Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
My mother would say yes, but scientifically I think she’d have to be introduced to germs or some shit like that. Hell, what do I know? A sound from downstairs pulls me away from her door before I can go to press the back of my hand against her forehead. Like an asshole I can sometimes be, I make sure to close the door louder than necessary.
Coming down the stairs is like walking into the filming of a television series. Mr. and Mrs. Blair sweep into the house, trailed by an entourage of people carrying bags and fussing over them. It takes so many people for them to simply walk into the house, you’d think they were escorting the Queen herself.
Carla Blair lowers her sunglasses down her nose as she notices me, not bothering to hide the way her eyes sweep from the business-like loafers on my feet, up my dark slacks, landing on the open button at the base of my throat. No uniform was required for the position, but I wouldn’t put it past this woman to ask me where my tie and suit jacket are.
“Flynn Coleman,” I say, crossing the landing and holding out my hand.
She takes it, reluctantly, and regardless of my background and training, to her, I’m just the help. She doesn’t seem like she can tie her own damn shoes without an assistant, yet she’s disgusted with touching my hand. She releases it quickly, and I think I’m just as relieved as she is.
I school my face to impassivity, hands clamped together in front of me.
“Any problems while we were gone,” Mr. Blair asks as he walks up, not as shy to shake my hand.
I still don’t like the man, but that has more to do with my proven-wrong suspicions than anything he’s actually done. His smile is so fake and bright I’m surprised the light in the room doesn’t reflect a starburst off of them. Celebrities and politicians are so much alike, and even with my limited involvement with both, I’m not really a fan of either.
“No problems at all,” I lie. I complete the reports that are to be submitted each week to the Blairs and unless Remington does something off the damn wall, it won’t go in the report. This isn’t daycare and regardless of her behavior, she isn’t a child to be tattled on.
Mrs. Blair huffs. “And I guess the pictures in the tabloids are photoshopped.”
“I haven’t been made aware of any pictures, ma’am.”
Technically, I haven’t seen any pictures, but it was added to my to-do list the minute Deacon mentioned them.
What could they possibly be? Me getting dragged away by the cops? A crotch shot of her while she was flailing in that damn sexy-as-hell sundress?
It must not be too bad because no one pulls out a phone or print copy of the photos to shove in my face.
“You’re home.” I don’t turn at the sound of Remington’s voice as she descends the stairs at my back, but every cell in my body is on high alert.
I watch for their reactions, expecting some happiness from her mother from not having seen her for days, or some creepy lustful look in her stepdad’s eyes, but I get neither. Charles Blair turns on his heel and leaves the room, while his wife stares past me to her daughter with a look of disgust on her face.
“You should be more presentable before coming down,” her mother huffs before making her own exit to the opposite side of the house.
Something I don’t think any tabloid has discovered is that America’s sweetheart couple keeps separate bedrooms. It’s not my business and I haven’t asked. I don’t know what it’s like to be in a long-term committed relationship, but it just seems odd to me. Maybe she snores, or he farts in his sleep, who knows, and who cares?
I focus on this line of thought even though I couldn’t care less what goes on in their bedrooms because if I think about what her mother said, I’ll be tempted to turn around and face her daughter. Considering what she was wearing the first time I met her, there’s no telling what she is or isn’t wearing right now.
“Were they reprimanding you for my bad behavior?”
I keep my eyes forward until I can tell she’s fully dressed in my periphery as she walks toward the kitchen.
“I didn’t mention anything to them. They did bring up some pictures in the tabloid. I haven’t looked yet but—”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she mutters as I follow her to the fridge.
“Are they bad?”
“There have been worse.” She walks around me to get a spoon after pulling a yogurt cup from the fridge.
“I won’t look if you don’t want me to,” I offer, “but can you at least give me the context?”