“A lot of shit? It has to be. I mean … five years of collecting toys, you must have boxes and boxes of them? Or are they in a safe? Maybe safe deposit boxes for when they become collector items and you or your mom decide it’s time to retire early?”
If he only knew …
A few Christmas-tree sized Rubbermaid containers in my grandparents’ basement.
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her. I just tried to continue her hobby while she was incarcerated. It’s not like I got all of them. I was in school. I had other things going on. No time to keep militant track of Happy Meal toys.”
I didn’t miss a single one. If I were honest with him, I would have confessed just how much of my hard-earned money I spent not missing a single toy. And I even continued her tradition of giving out the Happy Meals to homeless people during times that required lots of purchases in a short amount of time. So really, I was a Good Samaritan. Feeding the homeless. WWJD? He would have handed out Happy Meals to everyone.
“I think that’s cool. I mean, that you did that to feel connected to your mom. Just like the crosswords and your dad. Rory’s a good person, even if she took the leap of faith and trusted me to keep an eye on you.”
“Wait …” My head jerked backward. “What do you mean by that? You make it sound like it was foolish of her. Which it might have been. I was a little surprised she trusted you. And for the record, I don’t need anyone’s eyes on me.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“No.” I shifted my attention to the side window to hide my truth. Did I trust him? Not really. Did that give me a slight thrill? Unfortunately.
A hint of amusement lingered at his lips as he focused on the road. “That’s fair. But I’m your boss during the day, so save your distrust for nights.”
Oh my gosh …
“That’s … a little creepy.”
“Oh, Reese … we’re going to have so much fun.” He turned up the music again. I glanced at his phone.
Matt Maeson, “Put It on Me.”
The base vibrated my bones, and the lyrics rushed through my veins like ice water. A seductive and chilling song. It did nothing to make me trust the naked fisherman.
Rory must have felt desperate to find a friend—any friend—which made her susceptible to blind trust.
Chapter Seven
“Morning, Bossman.” A wavy-haired blonde glanced up from a tiny desk nestled between a water cooler and a coffee machine.
“Morning. Hailey, this is Reese, Rory’s daughter. If you have stuff for her to do here in the office, she’ll hang with you today. Otherwise, I’ll take her with me.”
“Hi.” I gave Hailey my best smile, silently begging for her to have some office work for me.
“Hey, Reese. Nice to meet you. I don’t really have much today. But Monday you can help me enter bids in the computer and send them off.”
Fisher grabbed a cup of coffee and sat at a desk opposite Hailey’s. It was the smallest office I had ever seen.
“Or we could do it today,” I suggested with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Sorry. I’m cutting out early for a doctor’s appointment.” She refocused on her computer.
I stood in the middle of the dinky room with my hands folded behind my back.
“Guess you’re with me,” Fisher said with a half grin, shooting me a quick glance before returning his attention to blueprints taking up his whole desk—sans a small corner where he set his coffee. “We need to get you some boots anyway.”
“Yay …” I said with zero enthusiasm.
“Atta girl, way to bring so much energy on a Friday.”
Hailey snorted. “You’re one to talk. I was surprised I got a full good morning from you today. Weren’t you up extra early to take Rory to the airport?”
“Mmm … yes, I was.” He studied the plans, and I quickly learned I liked looking at him with or without clothes. He’d turned his baseball cap backward as if the bill somehow blocked his view or disrupted his thinking process.
“Fisher is not a morning person or a Monday person. He doesn’t like his coffee cold or his water warm. He growls when he’s mad at someone else and grumbles when he’s mad at you.”
“Hailey is full of shit. None of that is in the employee handbook.”
“Because we don’t have an employee handbook.” She rolled her eyes.
“Not true. You just never took the time to read it.” He reached in his pocket for his phone. “Fisher,” he answered.
I made mental notes.
Growl = mad at someone else.
Grumble = mad at me.
“You’re young.” Hailey eyed me. “Sixteen? Seventeen?”
She wasn’t exactly old either.
“Eighteen.” I tipped my chin up and pushed out my chest. I was five-nine with a solid B-cup. “How old are you?”