A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(3)

FIRST DAY


Queenie

Six weeks later

“Honey, you ready? We needed to be out of here five minutes ago.”

“Coming!” I slip my feet into my heels, check my reflection one last time, make sure I have my laptop bag and purse, and rush down the hall. The last thing I want is to make my boss late for work my first day on the job. As his assistant.

He’s standing in the kitchen, dark hair styled neatly, athletic frame wrapped in a navy suit with a gray tie that matches his eyes and the hints of gray at his temples—that I’d never mention exist. He looks far more put together than I feel. He glances up from the phone in his hand, and his smile fades. “What are you wearing?”

“It’s called a dress.” Like his suit, it’s navy, with cap sleeves, belted at the waist. Classic, simple, and stylish, or at least that’s what the salesgirl said when I tried it on last week. And then charged it to my boss’s credit card. The perks of living with the guy who runs the show.

“Maybe you should change into pants.”

I prop a fist on my hip. “Weren’t you just yelling at me to hurry up, and now you want me to change? What the hell?”

He waves a hand in my direction. “This isn’t work-appropriate attire.”

It’s my turn to frown. “How is this not work appropriate? It has sleeves and a high neckline, and the hem falls below my knees. I look perfectly professional.”

“You’re going to be in a roomful of male athletes, primarily in their twenties and thirties.”

“And a few in their forties.” I motion to him. “Your point being?”

He tips his head to the side, regarding me with something like frustration. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what the issue is.”

I know exactly what the issue is. My dress is tailored; it hugs my curves. It’s professional and also maybe a bit sexy. But all of me is covered, apart from my arms, and my legs from knee to ankle. “This isn’t the sixteenth century. I shouldn’t have to hide in a burlap sack. Are you telling me these guys are so barbaric they’re unable to control themselves in the presence of women? I should be allowed to wear whatever I damn well please, and what I’m wearing is tasteful and completely appropriate. Besides, the second they find out I’m your daughter, they’ll avoid me like the plague, especially if you’re wearing that scowl.” I poke him in the cheek. “Now stop being archaic and overprotective. We’re going to be late.” I grab our travel mugs, which are filled with the coffee I made this morning, and head for the door.

My dad sighs, aware this isn’t a battle he’s going to win. I’m twenty-four. I’m athletic, curvy, and female. I refuse to hide my shape because men might happen to appreciate it. Although I do understand why my dad does not love the prospect.

He locks up behind me, and his Tesla beeps once as he presses the key fob.

My dad is the general manager of the Seattle NHL team. When he was a teenager, he showed real promise as a player. He even played in the minors and almost got called up, but then he got my mother pregnant and became a father at the ripe old age of twenty, which changed everything. Especially when my mom decided being a parent was too much for her and took off, leaving him to raise me on his own.

He still could’ve played for the NHL. My grandparents would have helped take care of me during away games. But he didn’t want me to be without both parents for a good part of the year, and my mom had proven to be completely unreliable. By the time I was two, he had full custody. So he set aside his NHL-playing aspirations and took a lower-level administrative job instead.

Over the years he’s worked his way up the ladder—taking positions inside the organization that required minimal travel.

But the opportunity of a lifetime presented itself when Seattle took on an expansion team and they offered my dad the general manager position. We were living in Florida at the time, and I’d already transferred colleges once (and lost an entire semester), so I decided to stay behind, hoping I could prove myself capable of adulting. I also wanted my dad to put himself first for once. He didn’t love that I was on the other side of the country, and honestly, neither did I, but I wanted him to have a life that didn’t revolve around me.

So I stayed in Florida and went to school. And for a while it worked. Until it didn’t anymore. I was one semester shy of graduating when the bottom fell out. Again.

So I moved to Seattle, because that’s where my dad was.

I managed to secure a job and got an apartment on my own. Not a great job, or a great apartment, either, but at least I could afford it without help from my dad. I tried a couple of college programs, but neither of them was a good fit. Even still, I was managing okay on my own until I lost another job, and all my prospects dried up. And now here I am, living in my dad’s guesthouse and working as his assistant, until I can figure out what exactly I want to do with my life.

“Should I call you Mr. Masterson, or do you want me to call you Jake?” I ask as we pull out of the sleepy suburbs and head toward the arena.

His brow furrows for what seems like the tenth time this morning. This might be a bit of a rough transition. Sure, I worked for my dad when I was a teenager, running errands and getting coffee, but it’s different now. I’m an adult and a woman who should be self-sufficient but am not. Also, as close as we are, my living in his guesthouse and working with him every day might be more than we can both handle.