Chapter Two
Benji
Each pounding footfall thumps in my ears, my heart keeping time like an orchestra conductor. I hear my own steady, rhythmic breathing over the sounds of my steps and heart.
Thump, beat, puff. Thump, beat, puff.
The day is mild, warmish, but a cooler breeze keeps me from sweating too much. The park is moderately occupied, but it’s also large, so there’s plenty of room on the path for us to run. Cris is ahead of me wearing a pair of hot pink shorts and a white T-shirt with the words “my favorite brother gave me this shirt.” The first time I saw it I had to smile, not because of its outwardly snarky message but because there is zero chance she could pick a favorite brother out of the three her mom stuck her with.
Stuck is a harsh word. I didn’t mean it that way. Let me explain.
Cris’s mom, Selina, bailed on her daughter and co., aka her three bros, when Cris was eighteen years old. Selina, who I’m told goes by Lina, moved to Vegas to marry a guy she’s since divorced three husbands ago. I think she’s on marriage number seven, but it’s been four or five months since Cris mentioned her, so who knows if Lina has moved on to number eight by now.
So, Lina went to Vegas and Cris stayed here in Clear Ridge with her brothers, who at the time ranged from ages seven to twelve. This was while she was grinding out a college education and working part-time. Talk about a full schedule. Cris said her mom promised to send money regularly when she left, but only ended up sending it semi-regularly. Like sending cash was going to make up for not being there. I know firsthand how nice it is to have money, but it’s no substitute for a parent.
When Cris turned twenty, she started working as an intern for William Owen, better known as “Dad,” but he’s not my birth father. Sadly, my birth father (and birth mother) are no longer alive. It’s not a circumstance I like to think about, but there’s no escaping it. They’re gone and have been since I was ten years old. I’ve missed them every day since.
Anyway. We’re talking about Cris.
I remember the first time I saw her. Spunky, adorable, blond. I thought she’d come and go as most interns did at Owen Construction, but she stayed on full-time, working for my dad before I hired her myself. I had taken to working at my home office more often than not. Traveling to headquarters is a drive to the tune of ninety minutes on a light traffic day which allows me to get almost nothing done, so I limit my visits to the big HQ. Plus, I like my home office. And my home gym. The in-ground pool in my backyard is heated. I’m not trying to sound like a dick, just illustrating how everything I need is at my fingertips. Including my life assistant coach.
It’s a title I made up. I needed an assistant, but I also needed a life coach. Her position is bespoke. I’m thrilled she was willing to mash together two seemingly random job titles into a Franken-position we could stitch up or bolt together as I saw fit. We were acquaintances at best when she worked for William. Our friendship grew once we started spending a lot of time together. Now I don’t think I could do anything without her. At least not well.
When we moved her from HQ into my house, I noticed tenfold how spunky, adorable, and blond she was. How she hums when she takes her first sip of coffee. How much she enjoys going to the post office to buy stamps. She always buys the LOVE ones with puppies or cartoons on them, but I don’t complain. Whenever she uses one, her gray eyes light up and a sweet smile spreads her mouth. Unfortunately, she’s not the kind of assistant you hire and then seduce. She’s practically family, though “family” takes on a broader meaning in the Owen family.
William and Lainey Owen have one child of their own. Archer Owen is three years older than me but not the eldest of the Owen sons. He’s the middle by a technicality. After they adopted me, they went and adopted a rough Chicago teen straight out of juvie. Nate is one year Archer’s senior. Ours is a patchwork family. I’ve heard Archer refer to Cris as our honorary sister, but I can’t agree with him there. She’s a lot of things to me, but sister? Yikes. I’ve admired far too many of her body parts for that not to be creepy.
And man, is she hard not to admire when she’s running ahead of me, her round ass jiggling enticingly every time her shoes hit the pavement. Dappled sunlight streams through the leaves on the trees and lights her curly blond hair. Her fair skin is what most would consider “tan” but given my bronze hue, I only see “fair.”
So there she is, a blond-haired, gray-eyed, petite, strong, smart woman with an ass that won’t quit…who works for me. As her boss I overlook her questionable professionalism—the aforementioned cutesy stamp fetish and her typical ensemble of Chuck Taylors and ripped jeans at the office. As her best friend I overlook her glaringly obvious hotness and wish I’d developed a fascination with her before hiring her. I could have asked her out in some neutral capacity back then. Now I have to settle for stolen glimpses and pretend not to notice her admirable attributes. Whenever we stretch side by side after a run, I glance at her bare legs, pale next to mine, and entertain what they might feel like wrapped around my waist while I roll my hips and give both of us the ride of a lifetime.
“Race you to the parking lot.” She interrupts the vision beginning to form, which is probably for the best considering it’s hard to run with a boner. She spins around and runs backwards, her curly hair bouncing with her every step. Now I have a view of another jiggling part of her, those incredible breasts I try to ignore every single day.
“Try and keep up.” I take off.
I reach the parking lot before she does, no surprise since I was half-killing myself to do it. I hate losing. Not as much as Archer, but still. I wait for her to catch up, bent in half, sucking air through my open mouth and balancing my palms on my knees. She’s not far behind.
She slows to a walk, arms heavy at her sides, cheeks pink and eyes dancing. “When will you learn”—she pauses to take a breath—“that I’m baiting you”—another pause, another breath—“when I say that?”
“Never.” I straighten, grinning. She grins back. My winning made her feel like she won and that is good for everyone.
“You clocked your steps for the day, I bet.” She nods at the watch on my wrist. It tracks a million things, the number of steps I take in a day included. Look at that. I just rolled over my goal. “Nice.”
“You’re welcome.” She winks.
I am welcome. She takes care of me, which I need. I have a tendency to lose myself in the numbers the way some might get lost in the woods after dark. I go into a deep, trancelike state when I’m thinking around, over, and through financials, rendering me unable to tend to my most basic needs. Like eating, drinking. Blinking, on occasion.
Cris happily refills my water, buzzes up the occasional smoothie in the high-powered blender, or delivers a takeout container filled with chicken and spring mix salad to my desk, lid off, fork stuck in it like a flag. Hell, she brought me vitamin C the other day because she heard me coughing and worried I might be coming down with a cold.
She does all of this while also managing my calendars (personal and business), preparing reports, interviewing candidates, spellchecking my letters, and traveling with me to a variety of affairs. She’s made reservations for dinner with the woman I happen to be seeing (whichever woman it is at the time) and has set up lunch dates so I can end the “seeing” part, which always happens no matter how great the woman I’m dating is.
She is Super Cris! More powerful than the Calendar app on your iPhone, able to leap tall deadlines in a single bound. I have no idea how I did my job before I hired her. I shudder to think what would happen if she left. Which is why I pay her an exorbitant amount of money to do what she does.
Her attentiveness to my needs escalated noticeably last fall when her youngest brother Timothy went away to college. It’s like she has empty-nest syndrome at only thirty years of age. Damn her mother. And damn Cris’s father and each of her brothers’ fathers for that matter. They stuck my chipper blond best friend with their adult responsibilities at a time when she should have had the luxury to learn more about herself. My parents would have never left me by choice. Not ever.
Without picking up her feet, Cris shuffles to the car and grabs our water bottles, insulated so the water stays ice cold. (She thinks of everything.) As we rehydrate I make my way to a bench and sit, watching people in the park run along the path in between admiring the sway of the trees against a blue sky.
Spring in Ohio. It’s my favorite season. There’s a whiff of newness in the air. I love the scent. It reminds me of a Monday, truly the best day of the week. Well, if you love what you do. I adore my lot in life. After all, I structured it.