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)
"A little eye candy never hurt anyone. Besides, you have to like this one. She's just your type."
Yeah, that was the problem.
I worked too much, barely ever had time for sleep, let alone going out and finding a woman. Then having the real-life equivalent of my dream woman showing up in my damn house? That was a problem. I usually had a lot of control, but I wasn't one-hundred-percent sure I wouldn't pounce on the woman if she was willing, becoming that prick who makes someone's work-life an uncomfortable place to be.
"And why would I want someone who was my type managing my house?"
"You need to get laid, big bro," he declared.
"This might be news to you, but you don't fuck women who work for you."
"Well, she's hired. So you will just have to deal with it now," he declared, shrugging, walking out of the room.
I wanted to call him back, to argue about it, but the larger part of me knew that it was useless, it never got us anywhere. He never changed, and I would just be pissed off after.
He was right about one thing, though.
This new woman was hired.
And I was going to need to deal with it now.
It shouldn't be that big of a problem.
None of the others ever were.
Of course, I had no idea at the time what Wynn Downey had in store for me...
Four
Wynn
I was trying not to screw it up.
That was what I had told my reflection as I carefully dressed for my first day of work.
Sure, a big part of me wanted to slip on a miniskirt, heels, and a tight, low-cut tank. But the rational part of me chose a simple white button-up with the top button undone, with a pretty blush lace bra underneath, and a demure-length skirt.
I needed the job.
I needed to appear professional.
Especially at first.
I mean, no one could blame me if I had to lean over to pick up something off the floor and my very professional shirt just slipped open a little in front of a camera.
So that was the plan.
Test the waters, get a little thrill, but make sure everything was above any sort of reproach. I needed the money. And I was actually kind of excited to take on a steady job.
I knew a lot of creative sorts who thought nine-to-five jobs cramped their vibe, but I had personally found that nothing made for worse art from me than financial upheaval. Constantly worrying how I was going to be able to cover an upcoming bill always took me right out of the mindset I needed to really escape into my work.
I was hoping a steady—and generous—paycheck would help spark a new fervor, the kind I had known in the early days of my college career, back when my lovely step-father so generously helped pay my bills so that I could get a leg-up in life. Those were the times when I would set up my supplies across my side of the dorm room, then set to work early in the morning, only seeming to come out of my trancelike state sometime after dark, arms aching, stomach grumbling, but with epic, beautiful pieces of art to show for it.
I'd even sold all those pieces.
Now?
I hadn't sold anything for months, not even the marked down canvases that my local coffee shops and libraries had posted up for me.
So I was going to be the best damn house manager anyone had ever seen. Who sometimes bent over in front of a camera or spilled out of her shirt. But since I was alone when it happened, no one could fault me for it.
Fitzwilliam Buchanan would have no idea there was any sort of agenda behind any of it. That was always what made it best, anyway, the man's belief that he had caught you in a private, exposed moment. It wasn't nearly as fun when they knew I knew they were watching.
Plan in place, I made my way to the Buchanan estate, pausing to roll my eyes at a concerned text from Perry before silencing my phone and tucking it into my purse that I stashed in a corner of the kitchen once Elsbeth let me inside.
From there, I was given my own key, a list of the household employees, and the expected daily and weekly duties before Elsbeth was shuffling off, leaving me alone in the sprawling mansion.
I hadn't gotten any sort of official tour, so notebook in hand, I made my way through the house, reminding myself that it wasn't snooping to get to know the place I would be working, that if I was supposed to clean the powder room on the first floor and the master bath on the second, then I certainly had a right to figure out where they were all situated.