Again, I consider going home first. But Dad’s office is on the way, and it’s another twenty minutes to the big house where I grew up. I’ll want to sleep the minute I get there. Dad asked me to stop by, but I won’t want to run out again.

I could let it go like everyone expects me to. I could head to the big empty house, take a shower, then lie on the couch and figure out whether or not I’m sad to have left my friends and all I’ve known for the last four years. And then when Daddy comes home, I could greet him in the bubbly way he expects, because that’s how Riley always is. Happy little Riley, who never had to work for anything because her father is Mason James.

Nobody would fault me for doing that. I don’t have to be here, about to enter an office, smelling like beans with my sweaty shirt sticking to my back.

But if I expect Dad to take me seriously — if I expect him to believe what I said on the phone last week — then I need to be here. Because I said I would stop by on my way to the house … and these days more than ever, I’m a girl who keeps her appointments.

If I were anyone else, I might try to psych myself up right now, tell myself that I could nail the interview and get this job. But fortunately, I have an in. My name is literally on the sign.

I leave my stuffed car and tap the sign for luck as I pass. It says Life of Riley, just above a line about the luxury communities Dad’s well known for building.

I look at my phone. It’s 12:55, giving me five minutes to get inside and be exactly on time, just like any responsible young woman who can be trusted with … well, anything.

My challenge at Life of Riley Homes is different than most applicants.

I don’t need to get the job. I have it already.

But I need to make sure that the job my father gives me is real rather than nepotism — a fact no one will admit to, even though it’s plain as day.

CHAPTER TWO

Brandon

“WHAT TIME IS IT?” MASON asks me.

I’m wearing my grandfather’s watch. It’s as uncomfortable on my wrist as the dress shirt and jacket on my shoulders. It’s as uncomfortable as these stiff dress shoes. I wonder again if I should stay where I am in the company hierarchy, where I could keep wearing jeans. But thinking like that, here and now, is avoidance. Self-sabotage, according to Bridget.

I was even dumb enough to ask Bridget, yesterday, about the whole jeans-versus-suits thing. She told me it wasn’t even a real distinction. If Mason gives me the promotion, I’ll probably only have to wear nice clothes when I’m in the office or have meetings, and the rest of the time I can dress casual like I do now. Then she told me to stop being a whiny fucker. Those were her exact words: whiny fucker. Then she punched me in the arm. The arm punching didn’t have anything to do with me self-sabotaging — she’d already berated me about that earlier. It was just because she’s a bitch. Which is why I love her so much.

“It’s 12:45.”

“Okay, good.” Mason grins. He’s not a jovial man, so I take this as a good sign. Mason is loud, and most of what he says is barked. I get the feeling that if you’ve known him for long enough, those barks carry a lot of affection, much like the way Bridget keeps kicking me for my own good. But for three years now I’ve been one of the grunts, and the few times I’ve been on the receiving end of Mason’s barking, it was obvious I needed to snap-to. I’ve never been talked to as an equal by Mason — probably because I never have been. Although maybe he’s always this way and I’ve been taking it personally. Maybe I’m not a fuckup. I’m here, after all, aren’t I?

I don’t know what Mason thinks is good about 12:45, so I tag along behind him like a dog and say nothing.

The Life of Riley office isn’t large, but Mason’s bustling manner makes it feel like a labyrinth. Most people could tour the well-appointed but contained building in five minutes, but Mason strikes me as the sort of man who prefers to solve a maze by trying every path. We went through a large room filled with cubicles ten minutes ago. There was one main hallway down the center plus all the little alleys between the cubicles themselves, but we walked each inch of every alley. I now know every person who works at HQ, from the receptionist to the guy who empties the garbage. I don’t remember anyone’s names. I’m trying to keep up and pretend these nice clothes suit me, to not look like some sort of brainless meathead who deserves to live and die in construction.

“This is Margo,” Mason barks then grins. “Be nice to Margo. If you get the vice presidency, she’ll be your Gal Friday.”

“Not literally,” says Margo. She’s a tall woman with jet-black hair and glasses that seem like a fashion accessory rather than a necessity.

“Not literally,” Mason repeats. “She works Monday through Thursday too.” Mason barks laughter and I try to play along, but he’s not looking in my direction, so I feel stupid. “Nah. I mean she’s our site coordinator.”

“Also not literally.” Margo seems good-naturedly annoyed with Mason. I get the feeling that’s a common reaction to the company’s boisterous, somewhat domineering owner. Mason has always struck me as the kind of man who loves you when he loves you but won’t hesitate to tear the head from your shoulders if you screw up. A good ally, and a terrible enemy.

“Well then, how would you describe your job?”

“Think of me as a project manager.”

“Gal Friday,” Mason says, nodding, as if Margo said the same thing.

“Fine.”

“Anyway, Margo, this is Brandon Grant. He’s applying to be our new VP.”

“Land Acquisition?” Margo says, and her eyebrows go up.

“Right.”

“So you’ve decided?”

“I said he’s applying.”

Margo rolls her eyes at me when Mason looks away. I get the feeling this might happen a lot but that no one lets him see it. An obvious move, but dangerous.

“I meant, you decided we finally need someone to head Land Acquisition.” Margo turns to me. “I’ve been arguing that we need this position for years.”

“Yes, yes. It’s all Margo’s doing.” Mason shifts his weight, moving from foot to foot, then gestures at me. “Brandon is currently project head on Stonegate Bridge.”

Margo nods, her lips pressed together. “Nice community. Who did you work with on the land for that one?”

“Terry.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’d have helped you out if you’d known, but I’m stretched thin.”

Mason seems bored by this apparent insult to Terry. He keeps looking at his watch. I think he has an appointment at 1 p.m., but that’s an assumption. We met at 11:30, and lunch took about an hour, but time has been dwindling during what probably could have been a much faster tour. Now, he seems distracted. Knowing Mason, his appointment, if he has one, could be at 1:07 instead of one sharp. No fewer than three times during lunch, he told me that if he wanted to do things the way others did them, he’d have looked for a job instead of starting a company. He told me that an intelligent person has to be flexible, able to think outside the box and, perhaps most importantly, recognize and readjust when they make mistakes.

Mason nods at Margo, who tells me it was nice to meet me and sits. Apparently, our conversation is finished.

But so is the tour, it seems, because the next time I peek at my watch it’s nearly one, and I’m sitting in Mason’s office without specifically remembering taking a seat. He’s still standing because that’s what Mason does, and I’m still juggling that curious mix of awed, eager, nervous, and intimidated.