said we. And now he’s saying I. 

“Who’s with you?” I ask. Because it’s Mason. I’m sure it’s Mason, because even if they’re still pretending I have a shot at the VP job, Mason would want to check up on me. Because I’m that irresponsible, and need to be watched like a child.

But he doesn’t need to answer, because now I can see Marcus’s car through the doorway.

It’s not Mason.

Standing beside the car, looking like she doesn’t want to be here any more than I want her to be, is Riley James.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Riley

THE LOOK BRANDON GIVES ME from the office trailer chills me even in the warm air. I’m wearing the most professional outfit Phoebe could find, and it’s suitable for a meeting with any number of stodgy feminist groups. But still I feel like I’m standing here naked, all of my girl parts visible for Brandon to stare at.

I feel intimidated by his gaze. I feel like I’m being judged. I feel like he’s staring at this strange nakedness I’d swear is real, but he’s not turned on; he’s embarrassed for me instead. He’s looking down on me, like a fool. This isn’t like entering a man’s bedroom naked, it’s like walking into a big room full of people while not wearing clothes.

I want to cover myself up. I want to turn away.

Instead, I stay where I am, trying not to look directly at him or away. Every little gesture and movement of my body feels deliberate, and not in a good way. Would a person who didn’t care about being here cross her legs and lean back? Or would she stand ramrod straight, as if on review? Should I go forward to show him that none of this is a big deal, or should I start sniffing around the job site as if searching for loose ends?

I went to bat for Brandon, and still he’s looking at me like he has no idea. His stare says he hates me. Like he blames me for everything, and not just what happened since the weekend. My family was rich, and his was poor. I had both parents once, and kept a father, whereas he probably knew neither. I’ve never had to do more than say please to get what I wanted, while Brandon always had to slave away for weeks and months and years.

I’m everything he’s always struggled against.

And as I stand next to this expensive car in my lady-suit, I find there’s nothing I can do to make myself less hateful. If I’m stoic, I’m sure he’ll feel I’m here to judge him — which, if you read between the lines of what Marcus probably just told him, is exactly what I’m here to do. But if I’m light and casual and friendly, he might think I’m still on the hook. He’ll think I’m recalling what happened between us and wanting more, which I definitely am not.

Except that sometimes, I kind of am.

Before the ride home, we were doing remarkably well. We had fun at dinner. Famous levels of fun, too — not just polite, well-mannered banter. The stuff we bonded over was deep-me, not surface-level Riley. And it must have felt deep for Brandon too because after we talked about music, he took me to hear some.

I tingle at the memory of his touch — the innocent brushes before things became serious.

I wonder if we could ever move beyond this. If we could erase the last handful of hours spent together and cut things off before I climbed inside his truck. He’d offered to call me a car, and as I watch him now, I’m wondering what would have happened if I’d taken it.

I’d have gone home, feeling good about this handsome, ambitious man who’d so impressed my father.

I’d have drawn a bath.

And if I’m honest, I’m fairly sure I’d have detached the sprayer and done what felt right, recalling our long and sensuous evening.

The brush of his fingers on mine.

The way he looked when we listened to Gavin play his haunting song.

The looks Brandon gave me all night long.

And if all of that had happened, I’d be here just the same, standing beside this car. But there wouldn’t be this horrible tension. This feeling that Brandon blamed me for something, the feeling that I’d betrayed myself and my intentions to be serious for once rather than the flighty girl my father expects.

Ironically, if we hadn’t had sex, right now a part of me would be dreaming of it. Only it wouldn’t just be sex. My fairy tale mind would be looking forward to the day we might make love.

But not here. Not now.

If you think he’s our man, Riley, my father told me, then you go there today with Marcus, and find out.

After speaking again with Chief Wood and learning that Brandon wasn’t the man who busted up Room With a Cue — something he wouldn’t have found out if I hadn’t pressed — I think my father feels sheepish by Morgan James standards. He’ll admit when he was wrong to most people, but to me he’s still hedging. The best he can manage is a reluctantly apologetic manner. And a reluctantly conferred position of responsibility.

It’s interesting that what’s saved Brandon’s skin at this company is the same thing that’s letting me prove myself.

And right now, it’s like Brandon knows it. As if, looking at me, he’s thinking that I orchestrated this all on purpose. Maybe I seduced him to save him and move up the ladder.

Brandon and Marcus come forward. Marcus doesn’t seem to know we’re acquainted, so I allow him to introduce us. Brandon follows my lead, and soon we’re shaking hands and saying it’s nice to meet each other.

I hold Brandon’s hand, and my traitorous mind recalls the way it felt on my bare ass, the chilly night air kissing my skin. I look into his eyes and remember the hungry way they locked on mine. The sense that he meant to devour me. And, paradoxically, I remember the way they looked earlier — the opposite of lust filled. At the Overlook, they’d been soft, sad, deep. He’d seemed older then, and I’d felt much, much younger. But we’d both felt that music.

We walk around for a while, and it’s like there’s a magnet pulling us together. Marcus keeps ending up ahead while we both trail back, and there are a few times when, weaving around in-progress construction, we actually collide. I wonder if I’m making it happen on purpose. I look over at Brandon and wonder if he is. If I was wrong. If he’s not ashamed of what we did. If maybe he wants more.

I think of our dinner discussion. Our sprawling talk as we prowled Old Town’s streets. Our soft words spoken in the club, before and after the performance. Even our conversation back when we first walked the new land, and how I brought us to the creek.

Nobody really understands what it’s like to lose a parent. But even then, my heart wanted to trust him, because he did know. And more.

I look at his face. I remember all Bridget told me because I’ve been playing it over and over in my head. And every time I tried to hate Brandon for what happened and the way he acted, I can never quite believe it. Because I was there too. And because I like Bridget a lot, and she loves this man with all her heart. He’s her rock, and she’s his. I’ve never had anything like that. I never had a sibling, and my friends always stayed at arm’s length. Mom and I were close. Dad and I — maybe because of what happened with Mom and how that broken bond made me feel — were always more distant. I wouldn’t let him as close to me.