Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
I shove the car door open, and heat just wallops me right between the eyes. Not subtle at all. My curls immediately revolt, springing out of the halfhearted bun.
“Home sweet home, at least for the next six months,” I mutter to myself, trying to find the nerve to walk up to the massive home. If things work out, I might extend the contract, but right now, that’s a huge if.
My shoes crunch on gravel as I cross the driveway. There’s no sign of movement from the house, no curtains twitching or shadows behind the glass. For a second, I wonder if I’ve got the wrong address, or the wrong day, but then I spot a set of muddy boot prints on the porch steps. I square my shoulders, replay my mental pep talk, and mount the steps.
This is my one shot. Six months at Stone Hawke Ranch and I can finally afford my own apartment, no more rotating roommates or scrimping together my rent. I can start over.
The porch is cooler with shade and a light breeze blowing through. I lift my hand to knock, then freeze. Do I do three taps? Two? Is there a secret ranch rhythm? I go with three, hoping it comes off as confident but not aggressive. The sound echoes like a starter pistol.
Nothing.
I wait, counting heartbeats.
My reflection wobbles in the glass pane of the door, so I paste on a bland, approachable smile. The door swings open before I can chicken out.
The man who greets me is a wall of muscle, six and a half feet of it, filling the entire doorway and banishing the pale light from the space behind him. There’s nothing soft or yielding about him. He’s pure, sculpted strength with dark hair falling over a chiseled brow. His jaw is square and covered with a five o’clock shadow, and his cold blue-gray eyes both pin me in place and strip me bare at the same time. I blink, thrown by the reality of him. All my expectations scatter. I’d pictured someone softening at the edges, maybe a retiree with a plaid shirt and a belly stretching the buttons. You know a granddad type, cranky about the weather, ready to grumble over the rising price of gas and the state of the world. But this man? He’s nothing like that. He’s solid, intimidating, every inch of him a challenge I feel in my bones.
“Hi,” I manage. The hot Texas afternoon isn’t the only reason I’m sweating.
He stares at me with a completely blank expression in his eyes while the skin over his high cheekbones turns bright tomato. In fact, the red spreads all the way to his ears. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again. No sound comes out. I wait, heart jackhammering, the silence stretching weird and thick. He just stands there. Staring. His eyes are a chilly blue-gray and sharp as steel. Suddenly, a flicker of something raw and wild flashes through his eyes and pins me to the spot.
My mouth goes dry as I stare up at him. He clears his throat, finally. The sound is low and sandpapery, almost a growl. For a split-second, he glances around. Then he meets my gaze again, and the burn is back, hotter this time, like I could just combust standing right here. My knees actually wobble.
Holy hell. He’s freaking gorgeous. I have no idea how I’m going to work here without lusting after my new boss. Wow. Awesome start, Sierra.
I yank my best semi-professional smile back into place. “I’m Sierra Spencer. The new housekeeper? From Houston?” I hold out my hand to him, and he just stares at it. God, I hope this job offer wasn’t some kind of stupid catfishing scam. I don’t even have enough money to get myself back to Houston.
He keeps staring, and I keep sweating. For a moment, I think he hasn’t heard me, but then his brow furrows and his lips part, as if he’s about to say something. He doesn’t. He just stands there.
I go into autopilot. “If this is a bad time, I can—”
He shakes his head, a sharp no, but still doesn’t speak. He takes my hand, and I barely swallow the gasp that travels up my throat when our palms touch. He’s got a grip like a vise. Hot. Rough. Swallows my hand in his like it’s nothing. Sparks hit my skin and shoot straight up my arm, all the way through my chest, down my stomach, melting everything in between. I can literally feel my insides liquefying. My heart’s drumming so hard I’m positive it might beat out of my chest. My cheeks turn bright red, and I’m honestly amazed I don’t just melt into a puddle on the spot.
One brush of his thumb across my knuckles has my entire body lighting up, every nerve ending on high alert and screaming, Yes, please, more of that. My thighs squeeze together, and a wild, traitorous heat blooms between them. All the way south, my lady bits throb from the heated look in his eyes.