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I pace the length of my office, boots thudding against the polished hardwood floor. Every time I close my eyes, I see her standing on the porch, wearing a T-shirt that clung to her luscious tits and tight ass jeans. Her small and delicate hand reached for mine, and the handshake lingered, somehow, like she’d tattooed her name into my soul. Jesus.
I drag a hand down my face and glare at the door as the memory makes my heart ache. I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. Not even a grunt. Brilliant. Years of cultivating a reputation for being unflappable, and I went full Neanderthal when my gorgeous new housekeeper showed up.
Not just a housekeeper. A live-in housekeeper. When I agreed to have someone living in my house with me, I assumed she would be someone’s grandmother with a fondness for doilies and folk remedies. Not a fucking knockout who stole my ability to speak.
My chest tightens. I pace harder across my office.
It’s Stan’s fault. Or, more likely, Marianne’s. They’re the ones who convinced me to even have a live-in housekeeper. I never should’ve delegated the hiring process to them, but I did. I trusted them because, for the last decade, that’s been enough. No problems. No drama. Just work.
I can’t think straight, which is a new and less than amusing experience. The urge to storm over to Stan and Marianne’s place and demand answers itches at me, but I know how that’ll go. Stan will get that little crinkle around his eyes, the one that says “You’re being an idiot, but I won’t say it aloud,” and then Marianne will tell me I need to be more open to new experiences.
No. I’m handling this myself.
I cross the room and slap my phone off the charger, nearly launching it across the desk. I thumb open my messages and pull up Stan’s number.
Me
I thought we agreed to hire an older, experienced housekeeper.
I watch the bubbles, that little indicator like a ticking bomb, until it pops with Stan’s reply.
Stan
Sierra Spencer came highly recommended. She’s experienced and has great references. Is there a problem?
Of course, there’s a problem or I wouldn’t be texting him. But I’m not typing that.
Me
We’ll have to see if she can handle the job. Make yourself useful and help her unpack her car.
Stan
On it. Anything else?
Me
Not right now.
I lock the screen and throw the phone onto the pile of paperwork I’ve been meaning to file away. It bounces once, landing screen-down. My chest still feels tight. I sink into the leather desk chair and press my fists into my thighs. If I squeeze hard enough, maybe I’ll be able to focus. Maybe I’ll stop replaying every second of that handshake in high-def, or the way her caramel-colored eyes caught the afternoon light.
There’s another buzz from the phone, and I reach for it.
Stan
Her stuff is inside. She doesn’t seem like the fussy type. You want me to show her around, or wait for you?
I scowl at the message. Fuck. I want to be the one to show her around, but I don’t know how that’ll work since my brain and mouth seem unable to communicate anytime she’s around.
Me
Give her tonight to settle into her room. You can give her the full tour later. Make sure she’s got what she needs.
Stan
Roger that, Boss.
I toss the phone onto the desk again, a little less forcefully this time. My hand drifts to my collar, still damp, and I scrub at it with the back of my knuckles. I feel raw, like my nerves are sunburned.
