“Well, he seems nice,” I say. God, I sound lame.

Dad shrugs. “I’ve got a few other people who want the new VP slot, but my gut says Brandon’s my guy.”

My gut says something about him, too. But I just nod and pretend this is just a boring discussion.

The topic must be closed for Dad too, because he sort of resets, exhales, and practically claps his hands.

“Well, now! My little girl is home. I’m glad. What should we do to celebrate?”

“Want to follow me home and help me unpack my car?”

“I’m not that glad.” He laughs.

I sigh. “I’m pretty tired.”

“Late night?”

I wonder if this is an unintentional dig. Is he asking if I’ve been out partying? I never had a history, when I lived at home, of staying up to study and further my academic pursuits. I was a good student without effort, so I rarely bothered. I used each class in high school to ignore the teacher and do the homework for the previous class. It’s a bit unfair, now, that he’d characterize me as negligent just because school rarely required much effort.

I try to step into my father’s shoes and see things through his eyes. He raised me mostly by himself. Of course he’d notice my social life more than the time I spent staying quietly at home. The former causes more problems for fathers than the latter.

“Just a long drive, Dad.”

“Want to go to the Inside Scoop? Get some ice cream?”

That does sound good. But it also sounds like the kind of thing we used to do when I was eighteen. Or fifteen. Or ten. I’d scrape my knee, and we’d go for ice cream. So after a long drive, I guess we’d do the same.

“No thanks. I just want to settle in.”

“Your room is just how you left it.”

I see a look on his face that I’ve imagined on the phone a lot recently — eyebrows up, asking a question without a question being asked. His words are like a hanging statement without a period, because there’s more if I leave him an opening.

“I’m not staying,” I say. “I need to get my own place. I’m barely going to unpack. Just long enough to do some apartment hunting.”

“It’s a huge house. You can keep to one end, and I’ll keep to the other.”

“Dad, no.”

“There’s even the private entrance. Remember? We had it put in when it looked like Grandma might come and live with us. Just close the hall door, stick to your kitchen and living room. You can pretend I’m your creepy old guy neighbor.”

“Dad … ”  

He sort of sighs, and I watch his shoulders sag. The big, powerful Mason James, humbled. But he knows all of this. I made it clear.

“Okay. I hear you, Princess.”

I decide to let that one go, but I’ve done my time being the princess. I’m not too proud to take help, and it’s not like he didn’t pay for school. But I can’t live at home. I can’t be a burden. I can’t be a spoiled little rich girl, accepting all that I’m given. Not because it’s a drain on Dad, but because it’s a drain on me. There were plenty of times I believed I was a princess: the nice house, the free car on my sixteenth birthday, the nearly instant fulfillment of pretty much anything I wanted. I don’t resent or regret any of it. I love my father, and I’m grateful for all he’s done for me. But the problem with princesses is that nobody works to become one. My mother and father (then just Dad) built this kingly empire from nothing, and now Life of Riley is Inferno’s largest developer — big enough that its work influences the economy, builds schools and parks. By contrast, I got my crown at birth.

“I’ll head over now. I just needed to stop by and pick up the key.”

“Marta’s there. She could have let you in.”

“Then I stopped because I wanted to say hi.” I squeeze Dad’s hand, because I think I just gave him too harsh of a shove. I need my space, but he’s still my father. “And because I thought I might need to fill out some sort of paperwork. With human resources or something.”

That look crosses his face again. “Why don’t you wait until Monday? Give yourself a week to get settled before leaping in.”

“I’d really rather start tomorrow.”

There’s a pause in which he seems to be considering a few things at once: my new hire paperwork, maybe; all the things I’ve been telling him lately over the phone for sure. Perhaps our mutual past. My future. Who I was and who, I’m sure, he still thinks I am.

He finally sighs. “Okay. Talk to Harold on your way out. Be sure to spell your name carefully so he gets it right.”

I laugh. Harold was one of my father’s first employees, apparently still happy as paperwork puppet master after nearly twenty years. Even if my name weren’t on the company stationery, he knew me in pigtails.

I’m halfway to the door when Dad says, “Forgetting something?”

I turn around. He’s holding up a small keyring. I recognize the shine, meaning they’re newly duplicated, and the fact that there are three: two for the front door’s knob and deadbolt, then one more. Almost certainly the second entrance.

I take the keys, kiss him on the cheek, and say thanks.

“Welcome home, Riley,” he says.

CHAPTER FIVE

Brandon

I’M IN MY TACOMA, CUTTING through Tiny Amsterdam on my way to Old Town and my shitty apartment in the Regency, when my phone rings. I still have a few hours of work left. I’m salaried, not hourly, but if I don’t get back up to Stonegate before end-of-day to watch my guys and gals, someone will inevitably do something stupid. But I’m not going in Shaun’s suit. I’ll be eviscerated by the guys I used to work with, all of whom already rib me for becoming fancy.

“Brandon,” says a female voice. The voice is husky, like sandpaper. The kind of voice I’ll never be able to find sexy in a woman even though everyone else seems to, given that I grew up listening to this one.

“Bridget.”

“Where are you?”

“Rum Street.”

“Ah. Are you looking for a hooker this time¸ or just sex toys?”

“Very funny.”

“Can you hop into the Broken Halo for me? Pick something up.”

“Gross.”

“Not because I want it. So that you can talk to Liz.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve had my eye on Liz for a while, but she’s not an easy get even though she works at a sex shop in Tiny Amsterdam. I know her from Bridget’s circles and don’t really want to see the girl in her native element. There might be something percolating between us, but it only happens when alcohol’s flowing. Liz and I might finally hook up when the next wave comes, then that will be the end of whatever friendship we have, of course, but that’s okay. Bridget thinks Liz and I might be good for more than a night, but Bridget thinks dumb shit like that, about me, more than she should.

“What do you need, Bridget?” I sigh.

“I need you to pull over.”

“No. I mean, why did you call?”

“I’ll tell you once you’ve pulled over.”

I consider protesting and pointing out that everyone in the world talks on cell phones while driving. I also consider lying — either telling Bridget that I have stopped or that I bought one of those hands-free headset things. But instead, I pull up beside a parking meter and kill the engine, because to not do so seems disrespectful. Maybe people drive safely every day while on cell phones, but try saying that while looking into the eyes of someone whose second set of foster parents died in a crash. And that was the set who didn’t hit her.