Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
He stares down at me, silent, those wild blue-gray eyes locked on mine, and somehow it makes everything worse. Or better? Either way, my brain just… fizzles out. I can’t remember how words work. I can’t remember why I came here. All I know is I want him gripping me everywhere, pinning me in place, making me his.
The silence is so thick you could slice it and serve it with a side of potatoes. I shift my weight, aware of every awkward second. I try to remember what the agency told me about this job. I reread the freaking email they sent at least a hundred times, making sure I had everything down.
“You’re early.” His voice is deep and rough. He releases my hand, and I expel the breath I’ve been holding in a rush. “I didn’t expect you until dinner time.”
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not. “I wanted to get here in time to unpack before I start tomorrow morning.”
He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. “You can call me Rogan.” The movement is abrupt, like he’s not used to making space for other people. I step over the threshold, and he lets the door fall shut with a soft thud.
Inside, the air smells like lemon oil and old wood. The entryway is spotless, the hardwood scrubbed clean and polished so well that it could double as a mirror. Wow. I don’t see where he even needs a housekeeper.
He stalks ahead of me down the hall, saying nothing, and I scramble to keep up. He doesn’t look back.
At the end of the hallway, he stops, then turns so suddenly I nearly run right into him. His eyes flick down to mine. “You can take the bedroom on the ground floor. Last door on the right. Unpack and get settled in. I’ll have instructions for you to get started tomorrow morning.”
I nod, trying to look like I’m more confident than I’m feeling. “Thank you, Rogan.”
“You’re welcome to eat anything you find in the kitchen. If you need any supplies, make a list and one of the ranch hands will get it for you. You can explore the house all you want. The closed door to the left of the living room is my office. It’s the only room in the house that’s off limits to you,” he grunts out in a rush. Then he’s gone, disappearing into a side room and closing the door behind him. The silence boomerangs back, stronger than before.
For a split-second, I wonder if I should bail. It’s not too late to hop back in the car, call the agency, and tell them it’s a no-go. The urge is so strong I almost act on it, but instead, I let out a laugh that sounds more like a cough.
Get it together, Spencer. This is what you wanted. You left the city for a fresh start. You already knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
I head straight for my room, not stopping or even slowing down, and when I get there, I find it small—but honestly, it’s pretty. Not at all what I expected. Instead, it’s crazily homey with soft, creamy yellow walls and old oak floors. There’s a bed with a hand-stitched quilt and deep pillows just daring me to face-plant right now.
A little desk hugs the window, battered but solid, with actual writing paper stacked in a neat block and a mug holding a bouquet of mismatched pens. The window itself is… huge. Practically a view-finder for the whole ranch. I can see rolling hills, wide-open sky, and cattle like brown freckles against gold grass.
I park myself on the edge of the bed and let the weight of it all settle in. The nervousness, the embarrassment, the creeping suspicion that I’ve made a gigantic, irrevocable mistake. Then I remember the look in Rogan’s eyes when he shook my hand, and for some reason, the memory makes my stomach feel like it’s filled with a thousand butterflies. This is absolutely not the feeling I want to have about my new employer.
There’s work to do. I need to bring in my stuff, stake out the kitchen, and maybe do a recon mission for coffee. I could sit here all day, daydreaming about Rogan, but I have things to do.
I get up, smooth my hair, and set out to unpack the car. The door to Rogan’s office is closed tight, and I hear no sound from the porch. The house is all mine, at least for now.
I don’t even make it to the car before a tall cowboy comes strolling across the driveway. He’s older, maybe late 40s? Early 50s? But there’s a warmth in his smile that just sucker-punches any nerves I have left.
“Afternoon, ma’am. You must be the new housekeeper,” he drawls, stopping just short of my bumper. “I’m Stan, the ranch’s chaos wrangler.” His grin is pure mischief, and I swear his eyes twinkle.