“I just like having a beard.” His eyes flick toward me then away. I don’t like that gaze. But I also kind of want him to keep doing it.
“It makes you look like a lumberjack. What successful person has a beard?”
“Richard Branson.”
The question was supposed to be rhetorical. I’m irritated that he answered, especially so fast.
“If you really want to get the vice presidency, you should shave it.”
“Why?”
“It’s unprofessional.”
“It’s hair.”
“It doesn’t look right for a vice president.”
“Now you’re judging me on my appearance,” he says. “What if I were black?”
“That’s not remotely the same.”
“Sure it is.”
“No it’s not! I am not racist!”
“You’re just beardist.”
He’s really annoyed me. He’s really, really, really annoyed me. I need to stay angry. I don’t like being called a racist. Not that he called me one. But he made the analogy. In order to point out that I’m a total beardist.
I catch movement in the corner of my eyes and look over to see him looking at me — but this time, at my face.
“Fucking dirty beardist,” he says, deadpan.
That makes me laugh hard enough that I almost rear-end the car in front of us. But it’s okay. Because after that, things are better, and we ride the rest of the way to Reed Creek in amicable quiet while the sun slowly rises behind us.
CHAPTER NINE
Brandon
I HAVE NO IDEA WHY Riley wore what she wore for this job. I hate it. I hate it because the fabric falls perfectly on her small frame — inch-wide straps hanging from sun-kissed shoulders, the rise and fall of her body evident from the way the dress lies against her skin, the way the seat belt separates her breasts and gravity causes the dress to sway downward between her knees. In the morning sun, her blonde hair shines like gossamer. Her profile is beautiful. She has a small nose and ripe-looking lips that are somewhere between pink and red.
If I saw Riley in a bar, I’d definitely talk to her. If she weren’t my boss’s daughter, I’d definitely try to take her home.
But she is my boss’s daughter.
And if I saw her in a bar and took her home, that would sink my chances of rising at Life of Riley. It might even end everything for me at the company, and leave me with three years down the drain.
But still, I can’t stop peeking over at her.
I loved what happened with her face when she laughed a moment ago. Her smile is wide, white, and all teeth. It should look odd, but it doesn’t. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen. And when she laughed, that wide smile split in the middle and her blue-green eyes narrowed to slits. It was such an innocent, almost helpless exhalation of emotion. A tiny moment of bliss. I’d done that to her to her, and I wanted to do it again.
I look over now. She’s so small behind the wheel of the huge truck. I should probably be driving, but I can’t make myself stop gawking at how she looks over there. There’s something primal at play, watching her handle the largeness and boldness of it all, juxtaposed with how young and sweet the outfit makes her look. As if she were shooting a gun in that pretty little dress, or cranking a giant machine.
But she catches me looking again, and I remind myself to keep my eyes forward. She’s off limits — there’s no point in thinking anything other than the most professional thoughts.
Which is why I’m so annoyed that she wore what she did. There are sure to be dicey places in the land we’re about to check out, but it’s summertime in Inferno Falls, and that means there will be a lot of tall grass, too. She’s going to walk through that grass, and I’m going to look over at her and see this perfect vision of feminine purity: the girl in a dress walking a meadow. Maybe there will be little wildflowers. And maybe she’ll pick some and slip them behind her ear. Maybe she’ll gather enough for a bouquet, and I’ll have to watch her walk toward me, toward the truck, flowers clasped in front of her, her legs long, hair flowing, smile full of youthful wonder.
I don’t want to see that.
I want her in jeans.
Baggy jeans.
Dirty jeans.
Maybe smelly jeans.
I want her in a big, stained work shirt. I want her hair in a ratty mess. I want her feet in clodhoppers. I want to see her picking her nose, wiping wax from her ear, throwing up drunk. I want to be repulsed. But then the truck is stopping, and I look over to see her turning to step out. I catch the swish of fabric. The shift that brings her hem up too high. The long, graceful swing of toned legs. The turn of her head, swinging hair, her face turning as she exits with another one of her big smiles.
I sit in the cab for an extra second. The door closes, but instead of waiting for me, Riley is already moving into the undeveloped property, and I have to watch the dress move on her body.
I get out. I nearly step into a puddle, ruining my good pair of shoes. And that’s when I realize that I should have done as Margo suggested. I should have worn old jeans and boots and a T-shirt, but for some reason I couldn’t. Same as how I couldn’t let Riley pick me up at the Regency and see where I live.
I tell myself I did those things because impressing Riley is the same as impressing Mason, and that seeming pro in front of her will raise my standing with her father.
I almost believe it.
In front of me, she turns. “I know this place.”
I look around. I definitely don’t.
“Reed Creek is over that way.” She points. “My friends and I used to explore it. Follow the water. See where it went.”
She starts to walk away. I think she might be headed somewhere, but she’s just craning around for a better look. This land is on a hill, but it’s not a remarkable hill in itself. It strikes me as the perfect kind of land to develop. Done right, building here will enhance the look of this place rather than appear as a blight. As I’ve moved up at Life of Riley, that’s been a goal of mine: to improve what needs improving, but leave things as they are if best left alone. Over and over, I’ve seen wonderful bits of land filled with ugly houses, so I don’t want to do the same. If I get the vice presidency and find myself in charge of Land Acquisition, I’ll be specific about our chosen sites. This property, for instance, is near Reed Creek, land that I’d never dare disturb. It’s beautiful down there. This? It’s just sort of nothing.
“I know Reed.”
“But this land?” Riley looks around then points in the opposite direction. “We used to play horses out here.”
I don’t know what that means, and I must look it because she laughs.
“My friend Eva and me. She lived just there — ” She points a third time. “And so when I went to her place, a lot of times we ended up here. Well, not here, but down there, just past that ridge. How far does this land go?”
I tell her I don’t know. I’m not a surveyor. If I get the job, I’ll probably try to learn a bit more, and I’m sure there’s a GPS thing they use, but for now I use the transits as telescopes. There are surely boundary pins out there somewhere, but I don’t plan on stumbling through the grass to find them. I’ll ballpark it. If the company and seller are serious, and if I end up being the man in charge, I’ll return with a crew and do this better, more accurately.