Big Boss by Cassie Mint

Two

Jacob

Iknew it was a mistake to let Kate’s friend come here. Daphne. Shit. Even her name is fucking cute. She’s a slip of a thing, a wide-eyed bundle of innocence, and I was lying to myself when I figured I wouldn’t even notice her around the house.

I always notice Daphne. Too much. Way too much. Every time I take the pair of them to dinner, I have to force myself to look away. To not stare at her like a hungry animal when my daughter is right fucking there.

How the hell am I going to get through six days of having her here?

My thoughts race over the next hour, tripping and tangling in my skull as I finish making calls, setting up meetings, checking our figures for the quarter. I’m going through the motions, but I’m not really here.

I’m down the hall. Watching Daphne’s cheeks flush pink and her eyes flash bright as she laughs.

She wasalready blushing when she came in here. Because it’s warm in this house after the cold air outside? Or because she’s shy around me?

She doesn’t need to be shy. If she weren’t friends with my daughter, I’d show her that. I’d tell her exactly how cute I find her—preferably while I ran my palm down her bare stomach. I’d like to slot one knuckle in her belly button.

That image drives into my brain and parks there. Refuses to leave. Every time I blink, I see creamy skin rising and falling under my palm—quick, urgent breaths. Panting for me to touch her lower. I shake my head, trying to focus on my calls, but it’s no use.

And by the time we’re gathered for dinner, I’m grinding my teeth so hard they ache. We cluster at one end of the big table—me at the head, and the girls on either side.

“Daphne’s staying here after college, Dad.”

I blink at Kate, fork frozen in the air. It’s Daphne that clarifies.

“In the city. To look for a job.” She smiles at me softly, and she looks almost sad. I shove the fork into my mouth, chewing to buy time. I have to think through everything I say around Daphne. If I don’t, I’ll blurt out all kinds of shit.

I swallow. They’re both still watching me, expectant. “Good. That’s good. Lots of opportunities around here.”

Kate beams at her friend, and then she’s off again, chattering a mile a minute about how they could rent somewhere together in the center. How maybe they’ll work in the same place.

I doubt it. Kate’s a business major. And Daphne… Daphne studies music. But I probably shouldn’t have fixated on that fact—she only mentioned it once in passing—so I say nothing. They don’t need to know how I obsess over this girl.

She’s half my age, for Christ’s sake. My daughter’s best friend.

I’m going to hell.

Whatever takeout the girls ordered barely registers with my senses. I eat robotically, nodding and grunting replies when they try to bring me into the conversation, and it could be Thai food or Italian for all I know.

I just need to get through this dinner.

In my efforts to look at literally anything except Daphne, I find myself taking in my dining room with fresh eyes. Wondering what my house looks like from her perspective.

This room has sage green wallpaper and heavy drapes; a fire crackling in the grate and an abstract sculpture on the mantelpiece. A holiday wreath hangs on the door, scenting the room with pine.

Does she like this house? Does it make me seem too stiff and formal? What would she change if she lived here?

Fuck. That’s a dangerous train of thought.

It shouldn’t matter.

“Dad,” Kate says, and I get the feeling she’s spoken to me a few times already.

“Sorry.” I give myself a tiny shake. “I was miles away.”

Not true. I wasn’t miles away. I was maybe four feet away, obsessing over the way Daphne’s pink lips close around her fork. Her mouth is plump and pillowy, with a little cleft in her bottom lip that will haunt me all the way to my grave. And whenever she tastes something new she likes, she lets out this tiny hum as her eyelids flutter.

I snatch up my glass and toss back the last of my scotch. It burns all the way down.

“I was thinking we could go ice skating tomorrow.” Kate’s talking again. She watches me expectantly. Is there a question hidden there?

“Good,” I say after a moment. “You two have fun.”

Her face falls, and too late I realize it was an offer. An invitation to join them. I barely see my daughter now that she’s in college—Kate lives across the city, near her classes. And though I’d normally rather stab my fork in my eye than strap on ice skates, though I need to stay as far away from her friend as I can…

I won’t tell Kate no. Not when I have so little time with her.

“On second thought,” I say quickly, “perhaps I’ll join you. If, uh. If you’d like that.”

She beams, nodding.

And Daphne bites her pillowy lip, staring down at her plate.

“Are you sure you can spare the time from work?” Kate asks it like she already knows the answer. Like it’s an inside joke between us. Because when she wants me somewhere, I make damn sure I’m there.

“Of course.”

It’ll mean working late nights to catch up. But I don’t care. My daughter already has one disappointment for a parent.

I won’t disappoint her too.

* * *

It’s strange, having them both in the house. Since Kate left for college, I’ve gotten used to living alone. For the first few weeks after she left in her first year, I heard every little sound in the house: every groaning pipe and ticking clock.

Maybe it was because I missed her so much—like part of me was straining for signs of her. Hoping she’d come home.

I got used to it, though. And though it sounds cold, after a while I found I liked having my own space again. My own domain. Those background noises, they faded away, and I got comfortable. A king in his castle.

Now they’re here, and I hear everything again. Every creaking floorboard. The distant drum of the shower. And I find I can tell the difference between the two girls—can tell who’s making which noise. As easily as if they yelled their names.

Kate’s movements are confident. She grew up here after all—there’s no hesitation as she moves around the house. She wanders freely between the rooms, opening and closing cupboard doors; she sings along to the music playing in her bedroom and makes herself a snack around 10pm.

Daphne’s different. She’s quiet and careful. Like she’s apologizing to the universe for taking up space.

I pause in my usual circuit around my office, stroking one hand over my chin. I like to pace when I think, keep my blood pumping and my mind sharp, but every time the floor creaks under my steps, I lose track of Daphne.

The fire pops behind me.

My beard rasps under my palm.

The moment stretches on, longer and longer, and I don’t know where she is. My heart tilts queasily. My eyes go dry from lack of blinking. But…

There.A muffled thump in the guest room. Something so soft that no normal person would hear it. A hairbrush placed on the dresser, maybe, or a glass of water on her nightstand.

What color are the sheets in there? I don’t remember, and now I’m kicking myself. I want to picture it properly.

In my mind, they’re snowy white. Crisp and cool, settling lightly over her bare thighs. Daphne seems like a pajama person. She’d wear a pretty, fussy kind of set, with silk and pinstripes maybe, and a collar and lapels and skimpy little cocktease shorts.

In my mind, she’s lying back beneath the bed sheets. Smoothing a delicate palm over the cool fabric, her pink lips parting on a sigh. Maybe she’s tired. Maybe her breath is minty from brushing her teeth. Maybe her dark blonde hair fans out over the pillow like a halo.

Maybe she’s thinking of me too.

…No. It’s not possible.

She’s a beautiful young woman. And I’m old. Too old for her, anyway. And so much bigger than her, I’d crush her flat.

In the morning, when she’s safely downstairs eating breakfast, I slip through the guest room door. I don’t paw through her things—though a dark, twisted part of me wants to. I just need to see, I tell myself. I need to know.

Accuracy is important to me. You don’t build a business empire letting details slip away.

My footsteps are quick over the rug. I hold my breath as I approach the bed, with its polished wood frame and mountain of pillows. Pillows she slept on last night. And I’m holding my breath as though I might exhale and gust them all onto the floor—the big, bad wolf come to blow her house down.

I just need to see. I flip back the decorative throw covering the sheets, only allowing myself two fingers to touch.

Cream sheets. Not quite white, then. Fine. I update the image in my head to match.

I shouldn’t be in here. There’s no good reason, no good excuse, and if either of the girls were to catch me in Daphne’s room, standing over her bed like some enormous bogeyman—

Laughter floats up through the floorboards. The clink of cutlery against china. I gust out a long breath, pillows be damned.

Enough. I’ve pushed my luck enough, so I turn on my heel and stride halfway to the door. Then I pause, my worst instincts warring inside me.

Don’t do it.

There’ll be no turning back.

When I lose the battle, something twists deep inside me. I thought I was a better man than this.

I prowl back to the bed. Grab one of the pillows. Then bury my face in it, and breathe her in.