10. Cassidy
My heart is pounding so hard, I’m sure Ethan can hear it. I’m so glad I didn’t interrogate him on his doorstep this morning. Even a polite inquiry about his family put up his guard.
At least now I know where his computer is.
As soon as I’m done packing away his foldable clothes and slipping hangers into those that need to be ironed later, I hurry over to the bedroom doors and try to turn the handle. It’s so damn hot in this room that my hands have become clammy.
Ethan’s arm comes past me, and I jump in fright. “Allow me.”
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth, using my elbow to bat away his hand as I continue struggling with the knob.
He scents every breath I take. I’m panting, and this time it has nothing to do with the heat. My body is desperately drawing more of his scent inside me, filling me with his intoxicating pheromones.
Why the hell am I so flustered? Yes, I assumed he’d be married, and it’s a surprise finding out he’s not. That doesn’t automatically make him the most eligible bachelor of the year.
Remington’s an asshole.
And, lest I forget, guilty until proven innocent. Guilty of what, I don’t know, but that’s why I’m here. Except…I can’t think straight when he’s around. I need to get out of here so I can clear my head.
“Do I frighten you?” he rumbles behind me, close enough now that I can feel him brushing against my clothes.
“What? No!” I bleat. But my movements become even more panicked, calling me out on the lie.
Remington grabs my wrist, his strong fingers easily encircling it.
Large, powerful. How effortless it would be for him to keep me down if I tried to kick up a fuss. His touch—or maybe that thought—sends a fierce tingle through my entire body that pools deep in my belly.
I tug, but his grip is tight.
“Let me help you.”
“I don’t need your help!” I yank even harder on his hand, but it’s only when he opens his fingers that I break free. My hand slips from the knob as my arm shoots back, and my elbow connects with his hard stomach inches behind me.
“Jesus,” Remington says in a tight voice, opening the door with an angry shove.
I bolt outside, starting down the hall like he’s chasing me with a chainsaw and someone else’s face plastered over his own. When I realize what I’m doing, I force myself to stop and wait for the adrenalin to fade.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see him watching me from the doorway. He has a hand on his belly, but there’s no evidence of pain on his face. Guess it’ll take more than an elbow to the stomach to take him down.
Noted.
“I’m sorry,” I call down the passage. “You—You scared me, okay?”
He steps back, grabbing the edge of his door and pulling it closed a few inches, almost like a shield. “Stay out of my room and out of my business.”
I’m screwing this all up. How am I supposed to find something connecting him with Rebecca if he’s going around slamming doors in my face? I need him to trust me. Which means I have to drop the attitude and show I’m not a threat.
But it’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable around anyone. I don’t even know if I’m capable of it anymore.
Trust.
That’swhat I should focus on. Not his smell. Not the way my body ignites whenever he’s around. Not his dangerous aura.
Hard evidence, Cassidy.
No, not that kind of hard—ugh! Now I’m thinking about his cock again.
His hands are just so…big.
The mansion isn’t so much dirty as neglected. There’s dust and cobwebs in the few rooms with open windows, but I see little difference after vacuuming the carpets.
I’d have been done a lot sooner if the views out of the windows didn’t keep distracting me. Or having to touch all the silky fabrics—the curtains, the upholstery, the bed sheets. I take my boots off well before midday, relishing how my feet sink into the plush carpets.
Thankfully, I’m done with the ground level and already getting to work on the first floor by dinner.
Being unable to investigate any of Remington’s personal effects while he’s locked up in his bedroom is annoying as fuck.
I’ve given up scowling in the general direction of his room because I’m just wasting my energy. I was hoping he’d come out of his room, giving me a chance to snoop, but he didn’t even bother answering the door when the dry cleaners came to collect his clothes.
My stomach growls as I’m carrying my bucket of cleaning supplies into the manor’s enormous library.
Mahogany bookshelves line the walls from floor to ceiling. Some shelves are dedicated to leather-bound volumes, others filled with brightly colored paperbacks. High, arched windows frame a large central fireplace with cozy looking leather sofas clustered around in a semicircle.
Mesmerizing Persian rugs of all colors layer the hardwood floors. A pair of overstuffed armchairs with a low coffee table between them balance the large mahogany desk on the other side of the room.
God, if I were him, this is where I’d be all day, every day. The view out the windows is like a painting—rolling hills, fluffy clouds scudding over a blue sky. The sheer size of this room is so overwhelming, I just stand there for a minute, taking it in.
How wealthy is Remington? Is it old money left to him in a trust fund by his filthy rich parents, or did he make his fortune on Wall Street before the market took a nosedive?
Mom comes from old money. But she had to sacrifice that life of wealth when she eloped with my dad. Me and my mom didn’t have secrets, at least, not until recently.
Until about two years ago, we’d have our own ‘high tea’ every Sunday. We spent the morning baking sweet treats, making little sandwiches, popping a few cocktail-sized pastries into the oven. Then we’d sit and chat for hours, regaling each other with news from the past week.
She loved reminiscing about her teenage years, when she was living in the lap of luxury with her parents. As an only child, Rebecca was spoiled rotten. Her parents were usually away on business—her father attending board meetings or spearheading some or other new initiative, her mother arranging galas for the rich and bored. Rebecca kept herself busy by attending parties, fundraisers, and doing volunteer work, usually arranged by her mother.
But whatever relationship she had with her parents quickly deteriorated when she fell in love with my dad, Thomas.
Her parents couldn’t handle the fact that out of all the wealthy socialites she’d come into contact with over the years, she settled for a contractor making repairs to the family estate.
When it became clear her parents wouldn’t agree to a wedding, she and Thomas eloped.
She was swiftly disinherited, and her parents cut off all ties.
Who knows…if she hadn’t met my father, I might have grown up in a mansion like this. Why anyone would want to live out here in the middle of nowhere instead of a penthouse in the city is beyond me.
My nose twitches.
Is that apple pie I’m smelling?
My stomach gurgles in response, urging me to investigate.
The mouth-watering smell of baked pastry and cinnamon gets stronger as I head for the kitchen. Night fell about an hour ago, but the big lights aren’t on. Instead, a candlestick with three candles wash the white marble island with a warm orange glow.
The sight of Ethan Remington eating apple pie by candlelight is so incongruous that I’m wondering if I slipped and hit my head.
My stomach rumbles loudly.
“Sit.” He doesn’t lift his head from the plate where he’s devoured half a slice of apple pie and most of the enormous mound of whipped cream beside it.
As good as it smells, the last thing I want to do is break bread with this man. He’s the enemy, at least until I’ve proven otherwise.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Ethan studies me with narrowed steel-gray eyes. “You’ve eaten nothing all day.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He straightens, pushing away his plate before crossing his arms over his chest. The position makes his biceps bulge against the fabric. Does he work out?
“Do you think I’d poison you?” he rumbles, his jaw clenching with irritation.
My cheeks heat. Way to go, Cassidy.
I manage a meek, “Of course not, Sir.”
My submission seems to anger him even more, but I guess I can’t blame him for being irritated by my constant hot-and-cold attitude toward him. I can’t help it. It’s fucking confusing being around him, my body coming alive while my mind protests.
His chair scrapes back as he gets to his feet. He keeps his eyes locked on mine while he drags another kitchen stool closer and gestures with a flick of his wrist.
“Sit.”
My ass is in the chair before I can second guess myself.
“Hm.” Ethan’s murmur might have come across as approval…if his eyes weren’t still shadowed with annoyance.
I study the devastation he wrecked as he goes to fetch another plate. Less than half the pie is left, crumbs scattered over the countertop. There’s even a stray dollop of whipped cream that reminds me of an iceberg.
He comes back, sets down the empty plate in front of me, and cuts the remaining pie in half.
“Cream?”
I shake my head.
“Not even in your coffee?”
“Coffee? This late at night?”
“It’s decaf.”
I give him another shake of my head.
He lets out a displeased rumble. As if it’s any business of his what the hell I eat or whether I want coffee. Hilarious that I thought this man had an ounce of civility inside him. I’ve never met a control freak as… well, as controlling as him before.
I snatch the fork from his hand with ill grace and stab off a piece of pie before shoving it into my mouth. Best I get this over as quickly as possible.
Despite my sour thoughts, I can’t help a little “Mmm…” of pleasure rippling up my throat when the pie hits my tastebuds.
Ethan points at my plate with a fork. “Savor it…It’s the last one.”
Why does that sound like a threat?
He poured me a cup of coffee anyway. I drink it, if only to wash down the pie now sticking in my throat.
Sitting back, I study him through my lashes. I shouldn’t push my luck, but I can’t fight my curiosity. “I hope you’ll forgive me for prying, but I can’t help but wonder what work you do.”
He huffs quietly. “I’m retired.”
I frown at him. From what?
Unless I misread his age by a decade or two, he’s nowhere near retirement age.
“Aren’t you a bit too young for retirement?”
“Aren’t you a bit too inquisitive for a maid?” he says grimly and then gives my plate a double take. “You don’t like the pie?”
I take another bite. It’s delicious, but every bite feels like a betrayal to my mother. How can I sit here, calmly eating pie, when I don’t know where she is?
Or whether she’s even dead or alive?
“I prefer key lime,” I murmur, pushing away the plate.
He shakes his head, eyebrows twitching like he thinks I’ve lost my mind.
It might just be true.
“You’d best order some groceries in the morning then,” he says.
There’s a loud hum in my ears as I reach several conclusions all at once.
First, I’m spending the night. Which is a given, seeing as this place obviously has at least a hundred guest bedrooms and driving back to town in the dark is dangerous as fuck.
Second, I’ve only cleaned a third of this mansion. That means I might have to spend another two nights here. I didn’t bring any spare clothes…but I’m sure Olivia would have.
Third…I might just starve if I keep being such an obstinate mule.
It’s a bit late to be having these epiphanies, but I’ve been too busy saying mean things about Ethan in my head.
“Groceries,” I murmur, staring at my pie as I try to encourage my saliva glands to work again.
“Unless you can live on coffee.”
“Wait…You don’t have groceries in the house?” I didn’t bother going through his cupboards. I wasn’t planning on staying long. But nothing’s gone in my favor since I arrived at Glenmont Manor.
Looks like I’ll be Ethan’s houseguest for a couple of days.
Fuck me.
He drops his gaze, his fingers tightening around his fork. “I’ve been?—”
“Busy?” I cut in, piercing a stray piece of apple and shoving it into my mouth.
Remington’s frown deepens. “That’s a very annoying habit.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “Maybe if you came up with different excuses, I wouldn’t be able to finish your sentences for you.”
Ethan stands, unnecessarily reminding me just how tall he is. Panicking, I make the mistake of scrambling off my stool, and that gives him another few inches.
“I warned you about that mouth of yours.” He gives my body a derisive scan. “Are you sure you can afford to lose this job?”
Low. Fucking. Blow.
“So just because I’m cleaning your house, you assume I don’t have my own McMansion with a Lamborghini parked in the drive?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
I might be a tad bit biased against rich people. After all, my mom’s parents kicked her out of the house and left her with nothing, just because they were too snobby to accept that she’d fallen in love with a ‘peasant’. Rebecca might not have spoken ill of them, but she didn’t have to. What they did was cruel.
Wealth corrupts, and I refuse to change my mind on the subject until I’ve seen proof otherwise.
“Aston Martin,” he corrects with a growl. “And unless you want me to send you back to your McMansion in the morning, I suggest you watch your tone.”
Instead of retreating meekly like the meek little maid I’m supposed to meekly be, my hackles rise and my lips peel back from my teeth.
It’s not a smile.
It’s a fucking snarl.
“You pay me to clean. Which I’ve done. Groveling on my knees is extra, Sir.”
I understand the glint of anger in his gray eyes. What I don’t understand is why his hand inches toward his belt.
His eyes track mine, and he grabs his buckle with a white-knuckled hand as if to stop himself.
From doing what, exactly?
Fear prickles over my skin as I slowly back away.
He growls, “Get out of my sight.”