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"Is that a purple tie, Gracie? I don’t have a purple tie."
Gracie huffed, sitting down beside me. "It's fashion, Daddy. You wouldn't understand."
I chuckled, pulling her into a hug. "Well, when you put it that way, maybe I need your advice before my next meeting. And speaking of meetings, sweetie, you and I are going to 'meet' at the kitchen sink tonight, okay? Today's the big wash day for your beautiful curls." Her expression dropped slightly at the thought, not eager to swap crayons for shampoo.
I quickly added, "But hey, we'll use your favorite honey-coconut conditioner. You love the smell, right?"
Her face brightened up instantly, nodding. "Okay, Daddy, but you have to use the special comb."
Thinking of that complicated detangling comb I'd just picked up, I gave her that you-got-a-deal handshake, amused by her growing negotiation skills.
The sound of my smart seven-year-old’s laughter filled the room, making my lack of sleep seem much less terrible.
Who needs rest with a personal fashion consultant who loves crayons?
Yet, as I headed to the office, black coffee in hand and her crayon drawing as my new pocket square, I wondered if Grace was onto something. Maybe it's time the corporate world saw its first purple-tie advocate.
The Seattle Storm headquarters are quiet this Thursday afternoon, just a few people around. In my executive office, overlooking Puget Sound, I appreciate the calm. I need it after everything.
Last night's win against the San Francisco Furies got us closer to the top spot in our division. Our team's in great form, and the fans are excited.
If only I could focus on that.
Instead, I’m now poring over info Jessie collected on Lacey Alvarez, potential nanny for my daughter. The last time I saw her, she was Alton's guest at a penguin fundraiser, giving me a piece of her mind about charity work - something I won't forget easily.
I loosen my tie, alone, thinking about Lacey Alvarez and her sharp wit, sharper words, and big green eyes.
Eyes that, last night, looked downright hostile.
Life’s complicated enough. I don't need more trouble.
But I keep going back to her file among the nanny candidates. I told myself I'd decide by tomorrow, but researching her has become a bit of an obsession.
Maybe it's because she's unlike any nanny I've hired before, or maybe because she's only twenty-five—an entire ten years younger than me—and not afraid to challenge me.
Whatever it is, Larissa “Lacey” Alvarez isn't your typical nanny.
And with my household in chaos, she might be exactly what my daughter needs. And the options are limited.
My father's recent decisions have made damn sure of that.
A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I quickly close the file, stashing it in a drawer.
"Yeah? What is it?" I call out.
The door swings open, revealing two familiar faces. The closest one grins at me, a grin that could give the Cheshire Cat a run for its money.
"Wow, such a warm welcome for your two favorite partners," Marcus Reynolds chuckles as he strides into my office. His tall frame and sharp business-casual attire make his deep brown skin even more striking. Hot on his heels, Ryan Martinez enters, his wavy dark hair and olive-tan skin setting off his bright white smile and crisp polo shirt.
Sitting across from them as they enter, my unruly dark hair and stubble only serve as a reminder that I haven't soaked up nearly enough sun this summer to match their perpetual glows.
Temporarily forgetting my skin's plea for Vitamin D—or at the very least, a session under the warmth of a sun lamp—I lean back in my chair and sigh.
"Tolerated partners, maybe," I reply dryly, barely resisting a smile. These days, smiles are rare for me, but with my best friends, it's hard to keep a straight face.
Somehow, I manage, my grumpiness reaching new heights even in the presence of the largest minority owners of the Seattle Storm and the closest things to brothers I've had since our Little League days.
They notice, and their grins fade as they take their seats. Ryan flops onto the corner couch. Marcus leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.
