Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
But whenever Wynn was around, she was doing something. Dusting, sweeping, mopping, cleaning bathrooms, reorganizing the pantry and the closets, going to the store, coming back and unpacking. She was busy from the moment she arrived until I got home, when she seemed to come out of her work fog. Maybe because she was interrupted. Most days, she was on her own save for the days when Elsbeth was around, bustling in the kitchen. On those days, Wynn got out of Elsbeth's hair, going to clean the upstairs instead. She seemed to thrive on her own, got in the zone, and handled shit.
I appreciated that.
It was a rare quality these days.
I would know. I had a hundred employees in my main office building. And most of them needed to be babysat, needed their hands held, needed constant motivation, were not self-starters. There were always a handful of team members who carried most of the weight. Adult professional life was like a constant high school group project. One person was there to create more problems. One was there to dick around and frustrate everyone else. One really never showed up. And then one? One did all the work, got the A for everyone else.
I tried, at work, to reward those who handled it all.
So to fire one in my home when they did so as well was asinine.
I should have just stopped watching, fast forwarded through the scenes that got hot. I couldn't seem to muster that sort of self-control, though.
It was a ritual every night.
"Mr. Buchanan," Wynn said, pulling me out of my swirling thoughts. I was supposed to be focusing on the report in front of me. I wasn't sure a single word of it had sunk in.
"Yeah?" I asked, raking a hand through my hair as a sigh escaped me.
"Can I get you something to eat?" she asked, surprising me. "You've been in here for over two hours," she added in that honey-sweet voice of hers.
"If that is the case, why are you still here?" I asked, glancing over at the clock. Sure, I left my office early on Fridays, but that didn't mean the work stopped there. And it always meant that the staff cleared out early to give me my privacy.
"The crew that is glazing the garage floor are taking longer than they said they would. Something about humidity levels," she said, rolling her eyes like she wasn't buying it. "It's not a big deal. I have nothing else going on. I want to make sure they do a good job. You're paying a small fortune for it," she added.
I wouldn't have even noticed the money being gone.
But I would have noticed the job not being done right.
So I appreciated her keeping an eye on them. I had completely forgotten they were even coming that evening.
"Ah, yes. Food."
"Which disgustingly healthy thing do you want tonight? Plain rice and an unseasoned chicken breast?" she asked, lips curving upward, teasing.
"You have a problem with healthy food?" I asked, brow lifting, wondering how she kept in shape if she didn't eat healthy herself.
"No. I enjoy a good salad as much as the next person. But you have to have a little variety in life. Cheese once a month never killed anyone, you know."
Eating healthy meant that I didn't have to work as hard in the gym to stay fit. But if I were being honest, eating had long since become something rote. Like brushing my teeth. Like flossing. Something necessary, but not overly enjoyable.
"Alright. How about you order pizza then? We can both use something to eat."
What the fuck was that?
I didn't eat dinner with my employees.
It blurred lines.
It made it harder to terminate them if the situation called for it when you shared a meal while discussing personal details.
"You want me to order pizza?" she asked, brows pinched like this news made no sense.
"That's what I said."
"What kind of pizza?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It doesn't matter? Are you sure? Because people put sardines on pizza. They put baked beans on pizza."
"In that case, cheese. Or pepperoni. Nothing crazy."
"Alright. Got it. From the petty cash?" she asked, reaching to pull a small notebook out of her back pocket. I imagined she kept a tally in there as she used money on errands. I had no doubt that there would be a spreadsheet with receipts attached on my desk when the cash was gone.
"I'll handle it. Go take a break for a bit."
She offered me a smile I struggled to interpret. Something relieved yet somehow excited at the same time.
"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Buchanan."
With that, she turned to walk off, that perfect ass of hers distracting me until she was out of view, going back toward the den, from the sound of her footsteps.
It was wrong.
God, it was so fucking wrong.
But my hand moved to the screen on my computer, clicking through my cameras, finding the one for the den, and blowing it up to overtake the screen.