Daddy’s Billionaire Boss

1

_____

Emily

I’d always been completely comfortable with my status as a Daddy’s Girl. My slightly scatterbrained Mom was always busy with her various charities and projects, so once I was old enough to have real conversations, Dad and I would spend the weekends having mini-adventures.

Museums, galleries, restaurants we hadn’t heard of in neighborhoods we didn’t usually go to – we sampled cuisine from around the world, and browsed in the most fascinating shops.

My father’s job had always interested me. Coordinating information for chemical and medical laboratories, compiling international research, and writing and proofing the documentation wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady, secure work.

It actually inspired my part-time job of researching and fact-checking for several local podcasts.

Even though I’d seen a few photos of his small beige cubicle, I’d never been to his office. I had no idea why he’d asked me to drop in this afternoon, but it was wonderful to finally get a tour.

Everyone was very polite, but quiet. Heads down, fingers zipping across their keyboards in a blur. It felt almost clinical, which matched the monochromatic look of the entire floor of the building.

I appreciated hard work, but personally, I did my best research in my pink donut pajamas with orange headphones on for a healthy dose of eighties synth pop.

Dad was the most subdued I’d ever seen him, as we walked down another hallway. His hand clamped on my shoulder when I started walking too quickly. Were these workers sensitive to sudden movements? I nearly giggled out loud.

“That’s my boss, Mason McHenry,” Dad said, nodding toward the giant glass boardroom, where sun was streaming in and bouncing off every shiny metal accent.

Dad had mentioned his boss many times over the past few years, with a mixture of admiration and fear. Apparently Mason was ruthlessly cold, but absolutely brilliant.

A tall beast of a man in a black suit was striding purposefully up and down the length of the gray room. The set of his jaw was stern, and his perfect lips moved quickly beside his phone. I couldn’t help wondering what he was talking about.

“Mason always paces during important phone calls,” Dad explained with a chuckle. “It helps him focus.”

“I guess it’s good if the President of your company is extremely focused,” I smiled.

Something echoed in the back of my mind. A memory that took a moment to pull up from the murky depths. Trying not to stare too obviously as he passed by the pane of glass closest to us, I examined his left hand.

His little finger was bent strangely.

Staring at the positively magnificent man as he walked by, my trembling fingers pulled my phone from my purse. I took a fresh photo every year on my birthday so that I’d always have “the list” with me. In my whimsical sixteen year old handwriting, there it was, plain as day.

>>

Extremely focused.

Bent little finger on left hand.

Green and gold eyes.

Strangely obsessed with coffee.

Strict and cold with everyone on the planet

except for his one true love.

>>

It was just a coincidence. Obviously. It had to be.

On my sixteenth birthday, my constantly-traveling Aunt Betsy h ad been in town. I’d only met her a few times, but always enjoyed her monthly emails filled with photos and tales of adventure.