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)
“Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand, and he takes it. And I feel absolutely nothing. No zing, no electricity, no nothing. Darn. That means it only happens with my new surly, grouchy boss. “Please call me Sierra.” I manage to smile at him.
“Need a little help unloading your stuff?” Stan offers.
“That would be awesome.” I smile at him and pop open my trunk.
It only takes us two trips to load up my new room with boxes and the laundry basket. “Do you live in the bunkhouse?” I ask Stan as we drop off the last load.
“No, I have a little house on the edge of the property with my wife,” he explains, and I search my memory of the agency email that had a list of other ranch employees. “Marianne’s the ranch secretary.” Ah-hah. Now, I remember them. “She’ll stop by to meet you tomorrow,” he tells me as he heads out the door. “If you need anything in the meantime, there’s a list of numbers by the kitchen phone. Just give us a call.”
“Thank you so much.” He gives me a little wave and disappears around the corner.
By the time the sun drops below the windmill, I’ve staked my claim with books on the nightstand, clothes put away in the closet, and a little glass cactus on the windowsill to catch the morning light. I look around, hands on my hips, and feel more settled than I’ve been in a long time. Now, I just have to find a way to deal with my crazy feelings for my new boss.
Let the adventures begin.
CHAPTER TWO
ROGAN
I slam my office door so hard the picture on the wall next to it rattles. For a full five seconds, I stand frozen, pulse beating behind my eyes like I just ran a quarter mile flat-out.
Goddamnit.
I curse as I trip over the oriental rug. The air in my office feels too thick, and I yank open the top button on my shirt, fingers catching twice on the fabric, and drag my palm across my forehead. Sweat. Actual, honest-to-God sweat, and not because of the heat. Oh no. The cause of my discomfort is currently unpacking her goddamn things and moving into my house. Fucking hell.
This is bullshit. I run a forty-thousand-acre operation and keep three dozen hands from burning the place down every goddamn day. I negotiate contracts worth more than most people’s houses without breaking a sweat. Nothing rattles me.
Except, apparently, a five-foot-something woman with curls the color of molasses and a smile that could light up the darkest room.
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.