Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
The door eases open, and my mind draws a complete and total blank. Someone get the paddles––I think my heart just stopped. Josh Duhamel apparently has a doppelgänger, because I’m staring right at him. This dude may actually be better looking. He’s uterus-clenching handsome. His are the kind of looks that turned Neanderthals into homo sapiens with perfect DNA. Long lashed, almond shaped brown eyes compliment a bone structure so symmetrical it inspires poetry.
“Ms. DeSantis?” He smiles warmly and extends a hand. For whatever reason, he seems very excited to see me. I stand there unresponsive, silently staring at him for far too long. His brow quirks in confusion.
“Ah…yes.” It comes out sounding like a question. Wow, promising start. Shaking my head at my faux pas, I reach for his hand. It’s surprisingly rough and calloused.
“Excellent, come on in,” he says, stepping aside for me to enter.
I follow him through the house. It’s completely empty, no furniture. We finally end up in a large living room, which is also empty except for an insane television/entertainment system that takes up an entire wall and two armchairs that look new.
“Have a seat please,” says Mr. Perfect DNA. He takes the chair opposite me and sits with his legs spread apart, an open file on his lap, eyes downcast on said file.
Did he tell me his name and I didn’t hear him? I flip through my mental log and find…nothing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?” I ask sheepishly. I’m really killin’ it so far.
“Once you sign this NDA, I can answer any and all questions you may have,” he says with a casual smile. Weird and cryptic, though I don’t have the luxury to debate this. After scanning the paper lightly, I sign my name.
“Ethan Vaughn. As his lawyer and manager, I conduct all preliminary interviews for Mr. Shaw.”
“So I won’t be working for you?”
“No,” he says, smiling when he notices me sigh in relief. Even if I have sworn off men for eternity, this guy would have me running into walls all day long.
“You’ll have to excuse my ignorance, the only information I was given is that this position requires me to live on the property and involves childcare.”
His mouth purses. Choosing his words carefully, he says, “Mr. Shaw is in need of a teacher and caretaker for his eight year old nephew.” I hold my breath as he speaks, excitement without a doubt sparking a slightly maniacal glint in my eyes. “You’ve taught third grade for three years, I see.” There’s a strange inflection in his voice. With his eyes glued to my resume, however, it’s impossible to get a better read on him.
“Yes.”
“Sam will have a say in whom we hire, although Mr. Shaw makes the finally decision.” Mr. Perfect’s expression is suddenly tense. “Are you a sports fan, Ms. DeSantis?”
Sports fan? That’s putting it mildly. I played softball up until my senior year at Boston College. Until my shoulder couldn’t take it any longer and it was either live with chronic pain, or quit. If there are balls involved, I’m a fan…get your mind out of the gutter, you know what I mean.
“Uh, yeah…why?”
Looking disappointed, he sighs heavily. Shit, wrong answer. “Because when I say Mr. Shaw, I mean Calvin Shaw.”
I grow very still as I process why that name sounds…holy hot bawls. The starting quarterback of the NY Titans.
“Is this going to be a problem?” he asked warily.
“No,” I reply with a little more kick in my voice. Because it won’t.
I have zero interest in celebrity. It starts and ends with the fact that I’ve had my fair share of unwanted fame lately. This is a simple case of survival. I need to get paid. If the celebrity in question were Jesus, I would wash his schmata and polish his sandals regardless of how many Facebook or Twitter followers the man has. I need this job more than I give a single shit who pays my salary. As long as he isn’t a white supremacist, pedophile, who likes to kick puppies in the head for fun, and has ties to ISIS, I am good to go. Besides, I’m a loyal fan of the other New York team.
Across the open living room, over Perfect’s shoulder, I notice a large man with a towel hanging around his neck walking down the hallway. When I say large, I mean easily six four and all of it muscle. I know this because his sweat soaked, white t-shirt is painted to his torso, highlighting every swell and curve. His hair is dark, nearly black, and long. Much longer than it is in the publicity shots and billboards around the city. And it’s pulled back in one those ridiculous man buns that no man has any business wearing. It also looks like he hasn’t shaved in over a century.