Three Strikes and You’re Mine Read Online R.S. Grey

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Forbidden, Romance, Sports Tags Authors:
Advertisement

Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
<<<<311121314152333>95
Advertisement


I shake my head. “She’s a heavy sleeper.”

Her shoulders sag in relief and away she goes, down the hall.

Already, guilt is starting to set in. I could have handled that better.

I’ll fix it in the morning. For now, I just want to go to sleep. I head into the bathroom with my suitcase and unpack just enough to find my toothbrush and toothpaste. I’m brushing my teeth at the counter when I look down and notice a silky pink thong Chloe forgot to pack in her haste to leave the room.

It’s…cute.

Like she is.

That thought has absolutely no place in my mind, so I ignore it, finish up in the bathroom, and then leave the thong there to deal with in the morning. I tug off my shirt and pants and lie down on the bed in my boxer briefs. My last few waking moments of the day are accompanied by the scent of Chloe’s shampoo on the pillow, the smell of her clinging to the sheets.

SIX

CHLOE

Last night was so silly and funny and everyone will be laughing about it this morning. Ha ha ha. See?! I’m already laughing and not at all freaking out about the fact that I’ve irrevocably embarrassed myself in front of my new employer.

Once I made it up to the primary suite last night, I could barely sleep. My heart wouldn’t stop racing. Residual adrenaline coursed through my veins. Yesterday’s events were cut straight from a horror movie, jump scare after jump scare. First the cat, then the amiable (ha) groundskeeper, then the hunky employer. You know what? How about no one sneaks up on me anymore?! It’s really that simple!

After my encounter with Ned in the kitchen, I spent the rest of my day getting acclimated to the house, unpacking, and getting settled in. I took the bus to a nearby grocery store for some provisions and baking supplies, and then I made myself a quick dinner. When the yawning silence of the house grew too great (and too creepy), I hurried to my chosen bedroom, the one with the pretty view of the pond, and decided to turn in early.

I was dead asleep when I was jolted awake by the sound of footsteps in the hall, the taunting creak of a bedroom door opening and then closing. Then the footsteps started heading in my direction. And to be clear, it’s not my fault I assumed the worst! It’s strange being by myself in such a large house, and I’m not accustomed to utter silence. The city is never silent. I routinely go to sleep to a soothing cacophony of shouts, honks, and sirens. It’s nice.

So yes, I threw a slipper at my employer, and it collided with his face.

It’s surprisingly not my worst first impression.

I make a fool of myself rather regularly, and I’ve learned that nothing is so terrible that it can’t be fixed with food, specifically breakfast. I’m not going small. I’ve been up for almost two hours already. I have cinnamon rolls proving, a quiche Lorraine in the oven, a fresh fruit platter arranged artfully, and a carafe of coffee steaming on the counter when my employer finally strolls into the kitchen.

I’m slightly taken aback by the sight of him.

He’s not altogether…ugly.

But that’s as much as I’m willing to admit.

It won’t serve me at all to acknowledge his intimidating height, or his muscular biceps, or his distinctly handsome manly-man features. He could be a cowboy on the cover of one of Nonna’s romance books—well, sans assless chaps.

“Good morning!” I chirp with a winning smile. “Are you hungry? I’ve laid out quite the spread, and if this isn’t to your liking, I can also whip up just about anything, assuming I have the ingredients on hand. The quiche is still in the oven, but if you’re not a quiche guy, I can do an omelet, or just scrambled eggs.”

He surveys the food with a look of confusion but doesn’t immediately answer.

I thunk my hand on my head and hurry toward him. “Duh, sorry. I guess we should actually do a proper introduction. I’m Chloe Ricci, slipper assailant and your new employee. Ha! Glad to see you’ve recovered well. Hope you weren’t hoping for a mysterious tough-guy scar on your forehead because you won’t be getting one. You look good as new.”

My hand has been outstretched between us through all my chattering, but he only accepts it once I pause. His hand is comically large, but nice, warm. I wonder what he thinks of mine. Does it feel like he’s shaking hands with that Kristen Wiig character on SNL with the tiny hands?

“Luke Allen,” he says, supplying his half of the arrangement.

“Luke Allen…” I mull his name over for a second as I shake my head. “That sounds…oh right! There’s a famous baseball player with that name. That’s so funny.”


Advertisement

<<<<311121314152333>95

Advertisement