Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
The pool house is different.
It doesn’t feel like mine either, but since Warrick said it was fine to hang whatever I wanted on the walls and add whatever touches I saw fit, that’s how I spent my free hours this past week.
I’ve never been a routine-oriented person. I don’t need order to function. Chaos and anarchy aren’t fun either, but there’s a sweet spot somewhere in the middle, and if I can fall into that, then it’s golden.
Warrick doesn’t seem to have a routine either. I mean, he works, and that’s a constant in his life, but he doesn’t leave at the same time every morning, and he certainly doesn’t get home at any set hour.
Now that he’s back, my sort of routine is to keep out of his hair in the mornings so I don’t throw off his pre-work mojo. Once he’s gone, I head in and start ticking items off the mental list of tasks that I draw out for myself every day.
I always start in the kitchen, cleaning and tidying, and from there, I move in a rotation. From the living room to the weird room that is mostly windows, which overlooks the backyard and seems to be for nothing more than storing incredibly expensive-looking furniture and plants. And then, I pick the rooms that look like they need the most cleaning.
The guest rooms only need to be dusted every so often. I do them once every three days or so. Warrick has a home office, and since the door is never locked, I do quick dusting and tidying in there and usually head to the stairs. Metal and glass are magnets for fingerprints, so a good half hour is generally spent erasing all traces of inhabitation.
So far, I haven’t broken anything, messed anything up, or moved anything such that Warrick has to ask me where it is. In the plant room—sunroom?—place, I feel like I’ve accomplished a huge milestone by not killing the greenery in there. I know nothing about plants, but there are plenty of apps out there, and they’ve told me pretty much everything I needed to know to avoid becoming a plant murderer. Who knew you had to water some with distilled water or that others are finicky about soil and fertilizer? Right, probably everyone but me.
I’ve been too squeamish to touch Warrick’s room. Generally, the door has been shut, and I’d feel like a snoop going in there. The other area of the house that seems to be blatantly off limits to me is the garage, and not because it’s locked or because Warrick has said so, but because I don’t think I should be farging around in there next to cars that cost more than most people’s dream house, along with his crazy expensive robotics project. I also know the house has a basement. The door at the back of the kitchen can only lead down there, I’ve decided, but it’s always locked.
Down there, Warrick is probably guarding a man cave full of expensive sports crap, guitars on the wall, a massive TV, and a ton of stereo equipment that all scream alert, alert, expensive. DO NOT DUST AND NEVER APPLY CHEMICALS OF ANY KIND. Back away. Slowly. Carefully. And never, ever return.
On my first day, Warrick showed me where he’d hang the clothes that needed to be dry cleaned—conveniently and thoughtfully by the front door. Thus far, there’s been no need to go into his room to get them or for any other reason.
Today, after cleaning the kitchen and the living room and scrubbing the stairs until the glass inserts and the metal railing shone, I decided that a few of the guest rooms could use some light dusting. When I reached the end of the hall, I realized Warrick’s door was open.
I pause, hesitant, but tell myself I’m being ridiculous. I’m not a stage-five creeper. This is my job. He probably left it open for me as a not-so-subtle nod that goes something along the lines of oh, for the love of giant pumpkins, please take the hint and clean me! I grin like a loon as a mental image of a filthy car with that saying finger-scrawled across the back window pops into my head.
The room has large windows, but I switch on the light anyway. It’s not fancy. Warrick isn’t a maximalist. He’s gone with functional pieces that aren’t personal. Things like square dressers and a huge bed that can be in any five-star hotel room. The house is mostly hardwood, which intimidated me before I watched a few videos on how to properly clean and care for it, with the exception of the tiles at the entrances.
The room is neat, the bed made. It’s very hotel-inspired indeed, with the fluffy down duvet, matching sleek grey nightstands, and two chrome lamps with black shades.