Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Eden
My fingers grip the steering wheel as I pull my car into the parking lot of the grocery store.
I’m supposed to be at work in twenty minutes, and it’s ten minutes from here.
I’ve got some time, and I need a minute, because I’m about to be face-to-face with Foster Vaughn for the second time this week.
Foster Vaughn.
As in the professional football player. That Foster Vaughn.
I didn’t know until I got to his place on Wednesday and saw all the football paraphernalia.
I went straight home and looked him up. It didn’t take long for me to make the decision that I need to start watching football.
It’s going to happen this year. I had no idea I was missing out on the eye candy.
That mistake will be corrected as soon as the season starts.
He’s my new boss—well, not really, but indirectly.
The cleaning service I work for serves many high-end clients.
There are lots of background checks and nondisclosure agreements we have to sign when we start.
My last assignment was a musician who left Nashville for Los Angeles.
I guess she’s switching genres, and Nashville isn't the spot for her anymore.
She ended her contract with the company the same day Tiffany gave notice because her husband's job was transferred to Nebraska, so they’re moving.
I was happy to have the new assignment. I was told I’d be working for a Mr. Vaughn.
I’m to be at his place three days a week, and I’m free to do whatever else on my off days.
However, if Mr. Vaughn requests extra services, the cleaning kind—get your mind out of the gutter—I have to be available.
I make great money, and it’s an easy gig, for the most part.
Very rarely do clients require extra services that end up in overtime, but if they do, the agency pays it without complaint.
I can only imagine the bill that gets sent to the client.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not swimming in money, but I have a small one-bedroom apartment, a reliable car, and food in the fridge.
Anyway, back to my new assignment. I didn’t know I’d be working for a Greek Adonis. The man is sexy as sin, and it’s the offseason. That means until football starts up again, I’m going to be spending a lot of time around him, assuming he’s home while I’m there.
A quick glance at the dashboard tells me I’m about to be late if I don’t push this mental freak-out to the back of my mind and get moving.
Shifting in my seat, I sit up a little taller, check my mirrors, back out of my spot, and pull back out onto the road.
I’m a professional. I’ve been working this job for seven years, having started right out of high school.
I was lucky they took a chance on me, and I’ve been working my ass off for them ever since.
As I said, the pay and hours are good, and I don’t mind cleaning.
Besides, I’ve been lucky. The majority of my assignments to date haven’t been too bad.
Some dusting, laundry, cooking, a few errands here and there, sweeping, and mopping, the basics, and the houses are never that bad.
I can’t imagine Foster’s will be either, since I’m coming three days a week.
It seems excessive, but Tiffany said he was a dream to work for and assured me I would think so, too.
Ten short minutes later, which feels as if one has barely passed, I’m pulling into the driveway of his condo. I have no way of knowing if he’s home until I go inside, and I can’t sit out here all day like a creeper. I have a job to do.
Once I’m out of the car, I make my way to the front door. I turn the unlocked handle and step inside. Foster is standing at the kitchen island in nothing but a pair of sweats. His toned, tanned torso is on full display, and I swallow hard. I can’t be lusting after my pseudo-employer.
Did I mention the gray sweats?
I open my mouth to speak, but my voice is frozen.
Clearing my throat, I try again. “Good morning, Mr. Vaughn,” I call out as I slip off my outdoor shoes, leaving them by the door and moving to the couch to change into my indoor-only shoes.
Thankfully, the agency I work for provides everything we need.
“Morning,” he says gruffly.
“Would you like me to make you some breakfast?” I ask as he takes a long pull from his bottle of water. I might be watching the way his throat bobs with each drink. Maybe… possibly, but when he starts to speak, I quickly pull my gaze back to his eyes.
“You don’t have to do that. I can manage.” His voice is gruff, as if he just woke up.
I look around the house, which appears spotless, just as it was when I left on Wednesday evening. “I don’t mind,” I tell him, my eyes going back to his.
“Have you eaten breakfast?” he asks.
“Oh, um, I’m fine. I’m not much of a breakfast eater.
” It’s true. Growing up in foster care, I was always on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, and my belly was always in knots each morning, wondering if that was the day I was getting moved to a new family.
I guess the habit of skipping breakfast has just stuck with me.
He studies me, looking for the truth behind my words. Eventually, he nods. “I’m going to the gym.” He finishes off his bottle of water and tosses it into the recycling bin.
“Right. Okay. Is there anything you need me to focus on today?” I have my list, but you never know when something else might need some extra attention, so I always like to ask.
His gaze penetrates, as if he’s peering into my soul. “Just the usual,” he says, walking toward the stairs.
“What about lunch or dinner? Can I make anything for you?” I ask as I plan my day in my head.
He shrugs. “Sure, if you have time. Tiffany just did her thing, and if there was time left over, she would cook and sometimes bake.”
“Do you eat baked goods?” I ask, and I can hear the surprise in my tone. Because from the looks of him, the man eats grilled chicken and green beans, with a side of water. He’s ripped, and I can’t imagine baked goods fit into that regimen.
He chuckles. “I do, but I don’t live off them like my friend Landry. Reid gives Landry a run for his money, but those two, they’ll eat you out of house and home if you let them.”
“Are they your teammates?”
He tilts his head to the side, studying me, as if trying to decide whether I’m joking or testing him. “Do you really not know?”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t know who you were until I got here on Wednesday and saw all the football stuff.” I gesture toward the hallway where his office is. Heat creeps up my neck.
Another long look follows. His brown eyes give nothing away.
No surprise, no amusement, not even annoyance.
Just a quiet, measuring calm that makes me suddenly aware of how uncomfortable the silence is.
The air stretches between us, thick with something unspoken, and for a split second, I wonder if I’ve crossed an invisible line without realizing it.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he finally says, before turning and taking the stairs two at a time.
Huffing out a breath, I relax my shoulders. I don’t know why I’m so uptight around him. I’ve worked on assignments for famous musicians, athletes, models, songwriters, you name it. Foster Vaughn is the first ever to make me nervous.
Deciding to start in the kitchen, I head there and wipe down the appliances and the counters. They’re already spotless, but I do it anyway. A few minutes later, Foster comes back downstairs, and we make eye contact. He nods once, then disappears into the garage.
His condo isn’t small by any means—it would eat my one-bedroom apartment for a snack—so it takes me a couple of hours to get through the first floor, before moving on to the second.
I’m meticulous with dusting and all the other duties that I complete, no matter what.
Even if they look dust free. That’s what keeps the homes I clean looking fresh, and that’s what’s kept me in a job for the last seven years.
Upstairs, I take care of the bathroom before moving to the spare bedrooms. One is a workout room, so I use disinfectant spray to clean the machines.
Finally, it’s time for his room. My headphones are in, and I’ve been rocking out to Koe Wetzel.
He just dropped a new album that’s fire.
With Koe singing in my ears, I push open his bedroom door and freeze.
The room smells like him. Something masculine and woodsy that I can’t name but wish I could so that I could bottle it up and take it home with me. I’m aware that makes me sound like a creeper, but I’m okay with it. The room smells that good.
Moving to the bed, I strip the sheets. I just changed them on Wednesday, but today is Friday, and I won’t be back until Monday.
That’s not terrible, but I don’t know if he has a lady friend coming over, and well, he’s going to want fresh sheets for that, I’m sure.
Something sharp twists in my gut at the thought.
I bet whoever she is, she’s gorgeous and looks like she belongs on his arm.
Shaking out of my thoughts, I work on remaking the bed.
I dust and clean the bathroom, leaving the floors for last. By the time I’m finished, I’m sweating my ass off, and I don’t need to look in the mirror to know I’m disheveled, but I’m not here for a fashion show.
I’m here to work. It’s never bothered me before now.
What is it about Foster Vaughn that makes me care all of a sudden?
Grabbing my bag of cleaning supplies, I head back downstairs and store them in the closet. Quickly, I slip into the half bath, splash some water on my face, wipe off my neck, and refresh my ponytail. That’s as good as I’m going to get. When I step out of the bathroom, I run into a hard chest.
“Whoa,” Foster says, his hands gripping my waist.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Vaughn.” Heat races up my neck, coating my cheeks. Great second-day impression, Eden.