CHAPTER TWO
SETH
I wake up at five thirty, same as always, my circadian rhythm refusing to acknowledge that I'm supposed to be on vacation.
Except this isn't a vacation. It's a medical intervention. The difference being that vacations are optional and something that I rarely did. Which probably led to my current issues.
I lie in bed for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, thinking far too much about the sweet little housekeeper. Who am I kidding? She’s been on my mind constantly since the moment she walked into the cabin several days ago.
Petite with shaggy brown hair pulled back into a short, stubby ponytail that shouldn’t be adorable yet somehow was.
Large brown eyes and the prettiest mouth that made me think of all sorts of naughty things I’d like to do to it.
Even more her smile warmed me from the inside out.
I’d never met anyone that had that effect on me.
Then again, when did I make time to spend with anyone else in the past? This forced time away from work to cool my heels means I have a lot of free time on my hands. Time I have been enjoying chatting with the cabin’s housekeeper. And far too much time observing her as she fascinates me.
My cock is half hard against my thigh and idly I reach down to adjust myself to a more comfortable position.
With a self-deprecating chuckle, I put a halt to my thoughts about a certain brown eyed girl and get out of bed.
My phone sits on the nightstand, silent.
After my first two stressful days here, when it seemed my company really couldn’t function without me, and I felt dizzy and drained later in the evenings, I actually decided to listen to my doctor.
I've turned off all my work notifications. No emails. No text messages. No emergency calls unless the building is literally on fire. Since my phone is the first thing I reach for every morning, it’s been a hard habit to break, and I’m not out of the woods yet as my fingers twitch with the need to pick it up and scroll.
It's only been four days, and I'm crawling out of my skin with the need to do something that tasks my mind.
I make coffee and wander out to the deck overlooking the lake.
The sun is just starting to rise, painting the calm water pink and gold.
It's objectively beautiful. The kind of view that's supposed to make you feel peaceful, centered, and all that meditation app bullshit my assistant kept sending me links to.
I feel nothing. It’s just water. And I’m restless. Like my very skin is unpleasant and confining me, and if I could just break out of it, I might feel better.
Turning my back on the view, I trudge back inside and try to read.
Unable to focus and feeling like it’s a colossal waste of my time, I toss the book aside after only a few pages, slumping my head onto the cushion and staring up at the ceiling.
After a few minutes of doing absolutely nothing, I spring up and go work out in the small gym that’s set up in the second bedroom.
Hopefully, my mind and body only need a workout to get me back on track and feeling more like myself.
That helps for about forty-five minutes. Then I shower and dress, and it's still only seven fifteen.
Getting another cup of coffee that I shouldn’t have, I plant my ass on the couch once more and stare out the window. Jennifer should arrive at eight. Like she has for the past three mornings.
I thought having a housekeeper coming to clean and cook would be intrusive, and I’d resent the invasion of my space. Quite the opposite, as she fills the space with warmth, and I rather like the company.
Then it hits me that I've been watching the driveway since seven twenty, waiting for her car. Irritably, I shift on the couch, annoyed at my own behavior. I'm a grown man. I don't wait by windows like a puppy waiting for its owner.
But when I hear the gravel crunch under her tires at exactly eight a.m., something in my chest loosens. Which is absurd. She's here to clean and cook. That's it.
Except yesterday, when she left, the cabin felt empty in a way it hadn't before she arrived.
I open the door before she can knock.
“Good morning.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
She looks up, startled, those gorgeous big brown eyes widening. “Oh. Good morning. I didn't expect you to be right there.”
“I was...” What? Waiting for you? Watching for your car like a creep? “Getting coffee. Want some?”
“Sure. Thank you.” She sets down her supplies and follows me.
I head into the kitchen and make her cup the way she takes it. Regular coffee, not espresso, with cream and no sugar. I’m a man who takes notice of everything, so it’s natural that I know that.
When I hand it to her, our fingers brush, and I feel an electric shock of awareness. Her eyes flick to mine, and I wonder if she felt it too.
“You're up early,” she says, cradling the cup.
“Can't sleep in. Never could.”
“Me neither. I'm always up by seven, even on days off.” She smiles, and it does something to me. It makes my chest feel too tight, but not in the alarming I’m having a panic attack or about to drop dead way that landed me here in the first place.
She sips the coffee, and her smile grows. “My mom says I'm too busy, that I should be sleeping till noon and enjoying a lazy day when I can.”
Before I would have thought that was asinine advice.
There’s only so many hours in the day to get everything done.
The day is meant to be seized, not wasted lazing about in bed.
Now I’m thinking there’s something to be said for slowing down, especially spending time in bed when there’s someone to spend it with.
I swallow hard at the mental image of her in my bed gazing up at me as I move over her body.
Clearing my throat, I break eye contact. “Your mom sounds wise.”
“She is. Most of the time.” She looks around. “So, what's on the agenda for you today? More resting?”
I huff a laugh. “Supposedly. Though I'm not very good at it.”
Her lips pinch together, and it makes me frown as I like her plump pink lips smiling much more.
“What would you normally be doing? On a Tuesday morning?” she asks.
I glance down at my coffee. “In the office by seven. Back-to-back meetings until noon. Working lunch. More meetings. Leave around eight or nine, take work home.” I shrug and meet her horrified gaze. “Every day. Usually weekends too.”
Her lips part as she shakes her head, and her short ponytail bobs. “That sounds... exhausting.”
“It was my normal,” I say, feeling a tad defensive.
“No wonder it almost killed you,” she says quietly, no doubt having heard that from the cabin’s owner, Mrs. Avery.
The words hit harder than they should. “Yes. It did.”
She's quiet for a moment, then sets down her coffee. “Well, how about I get started on breakfast- “
I cut her off. “No need.”
Her brows shoot up. “You already ate?”
“Not hungry.”
Jennifer stares at me for a long moment and then nods. “Okay, I'll get started cleaning and will try not to make too much noise. You should do something relaxing. Read a book. Sit on the deck. Take a nap.”
It’s barely after eight in the morning. My lips curl. “I don't nap.”
“Maybe you should learn.” She smiles again, and my gaze drops to her mouth. Suddenly, and impulsively, I want to do something insane and completely out of character, like pull her close and find out if she tastes as sweet as she looks.
Instead, I go to the couch and pick up the book I'd abandoned earlier. It’s some thriller my assistant bought me that’s not at all thrilling. Especially not compared to the woman occupying my space. I pretend to read while subtly watching Jennifer move through the cabin.
She hums while she works. Soft, tuneless little sounds that shouldn't be distracting but are. She's thorough, careful with my things that I’ve discarded, and she has this way of moving that's graceful despite her lugging a vacuum and a caddy full of supplies around.
I notice the way her faded jeans hug her hips and lovingly cup her pert ass in ways that has my fingers tightening up with the urge to do some touching of my own.
My mouth goes dry when her pale green t-shirt rides up slightly when she reaches for something high, giving me a peek at a sliver of creamy white skin.
It shouldn’t be arousing, that tiny bit of skin, yet somehow it is and I shift on the couch.
She lets out a little huff of frustration as she stretches trying to dust the top of a tall bookshelf, and I’m on my feet and crossing to her in an instant. “Need help with that?”
Jennifer glances over her shoulder and gives a tight smile as pink flares in her cheeks. “I've got it but thank you.”
Ignoring her, I pluck the cloth from her hands and easily wipe down the top shelf. She's right there, close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something floral and sweet, through the sharp scent of the lemon furniture polish.
“Thank you.” Her voice is breathless, and when I look down, she's staring up at me with wide brown eyes and parted lips.
We're too close. Close enough that I can make out the faint flutter of her pulse at her neck that I want to bend down and lick. The smart thing to do would be to step back and put some space between us. Unfortunately, for an intelligent man, I’m not always the best at doing what I should.
“You're welcome,” I say, and my voice is low and rough with want.
She swallows hard, and I watch her throat work. Then she steps back, putting distance between us, and I feel the loss like a physical thing.
“I should... I need to clean the kitchen,” she says quickly, moving away.
I return to my place on the couch, pick the book back up, and don’t read a single word.
Around eleven, she starts making lunch. I give up on the book and move to the island, watching her work. She's making sandwiches, simple but precise in her movements.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I say, wanting to hear her voice and know more about the woman that has piqued my interest.
She glances up, with a guarded expression on her face. “Why?”
I nearly snort. “Because I’m asking.”
Her tongue comes out and swipes along her upper lip as she considers. “Like what?”
Grinning, I perch on the stool opposite her. “Anything. Favorite movie. Biggest fear. First concert.”
She laughs. “That's quite a range. Um, favorite movie is The Princess Bride. Biggest fear is probably spiders, which is ridiculous because they're tiny and I'm not. And I've never been to a concert.”
My brows shoot up. “Never?”
She shrugs. “Tickets are expensive. And I've never had anyone to go with.”
Something about that makes me angry. Not at her, but at a world where this bright, kind woman has never experienced something as simple as live music because she couldn't afford it or had no one to take her. I’d take her to any concert she wanted.
“What about you?” she asks, setting a plate in front of me with a tuna salad sandwich, cucumber slices and spears of red and orange peppers. “Same questions.”
“Favorite movie is probably John Wick, any of them. Biggest fear...” I pause, considering.
“Failure. Being irrelevant. Dying without having mattered.” I don't know why I'm being this honest. “First concert was some tech conference keynote that happened to have a performer who I don’t even recall. I was eighteen.”
“That's sad,” she says softly. “That your first concert was at a work event.”
Chewing a bit of cucumber, I swallow and shake my head. “It was all I cared about. Building my company. Making my first million. Proving I could.”
She reaches for a bit of pepper left on the cutting board. “And did you? Prove it?”
“Yeah. I made my first million at twenty-five. Had fifty million by thirty. A billion by thirty-five.” The numbers sound strangely hollow when I say them out loud. “And then I collapsed in a board meeting because my body decided money wasn't worth dying for.”
She reaches across the island, covers my hand with hers. The touch is simple, compassionate, and it cracks something open in my chest.
“I'm glad you're here,” she says. “Getting better.”
“Me too.” I turn my hand over, threading my fingers through hers. Her hand is small in mine, soft and warm. “Especially if it means meeting you.”
She blushes, that gorgeous flush spreading across her cheeks. But she doesn't pull her hand away.