That’s when my thoughts run wild.
During everything that was happening, I managed to take a mental photograph of him. The flecks in his eyes, a small brown freckle near the corner of his mouth that sinks into a dimple I never noticed before because I’ve always had to force myself not to stare for too long. The intoxicating way he smells like chocolate and cedar, and the rough way his face feels after a daywithout shaving, even his calloused hands from fighting. Then there’s that fresh cut that will eventually become a scar. I mean fuck.
My hands clasp on my head. “Holy fuck.”
What was I thinking?
I don’t do one-night stands. Ever.
And yet…
Damn.
Chapter 6
Mila
Dominic Wolfe’shouse is the focal point on Chamberlain Street, and it’s already a winding road of sprawling beachfront mansions outside of Beverly Hills.
When he first gave me access, the security guy looked at me like I was a criminal who had just swum to shore from Alcatraz.
I knew it was a ritzy neighborhood, but it wasn’t until I was driving to Dominic’s house one morning that I swore I saw Lady Gaga. She was getting her mail, and then I realized just how elite the neighborhood was.
Nothing is more awkward than driving down that street in a beat-up 1990 Jeep Grand Wagoneer, complete with wood paneling and yellow interior.
I looked like the living dead too because I’d only had about two hours of sleep. Nothing except walking into Dominic Wolfe’s house, praying he doesn’t recognize you as the girl he fucked last night.
Honestly, I had to pinch myself this morning just to be sure that it really happened. Not that I needed to, because I have a giantpurple hickey on the base of my neck to prove last night really happened.
That’s part of the reason I am late this morning. I spent the better part of an hour at CVS trying to find a foundation that will actually cover up this monster hickey. Forty-two dollars later, I just look like I fell asleep on my side in a tanning bed and forgot to roll over.
The moment I walk into the kitchen, my shoulders slump in dread.
It smells like coffee. It shouldn’t smell like coffee until I get here because I am the one who is supposed to make the coffee. I am supposed to walk into his house at 7:00 am on the dot, and he is supposed to walk down the hall at 7:05 am to grab his coffee. After he has his coffee, he gives me a rundown of any extra tasks needing to be completed that day.
He is concise, direct, and never makes eye contact.
Then, he disappears into his office for the better part of the day.
This morning he had to make his own coffee… because I was late.
Dominic Wolfe, CEO of Bad Wolfe Security Solutions, is probably mad about it too.
“You’re late,” I hear him say from the doorway of his office as I set my things down on a chair.
I rest my case.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolfe. I was out late last night,” I say as I force eye contact.
He rarely looks at me, much less speaks to me. That was part of the agreement when he hired me.
He wanted a housekeeper, a maid, someone to take care of his home while he worked.
My job includes cleaning, meal preparation, running errands, and doing laundry. Picking up his suits at the dry-cleaners on time is very important to him.
He runs a massive security company for the elitists of the world, which is a round-the-clock job. The last thing he wants to worry about is whether he’s reaching his protein intake for the day or if his suits are properly pressed.
“You are late to work because you were out late last night partying,” he repeats the details of the situation, but some of those details aren’t quite right.
