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)
Except I spent all of last night tossing and turning, telling myself exactly that. You’re here for the work, Sierra. Not for the tall, grumpy, hotter-than-hell rancher who can barely look you in the eye. Ignore the way he fills up a doorway like some kind of cowboy superhero. Ignore the way his voice goes low and rough when he actually says words. Focus on the job. Focus on the money. Six months of hard work, then maybe I can get my own place and stop worrying about my next rent payment.
New start. New plan. No distractions.
But my body doesn’t get the memo. Because the second I think about him, my pulse kicks up, and I one hundred percent remember that insane handshake, like my body still hasn’t recovered. I take a breath. Then another. I tell myself, with absolutely no conviction, that it doesn’t matter. Rogan Hawke is my boss. End of story.
I just have to act like it.
Down the hall, the house is still quiet. If Rogan is awake, he’s giving no sign. I creep past the closed door of his office and half-expect it to open, maybe with him standing there, glowering and shirtless, because apparently my brain likes to act like it’s twelve years old and has already decided to make my life awkward. I shake off the fantasy and head for the kitchen.
The kitchen is massive. There’s a sprawling island, an industrial-sized fridge, and fancy cabinets lining all the walls. I do a quick lap, just to admire, then stop cold. There, right in the middle of the kitchen island, is a stack of sticky notes the color of neon puke.
On the first one, in blocky all-caps, my new boss has written:
That’s good to know. At least I don’t have to worry about him breathing down my neck while I work. Or sitting across from him while I try to choke down food.
I turn over the next sticky note and find it’s actually instructions:
Ask who? I wonder to myself. Oh well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I grab the next note and see his “detailed instructions” include a very intricate drawing that either depicts a folded pair of underwear or a deformed bat.
I blink several times and move on to the next note:
I mentally roll my eyes and move on to the next note, finding instructions for Wednesday. Since it looks like he has very strict instructions, I take out my phone and snap pictures of all the notes, then I toss them in the trash.
So, this is how it’s going to be. I’d kind of imagined my new boss would, you know, discuss his expectations over coffee, or at least grunt in my general direction. Instead, I get passive-aggressive notes like we’re in freaking grade school.
I check the clock over the stove and see it’s six-twenty-five. If this is the way things are going to go for the next six months, this job is going to be the easiest job in history. It’s also going to be boring, so I decide I’ll need to invest in a few eBooks to make the time fly.
After grabbing a protein bar for breakfast, I decide to explore my new surroundings. Screw it. No point in waiting around for Mr. Alpha Cowboy to appear and mansplain the finer points of house cleaning. I’m on my own.
First stop is the main living room. I push open the double doors and just stare for a second. Holy shit. It’s straight-up rich people shabby chic in here. There are three leather couches as big as king-sized beds, with fancy throw pillows, and a fireplace made out of actual river rock. The built-in shelves go all the way up to the exposed beams and are packed with vintage and modern books, old pictures, and antique figurines. I’d peg Rogan as more grunting Neanderthal than secret library nerd, but the guy is full of surprises.
I do a quick lap. The dust situation is nearly non-existent, and the floors are already clean enough to eat off of. I’m not really sure why I’m getting paid so much to clean this place, but I’ll take my sudden windfall.
I peek in the dining room, the laundry room, and a couple of random closets. Nothing too weird. I avoid his office door next to the living room since I’m not about to get fired on my first day for snooping.
I bound up the grand staircase, two steps at a time, sock-feet sliding silently as a secret on the polished wood. At the top, the hallway stretches before me, a gauntlet of old family photographs adorning the walls. Black-and-white cowboys, an old wedding portrait, and then the Hawkes. Stern men with tight lips and squared chins glare down from their frames.
I go straight down the hall, half-expecting Rogan to materialize in front of me, but there’s nothing. Just the ancient creak of floorboards under my feet and the way those Hawke family portraits follow me with their dead-eyed suspicion.