Needing the Wrong Guy (Love Unintended #6)

CHAPTER ONE

JENNIFER

The gravel crunches under my tires as I pull up to the cabin.

Calling it a cabin feels wrong, though. This place is massive, all glass and redwood and modern lines that somehow blend into the forest around it perfectly.

The kind of place rich people rent when they want to “get away from it all” but still need heated floors, a wine fridge, and a housekeeping service. Which is where I come in.

I grab my cleaning supplies from the trunk, my stomach doing nervous flips.

Mrs. Avery said the guest was some big tech guy from the city, here for a month to recover from stress or a health scare or something.

She joked about his job being killer and we both had a chuckle over that one, isn’t work killing us all?

Otherwise she was her normal vague self on the details of the guest and the job, just said he needed someone to come in daily to clean and cook meals, to stay out of his way, and that he was paying double my usual rate.

Double. I'm not about to ask questions, especially not when I need the money.

I snort. When don’t I need money? There never seems to be enough of it, and something always comes up to wipe out whatever small amount I manage to save from week to week.

This living paycheck to paycheck stuff stinks, and sadly I don’t see myself ever getting ahead.

Unless I get more of these double-salary jobs, that is.

Or bite the bullet and get a second job.

The front door is unlocked, like Mrs. Avery promised. I knock anyway, calling out, “Hello? It's Jennifer from the housekeeping service.”

No answer.

I step inside, and my breath catches like it always does when I enter what is definitely the penthouse version of a cabin.

Floor to ceiling windows overlook the vibrant blue lake in what is probably a million-dollar view, and warm morning sunlight streams across the golden hardwood floors.

Everything is sleek and expensive looking, from the black leather furniture to the muted art on the walls.

I set my supply caddy down carefully, afraid I'll scratch something that costs more than my car.

That's when I hear his voice, sharp and irritated.

“No, that's not what I said. Listen to me...”

I follow the sound to the open-concept kitchen.

He's pacing in front of the marble countertop island, phone pressed to his ear, laptop open on the counter displaying what looks like spreadsheets and charts.

His other hand is raking through his short dark hair, which should make it look a mess but instead it looks artfully windswept.

He's tall. Really tall. And handsome in that clean-cut, expensive and classy way that makes me think of Wall Street traders and fancy country clubs.

Dark hair, a strong jaw, and the kind of build that screams genetically blessed.

He's wearing a gray T-shirt and dark jeans, both probably designer even though they look casual.

His eyes flick to me. Light blue, almost startling against his dark hair and pale skin. He holds up a finger to acknowledge me and turns back to his call.

“I don't care what the timeline was. Make it happen,” he growls.

I hover awkwardly, not sure if I should start cleaning or wait until he's done. Mrs. Avery said he was here to rest, but he doesn't look or sound restful. He looks wound tight, like a spring about to snap, and I’d hate to be in the way when that happens.

He ends the call with a curt goodbye and immediately goes to his laptop, fingers flying over the keys.

I clear my throat softly. “Hi, I'm Jennifer. I'll be coming in daily to clean and cook for you while you're here.”

“Great. Thank you.” He doesn't look up from the screen.

I bite my lip, watching him type furiously.

His jaw is clenched, with a muscle ticking there.

Strangely, I feel the need to run my finger along his jaw and see if I can get that tense fluttering to go away.

I take a step toward him to do just that when, thankfully, a bit of sanity prevails and stops me in my tracks before I do something stupid like touching him.

Gorgeous man or not, he’s someone important and I’m just the lowly help.

Shoving my hands in my jean’s pockets, I ask, “Um, can I get you anything? Coffee? Breakfast?”

“Coffee would be good.”

I move to the fancy espresso machine, trying to remember which buttons to press while also wondering if he should really be drinking this if he’s having health issues.

Since I’m not his wife or doctor, I shrug and press a random button.

Behind me, his phone rings again. He answers with another sharp, “What now?”

The coffee machine hisses and whirs. I manage to make something that looks like espresso, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing. I set the cup next to his laptop.

“Thank you,” he says, still not looking at me.

I should just start cleaning and leave him alone. That's what he's paying me for. But something about the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps rubbing his temple, makes me worried.

“Should you be on that?” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I thought you were here to rest. That's what Mrs. Avery said.”

His head snaps up. Those light blue eyes pin me in place, and they're cold now. Irritated. “I don't need a nursemaid. Just someone to clean, cook, and stay the hell out of my way. Can you do that?”

The words hit like a slap. My cheeks flush hot, embarrassment and hurt flooding through me. “Yes, sir,” I whisper.

I turn on my heel and scurry back to the living area where I left my supplies.

My hands shake slightly as I pull out the microfiber cloths and furniture polish.

Stupid. So stupid of me to insert myself where I don't belong.

He's right. I'm here to clean and cook, not mother him or tell him what to do.

I hear him on the phone again, his voice clipped and professional.

I focus on dusting and making myself as invisible as possible.

I need to keep my mouth shut, do my job, and collect my pay.

If he drops dead, that’s none of my business as long as he does it somewhere else.

Preferably after he leaves here so I still get paid.

The next two hours pass in silence except for his phone calls and typing. I clean the living room, his bedroom, and the bathrooms, trying to be as quiet as possible.

When I move back toward the kitchen to start prepping lunch, he's finally off the phone, staring at his laptop with a crease between his brows.

“What were you planning for lunch?” His voice is neutral now. Not warm, but not cold either.

I lick my lips. “Mrs. Avery left a menu of your preferences. I was going to make the grilled chicken salad.”

He nods. “That's fine.”

I get to work, hyper-aware of him sitting at the island, still working. The silence feels heavy, uncomfortable. I pulled out the pre-made grilled chicken and start chopping the vegetables with more focus than necessary, grateful for something to do with my hands while I’m in his presence.

This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve worked around attractive men before, I remind myself. My unexpected reaction to him is just something I’ll have to get over.

“Jennifer.”

I pause mid-chop, shocked he actually remembered my name.

He's watching me now, his laptop closed. His expression is hard to read. “I was an ass earlier. I apologize.”

I blink, shocked that he’s actually apologizing. “Oh, it's... it's okay.”

“It's not.” He runs a hand through his hair again, and I notice the lavender shadows under his eyes and the slight tremor to his hand. “You were right. I'm supposed to be resting, not working. But I'm not good at sitting still.”

I duck my head, keeping half my attention on the food and the other half on him. “I shouldn't have said anything. It's not my place,” I say softly.

“You were being kind.” His mouth quirks slightly, not quite a smile but close enough to make a flush of warmth go through me. “I'm not used to that,” he admits.

I don't know what to say to that, so I go back to chopping. But the tension in the air has shifted, softening somehow, and I find myself relaxing. Okay, I can do this, especially if he’s going to be decent.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asks. “The housekeeping service?”

“About a year.”

“And before that?”

I shrug. “A bit of this and that.”

He's quiet for a moment, watching me toss the salad. “What did you go to school for?”

My hands still. “I didn't. I mean, I did one semester of community college but...” I trail off, not wanting to explain how I couldn't afford to continue, or I felt so lost and stupid compared to everyone else. “It wasn't for me.”

“Hmm.”

I can feel his eyes on me, and it makes my skin prickle with awareness. I plate the salad, setting it in front of him with silverware.

“Thank you.” He picks up his fork, takes a bite, and his eyebrows raise slightly. “This is really good.”

“It's just salad.” But I can't help smiling.

“Still good.” He gestures to the stool across from him. “Sit. Eat with me.”

I take a half step away from the counter. “I brought my lunch...”

“Then get it and sit.”

It's not quite an order, but close. I retrieve my sad looking baloney and cheese sandwich and banana from my insulated lunch bag and perch on the stool the at other end from him, feeling weirdly nervous. Normally, a few clients will chat with me as I clean or cook, but invite me to eat lunch with them? Yeah, that doesn’t happen.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. It should be awkward, but somehow it's not.

Or maybe I'm just too aware of how handsome he is to care about awkward.

My eyes dart all around, yet keep coming back to him, observing the way his corded forearms flex when he cuts his chicken, the strong line of his jaw as he chews, and those startling blue eyes with their thick fringe of black eyelashes.

“I'm Seth, by the way.” He extends his hand.

I take it, his palm warm and firm against mine. “Jennifer. But you knew that.”

“Jennifer.” The way he says my name, slow and deliberate, makes something flutter low in my belly. “It's nice to meet you properly.”

“You too.”

When I pull my hand back, I swear I feel the loss of his warmth. Which is ridiculous. He's a client. A rich tech guy who'll be gone in a month, back to his fancy city life while I'm still here cleaning and cooking for other people and just scraping by.

But when I leave that evening, after making him dinner and watching him actually sit on the couch instead of working, I can't stop thinking about his light blue eyes and the way he said my name.

Or the tangled sheets on his bed that spoke of a restless night and how much I wanted to help ease the tension between his brows.

I do my best to push those dangerous thoughts aside. Getting personal would be a huge mistake.

One I think I’m already making.