Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
He raises an eyebrow, maybe amused. “You like murder mysteries?”
“Mostly I like stories where women don’t get fridged in the first five pages.” The words just tumble out; it’s my default defense when I’m nervous. I regret it instantly, but he just nods, like I’ve passed some kind of test.
“Good. Maybe you’ll last.”
He uncrosses his arms and reaches for a rag to wipe the sweat from his neck. The motion is casual, but every line of muscle in his body shouts intention. I try not to stare at his chest, at the freckles and scars, but my eyes are traitors.
He sees. Of course he sees.
“So, Kat—” and he says my name slow, like he’s testing it for weight “—do you know what your job is here?”
I nod, smiling weakly. “Yes. Camille said it’s, uh, general assistant work. Scheduling, prepping meals, maybe some light cleaning. And proofreading, if you want. I’m good with edits.” I try to sound competent, like I have skills that could possibly matter to someone with his resume.
He moves closer. Not in a threatening way, but in the way of someone who has never once in his life been told “personal space.” I’m relatively short, but he towers over me.
“Good,” he says in a mild voice. “I like a go-getter. A girl who knows her letters.”
I smile weakly.
“Yes, I try. I’m a creative writing major at Century College in the city. Well, trying to major in it. I’m taking some time off from school at the moment.”
He nods.
“To work?”
“Yeah, I figured I could use a break,” I say, fibbing a bit. “This looked like a good opportunity.”
“That’s all well and good, and I’m glad to hear it. I think this could work out for both of us. But before we get started, I have a few rules,” he says, suddenly brisk. “Is that okay with you?”
“Sure,” I babble. “Your house, your rules, Mr. McKnight.”
His blue eyes flare a bit as he nods.
“Great. First rule: Don’t go into my office unless invited. Second: If you see me outside before sunrise, ignore me. Third: Don’t bring anyone here. Not even the agency.”
I nod, dizzy from the force of his attention.
“Fourth,” he says, “if you want to leave, you can. But you have to tell me first.”
It sounds like a threat, but I can’t tell if he means it. “Okay,” I say.
He finally pulls back, folding his arms and leaning on the kitchen island. “Questions?”
I want to ask about the scars, the tattoos, the reason someone like him needs to hire a broke college kid to make his lunch. But all I can think about is the way his body looked in motion: that tanned, bronzed skin, the rope of his arm, the hitch of his breath as he swung the axe. I think about the bulge I absolutely saw in his jeans, and the image makes my knees weak.
I clear my throat. “So, uh, do you want me to start now? Or…”
He lifts his chin, eyes all over me, and grins with an edge that could cut glass. “I want you to settle in first. Kitchen’s stocked. Your room’s at the top of the stairs. You get the west wing in my castle.”
I almost laugh at the phrase “west wing,” but muffle my giggle.
“I’ll be outside for a while,” he says, and grabs a flannel from the coat rack, slipping it over his glistening chest. “Let me know if you need anything.” The shirt does nothing to hide the mass of him. If anything, it makes it worse. He’s too big for it, the fabric stretching at the buttons.
“Sure,” I murmur. “Take your time, Mr. McKnight.”
He leaves, and I exhale so hard I get lightheaded. I sag against the counter, coffee forgotten.
My entire body is humming, my heart in my mouth. I’m not sure if I want to scream, or yell, or just follow him back outside and beg him to throw me onto the couch and ravish me.
Instead, I tiptoe upstairs, dragging my bag, and find my room. It’s enormous, with a real bed and a desk and a view of the entire clearing. There’s even a bathroom, with a tub long enough for two.
I collapse on the mattress and stare at the ceiling, breath coming fast and hot. I text Simone (“My boss is not a serial killer, but I might let him take me any way he wants”) and then throw the phone on the pillow, no longer caring about the lack of signal.
All I can see is the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel. Like I was interesting. Attractive, even. Like I was a character in one of his books, only even better.
I close my eyes and feel the pulse between my legs, the throb of want that refuses to go away.