Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
But Forsythe remained silent, save for the faint sound of his polished shoes on the gleaming wooden flooring—drifting away, then returning, before the man’s tall, formidable bulk sank down on the edge of the bed, weighing it down enough to tilt Ash toward the heat he gave off, a faint scent of something earthy and cool and dark clinging to him. A gloved hand extended to Ash, offering four Tylenol in an open palm; the other hand proffered a fizzing glass of seltzer water.
“Perhaps you would find this more agreeable to your hangover,” Forsythe said quietly.
Ash lifted his head, searching Forsythe’s face. Dark green eyes looked back at him, frank and unflinching, yet revealing nothing. Ash didn’t know what he was looking for. He’d just hired this asshole yesterday, and he was already riding roughshod over Ash, spinning him into a whirlwind until Ash didn’t even know if he should stop him or just let him have his way.
And he didn’t know what he thought he’d see, in that impassive gaze.
It was pathetic to be so desperate for approval he’d turn to a stranger who only owed him as much as a paycheck bought, anyway.
He lowered his eyes again, scraping the Tylenol from Forsythe’s palm and into his own, then tossing the pills back in a dry swallow that lodged in his throat before taking the glass and washing them down with a deep drink.
“Thank you,” he forced himself to say, passing the glass back to Forsythe. “How did you even know I’d be hungover?”
“I hazarded a guess. Now.” Forsythe held up a pair of Ash’s boxer-briefs, just a tiny swatch of black fabric, and shook them out briskly between his hands. “If you would be so kind as to give me your legs.”
Ash’s eyes widened. His stomach dropped—and this time there was no mistaking the snicker from the stream of people passing in and out of the pool house. Scowling, he snatched the boxer-briefs from Forsythe’s hands. “Give me those,” he hissed, then darted a glance over his shoulder, hiding the underwear under the sheet quickly. “And get out. I’ll dress myself.”
“But—”
“Get out,” he repeated, then flung a glare toward the gardening crew. “All of you get the hell out. For fuck’s sake, can I get dressed in peace?”
“Today,” Forsythe answered, the single word practically a threat, his eyes glinting darkly as he rose to his feet and swept another of those infuriating bows, deep and yet utterly mocking. “I’ll have a car brought around when you’re ready, young Master.”
“I don’t see you leaving.”
For a moment, he’d swear a ghost of a smile flitted across Forsythe’s mouth.
“As you command,” Forsythe said, and turned and walked from the pool house, lifting one hand in a quiet but imperious snap.
The gardening crew, who had frozen mid-task, hadn’t moved—hadn’t left, not even when Ash had demanded it.
But at that snap they turned to file out, hefting boxes and leaving in subdued silence, practically an entourage in Forsythe’s wake.
Ash stared after them, then groaned and flopped back against the pillows.
“Fuck my life,” he muttered, then tightened the sheet around his hips and rolled out of bed.
He’d finished yanking the curtains closed and pulling the French doors shut for some semblance of privacy before he realized Forsythe had laid his clothing out over the rattan chair near the bed. On the table next to the chair, he’d left a tray with a few slices of toast, scrambled eggs, half a grapefruit, a tall glass of orange juice—and a spraying pink and orange tiger lily decorating the tray in delicate accent, fresh-cut and its petals still glistening with beads of moisture. Ash stared.
He felt like a fucking toddler being fed and dressed for school.
And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fire Forsythe or kiss him, when he flung himself down in the chair and scooped up a bite of the eggs. He’d never tasted simple scrambled eggs that tasted so good in his life—and he knew damned well the house chef hadn’t made them. Richard was such a snot about gourmet gluten-free food he couldn’t do simple to save his life, and the last time he’d tried scrambled eggs he’d somehow managed to make them both rubbery and runny. These were light, fluffy, perfectly seasoned with just a touch of pepper, almost melting in Ash’s mouth, and he let out a relieved groan as he devoured bite after bite and let the food settle the roaring in his skull until he no longer thought it would crack.
He lingered over the toast and orange juice, closing his eyes and making himself settle, breathe, smooth his hackles. That was one fuck of a way to wake up…but it didn’t mean Forsythe was wrong.
He just didn’t have to be such a dick about it.
But if Ash was going to get his shit together…