Raya
The kid is a handful. The dad is clueless. Can Raya help without losing her heart to them both?
It was a nice evening and Palmetto Plaza wasn’t far away, so I walked out of the park and onto the neighboring property. It was a large, sprawling mall, with every conceivable type of business, ranging from chic boutiques to department stores, a supermarket, and a tech/business services area.
My favorite space is Festival Square, a wide, flagstone-paved area flanked by restaurants and bars, ice cream parlors and pizzerias. Couples and families walked past me in multiple directions, stopping to drop a couple of dollars into the upturned fedoras or open music cases of the buskers playing there. A couple of girls were playing a concerto on the violin and viola, and across from them was a living statue dressed and made up to look like Edgar Allan Poe, with a stuffed raven perched on his shoulder. He was quoting Poe with great passion: “And all I lov’d, I lov’d alooone!”
The raven didn’t seem impressed.
I arrived at the business offices of Kane & Broussard. It was after six, so I figured the admin assistants and other workers were gone for the day. That suited me fine. I escorted myself through the lobby, and at the end of a short hallway I saw two imposing mahogany doors. One said Broussard and the other said Kane. I knocked on the right one and let myself in.
Christopher Kane was sitting behind his desk, head bent over some documents. For a second I was frozen in the doorway, just looking at him. With the rays of light slanting over his shoulder from a standing lamp behind him, his hair looked golden. His thin-framed glasses somehow emphasized his long, thick lashes. In his concentration, the tip of his tongue was actually peeking out from between his lips, making him look like a kid. His face was in repose, not taut with anger as it had been this morning. Like this, he was beautiful.
When he heard the door open, he commented without looking up, “I thought you were gone for the day, Aashvi.”
I guessed that was his assistant’s name. I said, “She already has,” and immediately his head raised, shock on his face, mouth hanging a little open.
When he realized who I was, he frowned. “Who let you in here?”
“Me,” I said simply. “But I’m not going to take up too much of your time.” I stepped forward and plopped the sheaf of hundred-dollar bills onto his desk, and the little shuffling sound they made as they landed was supremely satisfying. “I came to return this.”
He stared at the money as if he didn’t even recognize it as currency, then looked at me, puzzled. “What’s this about?”
“I don’t want your money.”
He leaned back, lifting those gray eyes to trap mine, and I discovered that in the relative gloom of the indoors, they looked much darker. And deeper. Damn. It was as if I was running free along a path and suddenly a sinkhole opened up right in front of me and I had to flail my arms and hit the brake to stop from falling in.
He explained slowly, carefully, because obviously I was too stupid to figure it out for myself. “You are entitled to compensation for the actions of my son.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said agreeably. Uninvited, I plopped my purple-clad butt down into one of his luxurious leather visitors’ chairs, feeling a tiny spark of triumph, considering how he’d boldly stepped into my space this morning without a by-your-leave. “But as the injured party I have the right to dictate what type of compensation I am prepared to accept.”
Those golden brows drew together. “Are you suggesting what I offered isn’t enough?”
Oh, tell me this man isn’t accusing me of trying to put the squeeze on him! “Don’t be an idiot,” I snapped, the knowledge that he ultimately paid my salary be damned. “If I wanted more money, why would I give you back what I already have?”
Kane glanced down at the money he still hadn’t touched, and nodded as if to accept my point, not reacting to the fact that I had called him an idiot. Maybe he was used to it.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers and placing them thoughtfully against his lips. “If money won’t satisfy you, Miss de la Rosa, what will?”
There’s a cheeky note to his question, almost a taunt, and that irritated the hell out of me. But that didn’t mean the sight of his fingertips pressing against his lips didn’t snag my attention. For a second, they were all I could see—but I shook it off, reminding myself that the man was a bit of a dick, and if he was less so, maybe his kid wouldn’t run around tagging stuff and trying to get himself arrested.
Stop ogling, Raya, I chided myself. Out loud, I said, “I would like August to come work with me.”
He cocked a brow, tilting his ear slightly in my direction as if he hadn’t heard right. “Excuse me?”
“I would like August to come work at the park awhile, remove the paint himself, and help me restore the mural.”
“That kid doesn’t have an artistic bone in his body,” he scoffed.
“All kids do,” I responded testily, “until grownups shame the urge out of them.”
He stood up, so I did too. No way was I going to allow him to tower over me. But the man was tall, so tower he did anyway.
“Are you accusing me of brutalizing my child? To the point where he’s too timid to paint?”
I figured smoke would start pouring from his nostrils any second now, so I rushed to placate him. “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m sure you’re trying to be a good father—”
“Wow, thanks!” he cut in sarcastically. “You have no idea how gratified I am by your approval!”
I heard how patronizing I sounded and hurried to apologize. “I’m sorry. I just ….” I passed my hands across my eyes, well aware I was messing this up royally, and I was moments from being tossed out of this man’s office. “What I’m saying is,” I explained, choosing my words delicately, “I think August would benefit from experiencing firsthand the extent of the damage he has done. And I think he might enjoy it, working outdoors in a creative environment.” I didn’t add that the kid was so ghastly pale he looked like he hadn’t had sunshine in weeks. And considering he’d been raised in a much warmer and sunnier place, it might do him some good.
Kane stared down at me for so long I had to battle against the urge to twitch. I could almost see the gears turning in his head. “And how long would this … experiment … of yours last?”
“A couple weeks, maybe,” I suggested.
More deep thought. “And this is the pound of flesh you demand?”
I bristled. “You don’t have to make it sound like a vendetta!” Why was he making this about me?
His shoulders lifted. “That’s how it sounds.”
(162 pages including bonus chapters.)
