Page 3

Chapter three

Naomi

A text message notification brings me slowly out of a deep sleep the next morning. With a groan, I hastily pull my comforter up over my face.

What time is it?

When another message irritatingly dings, I sigh, sneaking my arm out from under the covers to blindly feel around my nightstand. Pulling my phone back into the darkness with me, I reluctantly push one eye open, just enough to see who it’s from.

Dad: Accounting department says there was an issue with their printers yesterday.

Dad: I need you in the office in forty minutes.

My stomach sinks. Even his text messages have a way of making me feel about as small as a popcorn kernel. It’s not lost on me that there are no ‘ Hey, how was your trip? ’ or ‘ What time are you coming in today? ’ messages coming through from him.

Nope.

All I get is a curt message demanding I come in early.

Not that I expected anything different, though.

I’ve spent my entire life trying to live up to my father’s high-achieving expectations—most of the time being painfully aware that I’m falling miserably short.

My one redeeming quality in his eyes is the IT work I do for his large car dealership—never mind the fact that I have no passion whatsoever for the inner workings of computer systems.

I’m aware of the way he takes advantage of me.

And yet, he’s always been the hardest to say no to.

I’ve done every single thing he’s ever asked—or let’s be honest, demanded—of me, which is absolutely and irrefutably pathetic of me…

but that doesn’t mean I won’t give in like I always do—even if it is five-thirty in the morning.

I often dream of a time in my life when I might get the courage to pull the trigger on starting my own baking business, getting out from under his thumb once and for all.

I imagine busy days in my kitchen stuffing piping bags with icing, rolling fondant, and decorating commissioned cakes…

waiting for dough to rise in a bowl on the counter while my stand mixer hardly ever gets a break…

my phone constantly ringing with new orders coming in…

the smell of sugar, flour, and dough filling every corner of my house.

I yearn for that life so much I can practically taste the sweetness on my tongue.

Why can’t I have that?

His message leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and it mixes with just enough of the lingering shame from yesterday’s robbery that it gives me a surge of something unfamiliar—assertion, maybe? A desire for some semblance of control?

I toss the phone on my mattress, letting this new feeling marinate until, finally, I hurl myself out of bed with a newfound and unfamiliar surge of determination.

As I pull a sweatshirt over my head, I head directly to the living room.

I step over Robbie’s discarded shirt and socks that are laying in the middle of the floor to where he’s snoring softly on the couch.

There’s a pillow over his face to block out the aggressive morning sunlight from my floor-to-ceiling windows the couch is positioned under, and one of his arms hangs off the edge.

I gently lower myself to sit on top of his feet at the far end of the couch, perching there like a bird watching its prey.

“Hey,” I whisper, pinching his calf with a gentle squeeze that’s firm enough to rouse him. I should probably feel bad about waking him up, but I’m too focused on keeping this newfound ambition rolling to be sympathetic right now. He can go back to sleep later.

“Robbie.” I pinch him again, this time squeezing harder.

“Argh,” he grumbles from under the pillow, starting to stir.

“Are you awake?”

He lifts one corner, revealing his sleep-muddled face. “Are you insane?”

“That’s debatable, actually, but I need your help with something.”

He drops the pillow back onto his face and tries to shift his body—with no success, obviously, since I’m firmly cementing his feet in place.

“Do you think I let people walk all over me?” I ask.

“What?” his muffled voice says from under the pillow.

“I think being a pushover is starting to affect my happiness,” I muse.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” He heaves a large sigh and lets out a grunt as he sits up to face me.

“Come again?” His mouth tilts up in confusion.

I roll my lips to keep from making a teasing remark about his impressively disheveled hair—I’m well aware that now is not the time.

“Do you think I let people walk all over me?” I ask again.

“Um…” He gets lost in thought as he considers my question.

“Here’s the thing,” I jump in before he can answer.

“I’m not good at saying no. I’m terrible at it, actually.

With my dad mostly—you know how he is. But also, just in general.

In my day-to-day life with my friends, coworkers, and acquaintances.

People constantly ask of me, and I say yes, regardless of what it is.

It’s a big problem I have. Saying no. And I’m officially sick of it. ”

He blinks at me.

“Being at that conference sparked something in me—an even stronger desire to start my own baking business. I want it so badly, Robbie.” My voice comes out desperate before going soft again.

“But I don’t know if I can do it. How am I supposed to be a respected self-employed business owner if I’m nothing but a giant pushover? ”

“Okay.” He nods slowly, his brows knitting together. Clearly, his still-sleepy brain is slowing down his processing time.

“I need help getting comfortable setting boundaries,” I continue, feeling the determination brewing stronger within me. “Enough is enough, you know?”

He runs a hand through his messy brown hair, bringing it down to scratch the back of his neck. “And how exactly am I supposed to help?”

“You’re going to help me practice,” I say decisively, feeling confident about what I’m asking of him.

“I am?” He tilts an eyebrow.

“Yes. Starting right now.” I clear my throat. “Please ask me if you can sleep on my couch.”

He stares at me blankly.

“Just do it,” I urge.

“Can I…crash on your couch?” he asks, oblivious as to why he’s asking.

“No. Get out,” I say as firmly as I can.

Again with a blank stare. To his credit, though, he actually moves half a muscle to get up.

“Stay where you are.” I assure him with a wave. “I’m just practicing. Ask again.”

“Uh…do you have room on your couch?”

“Nope. I’m busy. Find somewhere else to stay. Okay, this feels really good.”

“Glad I can help.” he says with a hesitant smirk. “Again?”

I nod eagerly.

“Mind if I stay on your couch?”

“I do mind. Door is locked.”

“Not bad.” He nods, fully aware and invested now in the purpose of this exercise. “Can I crash with you tonight?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Nice,” he states his approval. “Why do you let him walk all over you, anyway?”

“That’s a loaded question.” I huff, looking down at my hands. “He’s my dad…and it’s complicated.”

“So just tell him off. Tell him how you feel.” He lifts a shoulder in an encouraging shrug, as if it would be no big deal at all.

“It’s easier said than done, Robbie. You know…hence the practicing we’re doing.”

“Fair enough. Hey, will you make me a bagel?”

“Yeah, are you hungry? I think I have some—”

“Don’t you dare get up. That was a test—which you failed miserably. Try again.” He leans back against the arm of the couch.

“Oh. Um, yes, I do have bagels. But I need to get ready for the day. Help yourself.”

“Nice.” He flashes me an approving side grin.

I glance at my watch. “I really do need to get ready. Dad needs me there early.”

He raises his eyebrows and pins me with an unimpressed stare, which makes my cheeks flush.

“I know, I know.” I raise my hands in defeat. “Baby steps, okay? Maybe we could practice more later? How long are you in town for?” I climb off the end of the couch and head across the living room back to my room.

“Just a couple days. Hey, do you really want me to go? I can find somewhere else to stay if you want?”

“No, you’re fine. I like having you around.” I twist my neck to look at him before closing the door. “But a little more notice next time would be nice.”

“This is Naomi.”

“Naomi, it’s Austin”—the head of IT, aka my department boss—“I just talked with Fran at reception. She’s having trouble connecting to the server. Any chance you can head over and help?”

“On my way.”

“You’re the best.”

I start making my way to the welcome desk at the front of the dealership showroom.

The obnoxious four-inch heels my dad insists we wear clank on the tile floor as I adjust the bottom of my skin-tight business suit while I walk—something I find myself doing several times a day.

This ridiculously fancy dress code makes me feel like even more of a fraud than I already am when I’m here at work.

I dislike wearing this outfit just about as much as I dislike the fact that I know the inner workings of wireless access points and disaster recovery.

“What seems to be the problem, Fran?” I round the large oval-shaped desk to where the reception computer is set up.

“Hi, Naomi. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but it’s telling me there’s a server error.” She lifts both palms in frustration at her screen.

“Let me take a look.”

She scoots her swivel chair back to give me space to investigate.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice slightly frazzled at the edges. “This is a terrible time to be without internet. I’m up to my eyeballs getting things ready for the grand opening. Invitations are supposed to go out this week, you know.”

Before I sit down, she grabs the fancy pair of work heels from under the desk and quickly switches them with the comfortable walking shoes she has on.

As friendly as we are with each other, I am the boss’s daughter after all.

Not that I care about her discretion one bit—I’m more jealous of her brave attempt to undermine my dad’s rules.