Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26148 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
It’s near-dark now and wind is carrying off the lake, blowing my hair around. Walking down the sidewalk past two mothers pushing strollers—which easily cost more than my rent— I gather my hair into a high ponytail and brush the travel wrinkles out of my uniform. Black skirt, sensible shoes, a white, tucked-in blouse. Not exactly comfortable clothing in which to clean houses, but the staffing agency bills itself as “cleaners to the elite.”
And this customer definitely fits the description.
I stop in front of the townhouse and whistle through my teeth.
Wow. I was half expecting it to be a fake address, but no. It’s real—and it’s spectacular.
It’s built from white limestone. Four stories high. There are flickering carriage lamps on either side of the sweeping stoop. Vines climb up the walls, veering around windows, all the way to the ornately corniced roof. This place houses a millionaire or I’m Mrs. Claus.
With a gulp, I climb the stairs and re-shoulder my bag of cleaning supplies.
Waiting for the owner of this dream house to answer, I turn and look out over the neighborhood. Kids coming from the park, couples strolling to restaurants, yoga moms huddled over to-go cups of coffee. I’d love to give my mom this kind of security. This kind of view. Our current one is an abandoned gas station.
Someday, Charlotte.
Someday.
I turn back to the door, my stomach jumping at the sound of a lock disengaging.
It’s going to be a rich widow. That’s my guess.
But no. I’m way off.
The big wooden entrance swings open to reveal a very grim, very irritated-looking Doctor Dean Fletcher. “Hello again, Miss Beck,” he says tightly.
My mouth is hanging in the approximate location of my knees. The sudden appearance of the man I’ve been fantasizing about for the last month is a shock, to be sure. I’m struck dumb by the utter masculinity of him. He’s a veritable god in the medical field. They literally refer to him as the Messiah. Patients have actually come out of anesthesia after being in his operating room and questioned whether or not they’re still alive, because they think—truly believe!—they are looking into the divine face of their maker. He’s that mighty and commanding and…disruptive to my woefully untouched female parts. “What…this is your house?” I manage, finally. How long have I been standing here gaping at him? “You’re DD?”
He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, studying me beneath his dark brows with unabashed intensity. “Yes. Doctor Dean. Once I paid upfront for a month’s worth of your services, they were happy to put whatever I wanted on the order.”
“Meaning…you left out your last name intentionally so I would actually show up.”
“Correct.” A muscle pops in his cheek. “You want to play a cat and mouse game, Charlotte, I’ll play. Contacting you through proper channels isn’t working.”
My pulse flutters wildly in my neck. It has been a month since graduation and he’s made several attempts since that initial email. As tempting as his overtures have been—opera tickets, Chanel scarves, orchids—I haven’t bitten once. “Maybe you should give up.”
Those sharp eyes trace down my body, before zeroing back in on my face. “That’s simply not an option.” Without waiting for a response, he pushes off the doorframe and steps aside, gesturing toward the interior of his house, which I can already see is magnificent. A fire roars in the rear living room. Classical music beckons. It’s decadent. I bet there are sunken tubs and walk-in closets in this stupidly perfect place. “Please come in. Dinner will be ready soon.”
“Dinner?” I sputter. “I’m here to clean your house.”
“It’s already clean.”
“Then I have no reason to be here,” I say, lifting my chin and turning on a heel, prepared to march back down the steps. Before I make it an inch, there’s an arm banding around my middle and I’m being lifted right off the ground, cleaning supplies and all, over the threshold into the townhouse. My back is pressed to a chest sculpted by the angels and his breath warms the crown of my head. I should be focused on the fact that I’m being kidnapped. I should be screaming for help. But I’m too stunned by the sinuous roll and flex of his muscles against my spine to do more than wave at the closest passerby. “H-help?” I say weakly.
Wow. You’re pathetic.
“Don’t make a scene, Charlotte,” Doctor Fletcher says briskly, carrying me through the foyer and down the pristine length of a hallway toward that crackling fireplace. “Resign yourself to the fact that you’ll be spending the evenings here and we can move on.”
“I’m not one of your residents.” Finally, I find my guts and start to struggle, not that it does any good, since he’s built like a Marvel superhero. “You can’t order me around.”
“Believe me, I know that.” His stubbled chin rasps up the side of my neck and he releases a shaky exhale in my ear. “God help us both if you were. The temptation to order your panties off in the middle of a shift would be too much to bear. If I had that power over you, I’d lose my license, wouldn’t I? And I’d deserve to.”