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)
I hit the end of the hallway and know, instantly, which door is his. I can smell his expensive cologne filling the hallway outside a huge set of double doors.
I hesitate for half a second, then decide I have to clean his room, so I’ll have to enter it sometime. Then I shove the door open.
Holy. Cow.
His suite is stunning. Easily four times the size of my room, maybe more. There’s a massive four-poster bed in the center, carved columns thick as my thigh, the kind of thing you could tie someone to, if you were into that. Oof. Apparently, my brain is one hundred percent into that, because I have a full-on fantasy flash of him tying me to those posts, wrists over my head. God. I really need to work on my professional thinking skills.
I swallow.
The rest of the room is filled with gorgeous antiques. There’s a dark wood dresser with an ornate mirror over it. The curtains are thick, dark gray velvet, and the windows go practically floor to ceiling, swallowing the Texas sun and spitting it back in shards of gold.
There’s a split-second where all I can do is stand there, just absorbing. The bed is perfect. Like, it’s disgustingly neat. I’m going to be hard-pressed to find anything in here to clean. The bed has corners you could bounce a quarter off of. I notice a pair of nightstands, both bare except for a single battered paperback and what looks like a cup for a mouth guard. Knowing he grinds his teeth makes him see more human and less Neanderthal. God. I’m losing my freaking mind.
I remind myself I’m here to clean, so I head for the bathroom. And find it’s spotless in there, too. Gleaming fixtures, fresh towels, a stack of soaps arranged like a display at Bath & Body Works. His toothbrush is lined up next to a gigantic bottle of aftershave. The smell hits me, sharp and masculine, and my brain immediately serves up another fantasy of Rogan, half-naked and dripping water onto the tile, wiping his big hands down his abs. I grip the counter. Get it together, Sierra, and do your job.
I roll up my sleeves, find the cleaning caddy under the sink, and set out to clean the already spotless suite.
I put my earphones in my ears and find a playlist that fits my mood. As the heavy metal blares in my ears, I grab a dust cloth and get my ass moving.
I have to admit, working in the quiet ranch house isn’t bad. In fact, it’s kinda soothing. After I finish dusting, I strip the bed and take the linens down to the laundry room across from the kitchen. This room is a housekeeper’s wet dream with two machines, side by side, each with more buttons than my first car. I load up the washer and find fancy-smelling laundry soap. Once the machine is running, I head back upstairs to clean my boss’s room.
I spend the rest of the day making sure I do everything on the list exactly as my boss demanded. His clothes are cleaned, ironed, and folded precisely. I put them away and clean the master room and bathroom until every surface sparkles.
And I’m done by lunchtime. Oof.
I end up spending the rest of the day organizing my new room and exploring the rest of the large home. Turns out, rich people’s houses are basically museums. There’s a formal sitting room with couches I’m afraid to look at too long, let alone sit on. A sunroom, flooded with light and lined with rows of succulents. A game room with a pool table and a wall of impressive trophies. I find a whole closet dedicated to holiday decorations, sorted by season.
I check every room, open every door except the off-limits office. I find a sewing room, stocked with fabric and thread, plus a weirdly comforting stack of old lady romance novels. A workout room. Three spare bedrooms, each with different levels of western décor ranging from “has a single cow print pillow” to “triggering vivid flashbacks of watching Bonanza as a child.”
By the time I circle back to the kitchen, it’s barely five p.m., and I’ve already burned through my Spotify playlist and most of my motivation.
I end up spending the next hour exploring the kitchen and pantry, trying to decide what I’ll have for dinner. A little after six pm, my boss comes strolling through the back door. He comes to a dead stop when he sees me standing at the breakfast bar. The air in the room spikes about twenty degrees as he stares at me.
“Hi,” I manage to mutter as I smile at him. My heart pounds away in my chest as my lady bits wake up and sing, “Hallelujah.”
In return, he gives me a grunt that sounds kinda like a hello, and heads straight up the stairs. As a door slams upstairs, I realize this might be the most interaction I have with my new employer. Ever.