CHAPTER ONE
JENNIFER
The gravel crunches under my tires as I pull up to the cabin. Calling it a cabin feels wrong, though. This place is massive, all glass and redwood and modern lines that somehow blend into the forest around it perfectly. The kind of place rich people rent when they want to “get away from it all” but still need heated floors, a wine fridge, and a housekeeping service. Which is where I come in.
I grab my cleaning supplies from the trunk, my stomach doing nervous flips. Mrs. Avery said the guest was some big tech guy from the city, here for a month to recover from stress or a health scare or something. She joked about his job being killer and we both had a chuckle over that one, isn’t work killing us all? Otherwise she was her normal vague self on the details of the guest and the job, just said he needed someone to come in daily to clean and cook meals, to stay out of his way, and that he was paying double my usual rate.
Double. I'm not about to ask questions, especially not when I need the money.
I snort. When don’t I need money? There never seems to be enough of it, and something always comes up to wipe out whatever small amount I manage to save from week to week. This living paycheck to paycheck stuff stinks, and sadly I don’tsee myself ever getting ahead. Unless I get more of these double-salary jobs, that is. Or bite the bullet and get a second job.
The front door is unlocked, like Mrs. Avery promised. I knock anyway, calling out, “Hello? It's Jennifer from the housekeeping service.”
No answer.
I step inside, and my breath catches like it always does when I enter what is definitely the penthouse version of a cabin. Floor to ceiling windows overlook the vibrant blue lake in what is probably a million-dollar view, and warm morning sunlight streams across the golden hardwood floors. Everything is sleek and expensive looking, from the black leather furniture to the muted art on the walls. I set my supply caddy down carefully, afraid I'll scratch something that costs more than my car.
That's when I hear his voice, sharp and irritated.
“No, that's not what I said. Listen to me...”
I follow the sound to the open-concept kitchen. He's pacing in front of the marble countertop island, phone pressed to his ear, laptop open on the counter displaying what looks like spreadsheets and charts. His other hand is raking through his short dark hair, which should make it look a mess but instead it looks artfully windswept.
He's tall. Really tall. And handsome in that clean-cut, expensive and classy way that makes me think of Wall Street traders and fancy country clubs. Dark hair, a strong jaw, and the kind of build that screams genetically blessed. He's wearing a gray T-shirt and dark jeans, both probably designer even though they look casual.
His eyes flick to me. Light blue, almost startling against his dark hair and pale skin. He holds up a finger to acknowledge me and turns back to his call.
“I don't care what the timeline was. Make it happen,” he growls.
I hover awkwardly, not sure if I should start cleaning or wait until he's done. Mrs. Avery said he was here to rest, but he doesn't look or sound restful. He looks wound tight, like a spring about to snap, and I’d hate to be in the way when that happens.
He ends the call with a curt goodbye and immediately goes to his laptop, fingers flying over the keys.
I clear my throat softly. “Hi, I'm Jennifer. I'll be coming in daily to clean and cook for you while you're here.”
“Great. Thank you.” He doesn't look up from the screen.
I bite my lip, watching him type furiously. His jaw is clenched, with a muscle ticking there. Strangely, I feel the need to run my finger along his jaw and see if I can get that tense fluttering to go away. I take a step toward him to do just that when, thankfully, a bit of sanity prevails and stops me in my tracks before I do something stupid like touching him. Gorgeous man or not, he’s someone important and I’m just the lowly help.
Shoving my hands in my jean’s pockets, I ask, “Um, can I get you anything? Coffee? Breakfast?”
“Coffee would be good.”
I move to the fancy espresso machine, trying to remember which buttons to press while also wondering if he should really be drinking this if he’s having health issues. Since I’m not his wife or doctor, I shrug and press a random button. Behind me, his phone rings again. He answers with another sharp, “What now?”
The coffee machine hisses and whirs. I manage to make something that looks like espresso, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. I set the cup next to his laptop.
“Thank you,” he says, still not looking at me.
I should just start cleaning and leave him alone. That's what he's paying me for. But something about the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps rubbing his temple, makes me worried.
“Should you be on that?” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I thought you were here to rest. That's what Mrs. Avery said.”
His head snaps up. Those light blue eyes pin me in place, and they're cold now. Irritated. “I don't need a nursemaid. Just someone to clean, cook, and stay the hell out of my way. Can you do that?”
The words hit like a slap. My cheeks flush hot, embarrassment and hurt flooding through me. “Yes, sir,” I whisper.
I turn on my heel and scurry back to the living area where I left my supplies. My hands shake slightly as I pull out the microfiber cloths and furniture polish. Stupid. So stupid of me to insert myself where I don't belong. He's right. I'm here to clean and cook, not mother him or tell him what to do.
