My head of household said something similar when I asked him to recommend a tutor. "Kid's smart. He doesn't need help with homework. He needs his dad to ask him about his day."
I tell myself we'll address it later. After this quarter. After this deal. After things calm down.
The meeting notes I'm reviewing blur into meaningless shapes on the page.
I set the document aside with more force than necessary and check my watch again, the platinum face catching the afternoon light streaming through my office windows.
Lindsay should arrive any minute for our weekly debrief. Dependable as sunrise, reliable as clockwork—she's never late. Not once in the three years she's worked for me.
The familiar sound of her footsteps echoes in the marble-floored hallway outside my office, and something in my chest unknots slightly.
I glance up from my desk and there she is, pausing just outside my door with her small used handbag slung over one shoulder and tablet clutched against her chest.
But instead of entering immediately as she usually does, she's looking down the corridor toward the living area where Henry's voice continues to drift from his conversation with Janet.
Her expression softens. The professional mask I'm so accustomed to seeing melts away into something warmer, more genuine. Something that makes her look younger than twenty-eight.
Instead of coming into my office, she heads toward Henry. Her steps slow as she approaches.
Without hesitation, she crouches slightly to meet him at eye level, setting her bag gently on the floor beside her.
The gesture is so natural, so instinctive, that I find myself leaning forward slightly in my chair to observe.
I can't hear what she says through the distance and the soft acoustics of the hallway, but I watch the exchange anyway.
The way Henry's face lights up immediately, his animated gesturing becoming even more enthusiastic as he launches into what I can only assume is another detailed explanation of his game.
Lindsay listens without that subtle fidgeting that signals someone tolerating rather than engaging.
She's good with people. She's always been good at reading a room, anticipating needs before they're voiced.
That's why she's always been so remarkably competent at her job, why she can handle difficult clients and impossible requests with equal grace.
But watching her now, I realize she isn't managing him. She isn't employing some professional strategy for dealing with children.
She'senjoyinghim.
When she finally straightens and catches my gaze, there's no self-consciousness. Just a quick smile. Easy. Unforced.
My chest tightens in a way I don't have time to examine.
When Lindsay steps into my office, the space feels like it settles around her.
She closes the door with a soft click, sets her bag on the chair across from my desk, and pulls out her tablet. Standard routine. We've done this a hundred times.
But I notice things I've never catalogued before.
How rarely she needs clarification. How she anticipates problems before they become problems—flagging the vendor delay three days before it would have impacted production, rerouting the scheduling conflict I didn't even know existed. How much quieter the office feels when she's here. Ordered. Functional.
I've always valued competence. I built an empire on it.
That's why I hired Lindsay in the first place. Her resume was impeccable—executive assistant to a VP at Harmon & Cross, flawless references, a crisis-management portfolio that would make most project managers weep.
I interviewed her for thirty minutes and offered her the position before she left the building.
I never expected her smile to become one of the small joys of my workday.
But as her boss, I can't cross that line. I've never allowed myself to examine the thought too closely.
