Lucky grins at me. “Never let it be said nature doesn’t rule over nurture.”
And there I go, getting misty-eyed once more.
If I had to pick surprise brothers, I’d pick these three.
But I don’t have to pick.
I just get them.
And hopefully, they’ll still pick me back when they know who I am.
12
WOOD AND OTHER WOOD
Margot
My body is so fuckingtired.
It’s a good thing Cyril’s following me as I leave work on Thursday, because I’m so exhausted that I shouldn’t be driving this van.
I don’t get it.
I’m up late all the time in Manhattan. I work out five days a week and use a treadmill desk in my office. I regularly have a glass or two of wine, and I only had a single margarita last night—a light one at that—with the Chex Mix and other appetizers at the speakeasy.
But today—oh my god.
I make it to the cabin, then to my bedroom, and that’s where I faceplant.
The next thing I know, it’s almost seven, and there’s a regular thumping outside my window.
I roll to my side and stifle a grunt as I peek out the window, noting two things at once.
First, something smells amazing.
And second, Rhys is splitting firewood.
He’s in a short-sleeved black T-shirt that’s stretched over his broad chest and thick arms, dark jeans that hug his hips and thighs, with a black ball cap on his head and scuffed brown work boots. I watch him methodically grab a piece of thick, round firewood, place it upright on a wooden chopping block, and then swing his axe to split it into smaller chunks.
The sun’s dipped low and the sky peeking through the trees is a deep orange tinged in pink. I have the best show in the universe.
What is it about watching a big, bulky, grumpy man split a chunk of wood into smaller pieces that has my clit humming and my breasts tingling?
Competence porn, my brain answers for me.
Rhys might have taken every opportunity to subtly barb me about knowing my real identity last night, but he was also watching the door every time someone came in, and all day at work today, he showed up right when I needed a hand, either because a guest was getting too comfortable—like robe-and-towel guy in chalet three—or when I needed to move a piece of furniture to clean a spill on the carpet, or when I needed a task to escape being part of the photos my boss wanted to use on socials of the staff for staff appreciation day.
In some ways, him knowing my real identity is incredibly helpful.
He also helped me locate Mrs. Pinsley’s water bottle, which she’d left in the dining room at breakfast, and he pretended he didn’t hear one of my fellow housekeepers calling him a stud as he helped move tables for a workshop for a small group of children’s book authors.
He's good at his job too.
And that’s also attractive.
But not as attractive as this brute show of force as he splits firewood like it’s warm butter.
I absently rub one of my breasts as I lean closer to the window.
