Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
As I said, the pay and hours are good, and I don’t mind cleaning. Besides, I’ve been lucky. The majority of my assignments to date haven’t been too bad. Some dusting, laundry, cooking, a few errands here and there, sweeping, and mopping, the basics, and the houses are never that bad. I can’t imagine Foster’s will be either, since I’m coming three days a week. It seems excessive, but Tiffany said he was a dream to work for and assured me I would think so, too.
Ten short minutes later, which feels as if one has barely passed, I’m pulling into the driveway of his condo. I have no way of knowing if he’s home until I go inside, and I can’t sit out here all day like a creeper. I have a job to do.
Once I’m out of the car, I make my way to the front door. I turn the unlocked handle and step inside. Foster is standing at the kitchen island in nothing but a pair of sweats. His toned, tanned torso is on full display, and I swallow hard. I can’t be lusting after my pseudo-employer.
Did I mention the gray sweats?
I open my mouth to speak, but my voice is frozen. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Good morning, Mr. Vaughn,” I call out as I slip off my outdoor shoes, leaving them by the door and moving to the couch to change into my indoor-only shoes. Thankfully, the agency I work for provides everything we need.
“Morning,” he says gruffly.
“Would you like me to make you some breakfast?” I ask as he takes a long pull from his bottle of water. I might be watching the way his throat bobs with each drink. Maybe… possibly, but when he starts to speak, I quickly pull my gaze back to his eyes.
“You don’t have to do that. I can manage.” His voice is gruff, as if he just woke up.
I look around the house, which appears spotless, just as it was when I left on Wednesday evening. “I don’t mind,” I tell him, my eyes going back to his.
“Have you eaten breakfast?” he asks.
“Oh, um, I’m fine. I’m not much of a breakfast eater.” It’s true. Growing up in foster care, I was always on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, and my belly was always in knots each morning, wondering if that was the day I was getting moved to a new family. I guess the habit of skipping breakfast has just stuck with me.
He studies me, looking for the truth behind my words. Eventually, he nods. “I’m going to the gym.” He finishes off his bottle of water and tosses it into the recycling bin.
“Right. Okay. Is there anything you need me to focus on today?” I have my list, but you never know when something else might need some extra attention, so I always like to ask.
His gaze penetrates, as if he’s peering into my soul. “Just the usual,” he says, walking toward the stairs.
“What about lunch or dinner? Can I make anything for you?” I ask as I plan my day in my head.
He shrugs. “Sure, if you have time. Tiffany just did her thing, and if there was time left over, she would cook and sometimes bake.”
“Do you eat baked goods?” I ask, and I can hear the surprise in my tone. Because from the looks of him, the man eats grilled chicken and green beans, with a side of water. He’s ripped, and I can’t imagine baked goods fit into that regimen.
He chuckles. “I do, but I don’t live off them like my friend Landry. Reid gives Landry a run for his money, but those two, they’ll eat you out of house and home if you let them.”
“Are they your teammates?”
He tilts his head to the side, studying me, as if trying to decide whether I’m joking or testing him. “Do you really not know?”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t know who you were until I got here on Wednesday and saw all the football stuff.” I gesture toward the hallway where his office is. Heat creeps up my neck.
Another long look follows. His brown eyes give nothing away. No surprise, no amusement, not even annoyance. Just a quiet, measuring calm that makes me suddenly aware of how uncomfortable the silence is. The air stretches between us, thick with something unspoken, and for a split second, I wonder if I’ve crossed an invisible line without realizing it.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he finally says, before turning and taking the stairs two at a time.
Huffing out a breath, I relax my shoulders. I don’t know why I’m so uptight around him. I’ve worked on assignments for famous musicians, athletes, models, songwriters, you name it. Foster Vaughn is the first ever to make me nervous.