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)
Stan
On it. Anything else?
Me
Not right now.
I lock the screen and throw the phone onto the pile of paperwork I’ve been meaning to file away. It bounces once, landing screen-down. My chest still feels tight. I sink into the leather desk chair and press my fists into my thighs. If I squeeze hard enough, maybe I’ll be able to focus. Maybe I’ll stop replaying every second of that handshake in high-def, or the way her caramel-colored eyes caught the afternoon light.
There’s another buzz from the phone, and I reach for it.
Stan
Her stuff is inside. She doesn’t seem like the fussy type. You want me to show her around, or wait for you?
I scowl at the message. Fuck. I want to be the one to show her around, but I don’t know how that’ll work since my brain and mouth seem unable to communicate anytime she’s around.
Me
Give her tonight to settle into her room. You can give her the full tour later. Make sure she’s got what she needs.
Stan
Roger that, Boss.
I toss the phone onto the desk again, a little less forcefully this time. My hand drifts to my collar, still damp, and I scrub at it with the back of my knuckles. I feel raw, like my nerves are sunburned.
This is temporary. I’ll get used to her. I just need to keep it professional until I figure out what she’s doing to me. Simple. A job is a job, and I’m the boss.
So why the hell can’t I breathe when I think about seeing her again?
I lean back, tip my head to the ceiling. The antique light fixture casts a shadow that looks like a lasso loop. If I had any sense, I’d arrange for another housekeeper and forget all about Sierra Spencer. But for some reason, the thought of her leaving sends panic coursing through my soul.
I imagine her, right now, settling into the downstairs guest room, arranging whatever she brought.
I reach for the bottle of water on my desk and unscrew the cap, draining half of it in one go. The coolness barely makes a dent in the fire burning deep in my gut.
How the fuck am I going to handle this fucked up situation? I stare at the ceiling, mind spinning like someone cranked up the speed on a shitty reality show rerun. Every time I picture her unpacking in the guest room, every time I imagine those soft curves bending over a suitcase or tucking something into a dresser drawer, I get all hot and off-balance again. My cock is hard as a rock. I tell the fucker it isn’t happening. I don’t have the time to deal with a relationship, no matter how goddamn gorgeous Sierra Spencer is.
But I’m also not a complete idiot. There’s no way in hell I’m talking to Sierra face-to-face right now. Not if I want to keep even a scrap of dignity. I need a plan. Something foolproof. Professional. Something that totally avoids me having to open my idiot mouth and fail at basic communication.
That’s it. Notes. Sticky notes. I’ll write out what she needs to do, stick ‘em where she can’t miss them, and keep my distance. No awkward small talk, no more embarrassing myself with my Neanderthal routine. Just tidy yellow squares and instructions, like a perfectly controlled operation.
I grab a notepad and start scribbling out instructions. Monday’s chores. Tuesday’s list. I list every task, careful and precise, barely pausing for breath. My handwriting’s a mess, big and blocky, but she’ll get the point. I just need to avoid any more face-to-face interaction until my brain wakes the fuck up and decides to function again.
Once I’m finished with my pile of notes, I head to the kitchen and stick them on the center island. Mission accomplished.
I pivot on my heel, striding straight down the damn hallway. My boots barely make a sound on the polished boards, and my chest beats out of control the whole time. The house is dark, really quiet, except for the old bones of it creaking in the wind. When I get close to her room, I can’t resist the urge to stop.
Her door is shut, but light glows from the crack beneath it, golden and soft. I breathe in, real careful, and there it is. That delicate, sweet floral scent. Warm sugar and wildflowers. Fuck. It hits me so hard my cock jerks under my jeans, thick and pulsing, straining against the zipper like I’m some hormone-ridden teenager instead of a grown-ass man.
I want to knock. I want to open that door and see her, maybe run my fingers through those wild curls, feel the heat of her body against mine. I imagine her in there, stripping out of those tight jeans, curvy hips wiggling, and my mouth goes dry. Fucking hell. I’m acting like a goddamn stalker.