Contents
The Boss's Daughter
Copyright
Dedication
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Riley
Brandon
Brandon
Riley
Brandon
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Inferno Falls Continues in Book Two ...
Stuff You Should Know
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The Boss’s Daughter
Aubrey Parker
The Boss’s Daughter
Aubrey Parker
Copyright © 2015 by Aubrey Parker. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read her work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help her spread the word.
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To my Mom, Dad, and baby girl. I love you all so much.
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CHAPTER ONE
Riley
BY THE TIME I REACH Dad’s office, my eyes are definitely wet. There’s a sensation in my chest that feels … unsettled, as if I’ve forgotten something, or as if something bad happened during the drive that I don’t remember. But on top of all that, I’m mainly just happy to be home.
I kill the engine, unable to decide which should bother me more: that I feel this phantom sadness when I should be happy … or that I feel happy when, all things considered, I should put more focus on being sad.
I flick down the rearview mirror. Because the thing is long and narrow, I see a pair of hazel eyes looking back, darkened by a thin sliver of liner that Candace applied before I left, “for old times’ sake.” It broke my heart a little. We had breakfast at the old place before going home — no big deal. With my car packed the night before, I was half-sure someone would steal it while we were scarfing pancakes. And it was just supposed to be pancakes. My roommate wasn’t supposed to feel it occasion enough to do my makeup like we were going to a club. Or like we might never see each other again and this was our last chance.
It would have been so much easier to leave without saying goodbye.
Fortunately, the mascara is as waterproof as its claim. I didn’t really cry; I just misted up — probably because for the entire drive, I haven’t been sure whether I was actually sad. And Candace was subtle enough not to cake me up like a hooker on the prowl. I’m not great with makeup myself. It’ll probably be strange to start seeing these hazel eyes without all the extra black. Odd to see my blonde hair as it hangs, rather than elaborately done up, the way Candace styles it.
About the time I find myself starting to wonder about my former roommate’s future, I force myself to blink back the moisture. This is ridiculous. College is over, but that doesn’t mean those friendships are. It just means that those days are done.
Which is a good thing, right?
I nod as if someone asked me the question aloud, give my eyes a final check, then flip the rearview back to where it belongs. I’m still nodding as I stuff the phone back into my purse then hunt for my ChapStick, which may have rolled into the gap between the console and the passenger seat. If it rolled the other way, I can forget it. Even if my Pottery Barn plant stand thing wasn’t wedged there, upended and filled with all the crap that littered my desk for the past year, it’d be lost in the abyss of gas station receipts, napkins, and broken pens that claims my car’s nooks and crannies even during normal days.
I find the ChapStick, give my lips a sheen of wax, and smack them. Then I’m getting out, looking at my Beverly Hillbillies packing (I had to leave one of the back windows open to accommodate the corner of one of my storage crates), wondering if I should be worried about someone stealing my stuff. Then I realize that this parking lot is exalted Cherry Hill thanks to all the developments my father’s built there, and that nobody steals in Cherry Hill.
And besides, I won’t be here long. I’m also parked beside Dad’s BMW, which makes a much better target. If I’m doing anything wrong by stopping here before heading home, it’s embarrassing the company with my overstuffed collegemobile and my admittedly left-leaning bumper stickers.
I slide out of the car then pause to readjust myself in the driver’s side window. I fluff my hair. I try to smooth my shirt and shorts from the drive. I ask myself if I’d be hiring material at the company I’m about to enter, all other things being equal, given the way I look now.
The answer, without question, is no. I’ve been driving for three hours, and my air conditioning hasn’t been blowing cold at all (probably because all my crap is pressed against the vents), and I can feel my shirt sticking to my back. My hair should be in a ponytail and feels gross, even though I washed it last night. Oh, and I stopped for Taco Bell. So I probably smell like Taco Bell’s version of beans.
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.