Never Bargain with the Boss (Never Say Never, #5)

by Lauren Landish

Once upon a time, I lived by the motto ‘happy wife, happy life’ and made sure that was the case, but for a while now, for me, it’s been ‘happy Grace, happy life’, and my girl is happy with Riley.

But when she holds up the godawful plaid pants and gives me a pleading look, I’m done for. Hell, she’s got me wrapped around her finger as much as Grace does. And that’s dangerous for us both. “Please.” I knew I was fucked before she said that, but it’s a sure bet now. “Fine. Give them here,” I say, sounding annoyed even though I’m barely irritated.

I don’t know what comes over me—it must be a spell or maybe I’m coming down with the flu—because when I see their excitement, I strut like I’ve never strutted before. Straight-faced and stoic, with one hand in the pocket of the ridiculous pants that are at least six inches too short and with a waistband three inches too big, I stride across the room like they’re bespoke designer-wear. And all the while, Grace and Riley cheer and clap for me like I look amazing. It’s silly. It’s fun. It’s completely ridiculous. And I can’t remember the last time I felt like this… light.

I already know the answer, but it’s good to ask repeatedly on the off-chance the answer changes, even slightly. And yes, I learned that from a parenting book. I started reading a new one because Riley’s thoughts on my daughter’s best friend have stuck with me, and I’m wondering if there’s something I might’ve missed over the last year.

I make the instant decision to tell Mom to arrange an outing and put the whole damn spa day on my credit card. It’d be a small price to pay to make Riley smile and feel the Harringtons’ special brand of fucked-up affection.

“Want me to beat her up for you?” I ask deadpan. I wouldn’t actually hurt a child, but it does make Grace huff out a tiny laugh, which was my true goal. “You’d do that?” she answers, a smile trying to lift her lips. “Anything for you, Gracie girl.” At that, she really does smile, and I think both of us realize it’s the first time I’ve used Cameron’s nickname for her. She seems okay with it, and maybe even more than okay.

“A girl’s girl is the best kind of friend. One who will celebrate your successes, offer support during a down time, right your crown when it goes a little crooked, and have your back even when you’re not in the room. They build you up, lift you up, and want you to be your best. Does that sound like Hannah?”

He stares out over the yard, not meeting my eyes as he admits, “Because you looked so fucking disappointed and it killed me. You wanted to go, so I wanted to take you.” A thrill shoots through me because that means that whatever Cameron feels for me isn’t solely physical, and that’s an important distinction.

I spend my life making everyone happy, taking care of everyone else, and I love it. It brings me joy and satisfaction in a way I can’t express. But having someone want to do something nice for me because they give a shit about my happiness is a rare occurrence, and I want to bask in it for a moment, really wallow around and relish it fully.

Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth. Kayla had me hoping for a minute there, dreaming about what could be, but I won’t gamble Grace’s happiness on a shot at my own.

As I stare at her back, hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Grace wants us to have matching nails. It’s seemingly such a little thing, but it’s an important thing for girls. A symbol of friendship. I’ve never had matching nails with anyone, ever.

She lives in the moment, choosing to only focus on the present, not because she doesn’t believe she won’t get a future, but because she doesn’t think she deserves one. I can change that. I can’t promise forever. I learned that doesn’t really exist, and even if it did, I’m too broken for pretty words like that. But I can promise something else to Riley…

“I want to be the reason you smile.” Another step. “I want to be the answer when someone asks why you’re happy.” Right in front of her, I push her hair behind her ear and whisper into the space beside the delicate shell, “I want to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else, because you, Riley Stefano, deserve the best this life has to offer.”

“She gave me this sad look and said, ‘Who told you being quiet was a good thing?’, and when I answered, ‘Everyone,’ she got so mad. She said a few choice words but mostly told me it was okay to be loud, to take up space, and to be seen. That blew my mind.”

But I didn’t miss the most important part of what Riley said… she loves my little girl. The little girl who deserves a mother figure. Not one to replace Michelle. That could never happen, and I wouldn’t want it to. But a woman to be here when she’s struggling with friendships and boys and who sets an example for her as she’s becoming a young woman who’s confident enough to be loud in every space she occupies. And that’s Riley for sure.

That means the rest of my brothers will probably peer at Riley like she’s a specimen under a microscope, but Kyle is a bit more proactive than that and I have no doubt that he’s backing me up in his own weird, twisted way, so I give him a head nod of acknowledgement, which he answers with a cocky smirk like he didn’t do anything. But he did, and I appreciate it.

She is so fucking gorgeous. Even without all the adornments that I enjoy so much—her jewelry, the occasional glasses, the colorful hair—just her alone, in nothing but her skin, is beauty personified.

We’ll get to that, but I have penance to pay. Not that she demands it, but I want to give it.

“Geez, Riley. It’s just a pinky promise. It's not that big of a deal. Touch grass or something.” But she’s smiling too so I know it means as much to her as it does to me.

“I wanted to get you the loudest piece of jewelry I could find. There’s even a tiny bell charm so it literally jingles as you walk.” Riley, who was starting to tear up, laughs at that, and my family chuckles too, not understanding the significance of her loud jewelry but knowing that Riley’s clinging and clanging is an undeniable part of her charm.

“Confetti? I love confetti!” she exclaims, like she’s telling me this for the first time. But she’s not. I remember, from the first time we talked. She said she loved it, and I thought it sounded awful. It turns out she was right because I’d clean up this mess a thousand times just to see this happiness on her face.

“She wants to collect suitcases and donate them to foster children so they don’t have to use trash bags when they move. There’s about twenty thousand kids in the state and she figures each suitcase will be around fifty dollars, which is a million dollars. She said she’ll get some donated, and do some fundraising too, so that as new children come into the system, they’ll get a suitcase too. But she’s on a mission to do away with foster kids’ trash bags for the state.”