Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ROGAN
I slam my office door so hard the picture on the wall next to it rattles. For a full five seconds, I stand frozen, pulse beating behind my eyes like I just ran a quarter mile flat-out.
Goddamnit.
I curse as I trip over the oriental rug.
The air in my office feels too thick, and I yank open the top button on my shirt, fingers catching twice on the fabric, and drag my palm across my forehead.
Sweat. Actual, honest-to-God sweat, and not because of the heat.
Oh no. The cause of my discomfort is currently unpacking her goddamn things and moving into my house. Fucking hell.
This is bullshit. I run a forty-thousand-acre operation and keep three dozen hands from burning the place down every goddamn day. I negotiate contracts worth more than most people’s houses without breaking a sweat. Nothing rattles me.
Except, apparently, a five-foot-something woman with curls the color of molasses and a smile that could light up the darkest room.
I pace the length of my office, boots thudding against the polished hardwood floor.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her standing on the porch, wearing a T-shirt that clung to her luscious tits and tight ass jeans.
Her small and delicate hand reached for mine, and the handshake lingered, somehow, like she’d tattooed her name into my soul. Jesus.
I drag a hand down my face and glare at the door as the memory makes my heart ache. I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. Not even a grunt. Brilliant. Years of cultivating a reputation for being unflappable, and I went full Neanderthal when my gorgeous new housekeeper showed up.
Not just a housekeeper. A live-in housekeeper. When I agreed to have someone living in my house with me, I assumed she would be someone’s grandmother with a fondness for doilies and folk remedies. Not a fucking knockout who stole my ability to speak.
My chest tightens. I pace harder across my office.
It’s Stan’s fault. Or, more likely, Marianne’s. They’re the ones who convinced me to even have a live-in housekeeper. I never should’ve delegated the hiring process to them, but I did. I trusted them because, for the last decade, that’s been enough. No problems. No drama. Just work.
I can’t think straight, which is a new and less than amusing experience.
The urge to storm over to Stan and Marianne’s place and demand answers itches at me, but I know how that’ll go.
Stan will get that little crinkle around his eyes, the one that says “You’re being an idiot, but I won’t say it aloud,” and then Marianne will tell me I need to be more open to new experiences.
No. I’m handling this myself.
I cross the room and slap my phone off the charger, nearly launching it across the desk. I thumb open my messages and pull up Stan’s number.
Me
I thought we agreed to hire an older, experienced housekeeper.
I watch the bubbles, that little indicator like a ticking bomb, until it pops with Stan’s reply.
Stan
Sierra Spencer came highly recommended. She’s experienced and has great references. Is there a problem?
Of course, there’s a problem or I wouldn’t be texting him. But I’m not typing that.
Me
We’ll have to see if she can handle the job. Make yourself useful and help her unpack her car.
Stan
On it. Anything else?
Me
Not right now.
I lock the screen and throw the phone onto the pile of paperwork I’ve been meaning to file away.
It bounces once, landing screen-down. My chest still feels tight.
I sink into the leather desk chair and press my fists into my thighs.
If I squeeze hard enough, maybe I’ll be able to focus.
Maybe I’ll stop replaying every second of that handshake in high-def, or the way her caramel-colored eyes caught the afternoon light.
There’s another buzz from the phone, and I reach for it.
Stan
Her stuff is inside. She doesn’t seem like the fussy type. You want me to show her around, or wait for you?
I scowl at the message. Fuck. I want to be the one to show her around, but I don’t know how that’ll work since my brain and mouth seem unable to communicate anytime she’s around.
Me
Give her tonight to settle into her room. You can give her the full tour later. Make sure she’s got what she needs.
Stan
Roger that, Boss.
I toss the phone onto the desk again, a little less forcefully this time. My hand drifts to my collar, still damp, and I scrub at it with the back of my knuckles. I feel raw, like my nerves are sunburned.
This is temporary. I’ll get used to her. I just need to keep it professional until I figure out what she’s doing to me. Simple. A job is a job, and I’m the boss.
So why the hell can’t I breathe when I think about seeing her again?
I lean back, tip my head to the ceiling. The antique light fixture casts a shadow that looks like a lasso loop. If I had any sense, I’d arrange for another housekeeper and forget all about Sierra Spencer. But for some reason, the thought of her leaving sends panic coursing through my soul.
I imagine her, right now, settling into the downstairs guest room, arranging whatever she brought.
I reach for the bottle of water on my desk and unscrew the cap, draining half of it in one go. The coolness barely makes a dent in the fire burning deep in my gut.
How the fuck am I going to handle this fucked up situation?
I stare at the ceiling, mind spinning like someone cranked up the speed on a shitty reality show rerun.
Every time I picture her unpacking in the guest room, every time I imagine those soft curves bending over a suitcase or tucking something into a dresser drawer, I get all hot and off-balance again.
My cock is hard as a rock. I tell the fucker it isn’t happening.
I don’t have the time to deal with a relationship, no matter how goddamn gorgeous Sierra Spencer is.
But I’m also not a complete idiot. There’s no way in hell I’m talking to Sierra face-to-face right now. Not if I want to keep even a scrap of dignity. I need a plan. Something foolproof. Professional. Something that totally avoids me having to open my idiot mouth and fail at basic communication.
That’s it. Notes. Sticky notes. I’ll write out what she needs to do, stick ‘em where she can’t miss them, and keep my distance. No awkward small talk, no more embarrassing myself with my Neanderthal routine. Just tidy yellow squares and instructions, like a perfectly controlled operation.
I grab a notepad and start scribbling out instructions.
Monday’s chores. Tuesday’s list. I list every task, careful and precise, barely pausing for breath.
My handwriting’s a mess, big and blocky, but she’ll get the point.
I just need to avoid any more face-to-face interaction until my brain wakes the fuck up and decides to function again.
Once I’m finished with my pile of notes, I head to the kitchen and stick them on the center island. Mission accomplished.
I pivot on my heel, striding straight down the damn hallway.
My boots barely make a sound on the polished boards, and my chest beats out of control the whole time.
The house is dark, really quiet, except for the old bones of it creaking in the wind.
When I get close to her room, I can’t resist the urge to stop.
Her door is shut, but light glows from the crack beneath it, golden and soft.
I breathe in, real careful, and there it is.
That delicate, sweet floral scent. Warm sugar and wildflowers.
Fuck. It hits me so hard my cock jerks under my jeans, thick and pulsing, straining against the zipper like I’m some hormone-ridden teenager instead of a grown-ass man.
I want to knock. I want to open that door and see her, maybe run my fingers through those wild curls, feel the heat of her body against mine. I imagine her in there, stripping out of those tight jeans, curvy hips wiggling, and my mouth goes dry. Fucking hell. I’m acting like a goddamn stalker.
I force myself to move up the back stairs, two at a time, straight to my private suite.
As I walk across the quiet bedroom, I strip and drop all my clothes in the wooden hamper.
I catch my own reflection in the mirror and snort at the wild-eyed bastard staring back at me.
Sierra’s still in my head, turning every damn thought molten.
There’s no use trying to look like a man in control.
All that shit flew right out the window the second I laid eyes on my gorgeous new housekeeper.
I turn the shower on full blast, and holy shit, it’s freezing. I step in anyway. I want punishment—no, I need it. The water is pure ice, slamming against my overheated skin, and for a second, I just stand there letting it hammer me so hard my teeth actually rattle.
It doesn’t help. My mind is filled with Sierra. Every fucking curve of her, every soft little breath, those wild curls I want to bury my face in. Her scent is still in my head. Sweet. Floral, but not fancy. Just her.
“You’re a goddamn mess,” I mutter, icy spray soaking my hair, running down my neck, over my chest. It’s going to be a long fucking night.
I’m still wide awake at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling, dick throbbing, and entire body wired.
I want to sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see Sierra.
It’s the worst kind of torture. I roll over, punch my pillow, stare at the moonlit slice on the wall, and curse my inability to fight this shit.
All I can think about is her. Her sweet smile. The way her curls bounced when she shook her head, lips parting like she was about to say something smart or maybe just tell me I’m an idiot. Honestly? I’d take either one if it meant hearing her talk to me again.
If I don’t do something about my rock-hard cock, I’ll never get any sleep.
I drag my hand down my chest, over my abs, and straight to my erection.
I close my fist around it, not even bothering to resist anymore, and stroke slowly, picturing her on her knees in front of me, big brown eyes blown wide, lips parted, breath coming fast. Fuck.
I squeeze harder, faster, thinking about how those curves would feel in my lap, her perfect ass grinding down as she rode me.
I imagine her moaning, nails digging into my skin, squeezing me so tight I’d lose my fucking mind.
I come with a grunt, hot and messy, and for a second, it almost helps. But even as I clean up, I know it’s hopeless. The need isn’t going away. If anything, it’s worse. I want her more now than I did before.
Great.
At some point in the middle of the night, I come to the realization that the only way I’m going to survive what I’m feeling for my new employee is avoidance. And sticky notes. It isn’t a great plan, but right now, it’s all I’ve got.