Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 99(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 99(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
There’s movement—a shadow, big and broad, crossing behind the frosted glass. For a split second, my brain short-circuits. Holy crap, is someone breaking in? My heart practically punches a hole through my ribs as the snuffling and scrabbling get louder, and then—
A deep voice, cuts through the silence. “What have you gotten into, angel baby?”
I’m suddenly wide awake, hair standing up on my neck. Oh my God, it must be Detective Vale.
The doorknob jiggles. There’s a thunk as the mop handle falls. The door swings open.
Holy freaking cow. The gorgeous giant standing in the doorway is way the heck hotter than what I imagined he would look like. He’s huge. Like, takes-up-the-whole-doorway huge. Six foot something, with broad shoulders that fill out a suit like he was born wearing one. Way the heck hotter than my overactive imagination came up with.
His hair is dark, perfectly cut, with little streaks of silver at the temples that somehow make him look even more intense. His eyes are dark brown and sharp as hell, and he’s got a serious, no-nonsense expression that says he’s probably seen some things normal people only read about in murder mysteries.
There’s a scar just above one eyebrow. It should make him look scary, but instead, it just makes him hotter, a little more dangerous. Dark-stubble covers his square jaw, and his whole vibe screams I’m-in-control.
Honestly? He looks like trouble in a three-piece suit, or the kind of man who makes bad decisions feel like the best idea you've ever had. His presence fills the bathroom, and my heart is hammering so hard I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. One look from those coffee-dark eyes and girly parts are awake and singing. Kinda like the Frenchie who’s chanting the song of her people from the doorway.
CHAPTER TWO
JACK
There’s a strange silence in my apartment when I get home, which means one of two things: either Pepper is plotting a coup, or she’s already succeeded.
I do a sweep, keys in one hand, case file under my arm, ready for whatever disaster Pepper’s cooked up in my absence. The Frenchie is silent. Not a good sign. The kitchen is pristine, fridge re-stocked, notes from the cleaner propped against the Frenchie-shaped magnet I still can’t believe my brother bought me as a housewarming gift. I look around, noticing everything is where it should be. The counters sparkle, my coffee cup from this morning is washed and hanging on the cup rack near the coffeemaker. Nothing is out of place, but I sense something is off.
Pepper. My dog, my shadow, is nowhere.
I move to the bedroom, loosening my tie, expecting to find her burrowed under the duvet like always. Instead, she’s perched on the bed with her eyes fixed on the bathroom door. She looks guilty. Not her regular “I just ate your one of your favorite shoes” guilty, but “I really did it this time” guilty. I sigh. “What have you gotten into, angel baby?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, obviously, but she does thump her tail and turn her whole potato body away from me, ears flat. Defensive.
That’s when I notice the mop handle, jammed under the lever of the bathroom door. I frown, approach, and see it’s wedged perfectly. Like someone—or something—pushed it nice and tight under the handle.
I un-wedge the mop and turn the handle, then push the door open.
As I step inside the bathroom, every molecule in my body contracts, then explodes outward as I notice the stunning brunette sitting next to my tub.
In that microsecond, I know three things: one, Poppy’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and two, the mystery woman I’ve been lusting after from afar is the woman who’s been cleaning my house for months, and three, Pepper outdid herself with this stunt. I’m not sure if I should fuss at my spoiled pup or thank her for forcing this meeting between me and my secret crush who happens to be my cleaning lady.
While my spoiled dog whimpers and whines her apologies from the doorway, her stubby black tail tucked between her legs, I step inside the gleaming white bathroom to check on Pepper's prisoner. The scent of lemon cleaner mixed with a little hint of vanilla and lavender hangs in the air.
The woman blinks up at me from her spot on the cool tile floor, those wide chocolate eyes assessing me from beneath a tangle of dark brown curls. "Uh. Hi." Her voice is soft, husky—nothing like I imagined during our months of back-and-forth texts.
My mind whirls with a thousand questions, my pulse hammering in my throat, but I prioritize the most important. "Are you okay?"
Her full lips twitch, like she's fighting off a smirk, a dimple threatening to appear in her left cheek. "I was, until your dog locked me in the bathroom."