Page 23 of My Unexpected Surprise
"You built this company around the idea that good people shouldn't be helpless," he says. "Which is true and right and the reason it works. But twelve family offices, Val. Multi-generational wealth, complicated family dynamics, children, marriages, inheritances, internal fractures. These aren't threat-assessment clients. They're families."
He meets my eyes.
"They're not going to hire a firm that treats them like a security problem to be solved. They want someone who understands what it costs when family goes wrong."
Only the sound of Tom screeching somewhere in the house fills the space. No one goes to check on him. They only get bothered when he falls silent.
"You protect families," Riley says, without looking up from her coffee, "the way you defuse a bomb. You're precise and effective. Maybe too much." She glances up. "Maybe try not making love sound like a liability."
I look at her. "I don't make love sound like a liability."
"You told the Harrington file last quarter that emotional unpredictability among family members represented a statistically significant threat vector."
"It does."
"They were arguing about where to spend Christmas, Valentino."
Vaughn stays silent. Smart man. He agrees with her and knows when to let her land the point.
I drink my coffee and say nothing, mind somehow wandering to back to a certain interview with a certain brown-eyed woman.
I look up to see Riley watching me closely. When I raise a brow in question, she shrugs slightly and continues eating.
Riley reads people like schematics. She always has. Three years she's watched me with that patient look, like she's watching…orwaitingfor something to happen. I never ask what.
Tom reappears wearing both boots now, clutching a small red toy car by one wheel. He walks straight to me and holds it up.
"Buckle it."
I look at the car, then at him. "Where?"
He points to the tiny plastic booster seat hooked on the chair beside me. It's doll-sized, part of some set. He wants the car strapped in like a passenger.
Vaughn starts to intervene. "Tom—"
"No, I got it." I take the car. The buckle is stiff as hell, but I work it methodically until it clicks secure.
Tom examines it, tongue sticking out in concentration. Satisfied, he nods, wandering off.
When I look up both Vaughn and Riley are looking at me.
"What?"
Riley is smiling into her coffee. "Nothing."
"Say it."
"I didn't say anything."
"You're saying it with your face."
She looks up, and her smile is the specific kind that means she's been waiting for an opening and I've just handed her one.
"You buckled a toy car into a doll seat," she says pleasantly. "Without hesitating. Without looking at us. You just…took it, did it, done."
I don't see where they're getting at. "He asked me to."
"What she's saying, Val,” Vaughn enters, “is that you're dangerously close to being domestic.”
