Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
SIERRA
I wake up to a sunbeam in my face and a blanket that smells like it’s been washed in actual sunshine.
Seriously, is this what rich people’s sheets feel like?
My hands are tucked under my chin, cocooned in the thick quilt, and for a solid minute, I just lie there listening to the weird new silence.
No traffic, no upstairs neighbor playing bad techno, not even the sound of an ancient air conditioner trying to keep up with the Texas heat.
Just the faint creak of the old house settling and, if I strain, a rooster in the far distance announcing his tragic inability to keep time.
For a second, I forget where I am. Then the sight of the pale yellow walls and the clean, lemony smell brings it all back. Right. I’m on a ranch, in the middle of nowhere, and today is the first full day of my new “career” as a live-in housekeeper.
I sit up and rub my eyes. The clock on the nightstand says five-fifty-seven.
I don’t know if there’s a formal ranch schedule, but I figure ass-crack-of-dawn early is probably expected.
I run my hands through my hair and try to convince the curls to cooperate, but after a few seconds of gentle negotiation, they rebel and I give up.
I pull on jeans, a plain white tee, and a zip-up sweatshirt since my new employer likes to keep his house just a few degrees above freezing.
Since I don’t really have anyone to impress, I’m going for comfort.
I check my reflection in the mirror one more time, but it’s pointless.
My hair is doing its thing. My eyes are puffy, and my mouth is set in that determined line that makes me look like I’ve got my shit together, which is basically the biggest lie of the century.
Whatever. This is fine. Not like I’m here to seduce anyone, least of all my boss.
Except I spent all of last night tossing and turning, telling myself exactly that.
You’re here for the work, Sierra. Not for the tall, grumpy, hotter-than-hell rancher who can barely look you in the eye.
Ignore the way he fills up a doorway like some kind of cowboy superhero.
Ignore the way his voice goes low and rough when he actually says words.
Focus on the job. Focus on the money. Six months of hard work, then maybe I can get my own place and stop worrying about my next rent payment.
New start. New plan. No distractions.
But my body doesn’t get the memo. Because the second I think about him, my pulse kicks up, and I one hundred percent remember that insane handshake, like my body still hasn’t recovered.
I take a breath. Then another. I tell myself, with absolutely no conviction, that it doesn’t matter. Rogan Hawke is my boss. End of story.
I just have to act like it.
Down the hall, the house is still quiet.
If Rogan is awake, he’s giving no sign. I creep past the closed door of his office and half-expect it to open, maybe with him standing there, glowering and shirtless, because apparently my brain likes to act like it’s twelve years old and has already decided to make my life awkward.
I shake off the fantasy and head for the kitchen.
The kitchen is massive. There’s a sprawling island, an industrial-sized fridge, and fancy cabinets lining all the walls. I do a quick lap, just to admire, then stop cold. There, right in the middle of the kitchen island, is a stack of sticky notes the color of neon puke.
On the first one, in blocky all-caps, my new boss has written:
That’s good to know. At least I don’t have to worry about him breathing down my neck while I work. Or sitting across from him while I try to choke down food.
I turn over the next sticky note and find it’s actually instructions:
Ask who? I wonder to myself. Oh well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I grab the next note and see his “detailed instructions” include a very intricate drawing that either depicts a folded pair of underwear or a deformed bat.
I blink several times and move on to the next note:
I mentally roll my eyes and move on to the next note, finding instructions for Wednesday. Since it looks like he has very strict instructions, I take out my phone and snap pictures of all the notes, then I toss them in the trash.
So, this is how it’s going to be. I’d kind of imagined my new boss would, you know, discuss his expectations over coffee, or at least grunt in my general direction. Instead, I get passive-aggressive notes like we’re in freaking grade school.
I check the clock over the stove and see it’s six-twenty-five. If this is the way things are going to go for the next six months, this job is going to be the easiest job in history. It’s also going to be boring, so I decide I’ll need to invest in a few eBooks to make the time fly.
After grabbing a protein bar for breakfast, I decide to explore my new surroundings. Screw it. No point in waiting around for Mr. Alpha Cowboy to appear and mansplain the finer points of house cleaning. I’m on my own.
First stop is the main living room. I push open the double doors and just stare for a second.
Holy shit. It’s straight-up rich people shabby chic in here.
There are three leather couches as big as king-sized beds, with fancy throw pillows, and a fireplace made out of actual river rock.
The built-in shelves go all the way up to the exposed beams and are packed with vintage and modern books, old pictures, and antique figurines.
I’d peg Rogan as more grunting Neanderthal than secret library nerd, but the guy is full of surprises.
I do a quick lap. The dust situation is nearly non-existent, and the floors are already clean enough to eat off of. I’m not really sure why I’m getting paid so much to clean this place, but I’ll take my sudden windfall.
I peek in the dining room, the laundry room, and a couple of random closets. Nothing too weird. I avoid his office door next to the living room since I’m not about to get fired on my first day for snooping.
I bound up the grand staircase, two steps at a time, sock-feet sliding silently as a secret on the polished wood.
At the top, the hallway stretches before me, a gauntlet of old family photographs adorning the walls.
Black-and-white cowboys, an old wedding portrait, and then the Hawkes.
Stern men with tight lips and squared chins glare down from their frames.
I go straight down the hall, half-expecting Rogan to materialize in front of me, but there’s nothing. Just the ancient creak of floorboards under my feet and the way those Hawke family portraits follow me with their dead-eyed suspicion.
I hit the end of the hallway and know, instantly, which door is his. I can smell his expensive cologne filling the hallway outside a huge set of double doors.
I hesitate for half a second, then decide I have to clean his room, so I’ll have to enter it sometime. Then I shove the door open.
Holy. Cow.
His suite is stunning. Easily four times the size of my room, maybe more.
There’s a massive four-poster bed in the center, carved columns thick as my thigh, the kind of thing you could tie someone to, if you were into that.
Oof. Apparently, my brain is one hundred percent into that, because I have a full-on fantasy flash of him tying me to those posts, wrists over my head.
God. I really need to work on my professional thinking skills.
I swallow.
The rest of the room is filled with gorgeous antiques. There’s a dark wood dresser with an ornate mirror over it. The curtains are thick, dark gray velvet, and the windows go practically floor to ceiling, swallowing the Texas sun and spitting it back in shards of gold.
There’s a split-second where all I can do is stand there, just absorbing.
The bed is perfect. Like, it’s disgustingly neat.
I’m going to be hard-pressed to find anything in here to clean.
The bed has corners you could bounce a quarter off of.
I notice a pair of nightstands, both bare except for a single battered paperback and what looks like a cup for a mouth guard.
Knowing he grinds his teeth makes him see more human and less Neanderthal. God. I’m losing my freaking mind.
I remind myself I’m here to clean, so I head for the bathroom.
And find it’s spotless in there, too. Gleaming fixtures, fresh towels, a stack of soaps arranged like a display at Bath & Body Works.
His toothbrush is lined up next to a gigantic bottle of aftershave.
The smell hits me, sharp and masculine, and my brain immediately serves up another fantasy of Rogan, half-naked and dripping water onto the tile, wiping his big hands down his abs.
I grip the counter. Get it together, Sierra, and do your job.
I roll up my sleeves, find the cleaning caddy under the sink, and set out to clean the already spotless suite.
I put my earphones in my ears and find a playlist that fits my mood. As the heavy metal blares in my ears, I grab a dust cloth and get my ass moving.
I have to admit, working in the quiet ranch house isn’t bad.
In fact, it’s kinda soothing. After I finish dusting, I strip the bed and take the linens down to the laundry room across from the kitchen.
This room is a housekeeper’s wet dream with two machines, side by side, each with more buttons than my first car.
I load up the washer and find fancy-smelling laundry soap.
Once the machine is running, I head back upstairs to clean my boss’s room.
I spend the rest of the day making sure I do everything on the list exactly as my boss demanded. His clothes are cleaned, ironed, and folded precisely. I put them away and clean the master room and bathroom until every surface sparkles.
And I’m done by lunchtime. Oof.
I end up spending the rest of the day organizing my new room and exploring the rest of the large home.
Turns out, rich people’s houses are basically museums. There’s a formal sitting room with couches I’m afraid to look at too long, let alone sit on.
A sunroom, flooded with light and lined with rows of succulents.
A game room with a pool table and a wall of impressive trophies.
I find a whole closet dedicated to holiday decorations, sorted by season.
I check every room, open every door except the off-limits office.
I find a sewing room, stocked with fabric and thread, plus a weirdly comforting stack of old lady romance novels.
A workout room. Three spare bedrooms, each with different levels of western décor ranging from “has a single cow print pillow” to “triggering vivid flashbacks of watching Bonanza as a child.”
By the time I circle back to the kitchen, it’s barely five p.m., and I’ve already burned through my Spotify playlist and most of my motivation.
I end up spending the next hour exploring the kitchen and pantry, trying to decide what I’ll have for dinner.
A little after six pm, my boss comes strolling through the back door.
He comes to a dead stop when he sees me standing at the breakfast bar.
The air in the room spikes about twenty degrees as he stares at me.
“Hi,” I manage to mutter as I smile at him. My heart pounds away in my chest as my lady bits wake up and sing, “Hallelujah.”
In return, he gives me a grunt that sounds kinda like a hello, and heads straight up the stairs. As a door slams upstairs, I realize this might be the most interaction I have with my new employer. Ever.
By day three, I’ve come to terms with the fact that my boss is definitely avoiding direct contact with me.
The sticky notes have continued multiplying like rabbits.
Every morning, there’s a fresh one waiting for me on the kitchen island, each written in the same aggressively masculine block letters.
Most are just reiterating his early instructions.
Some tell me I’m doing a great job, and some give tips on doing it better next time.
For some reason, the notes with tips really get under my skin.
I’m halfway through loading the dishwasher, hot coffee in hand, when I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Not boots. Softer, like the whisper of slippers on those shiny wood floors. When the tiny, silver-haired woman appears in the doorway, I nearly yelp.
She smiles at me. “Morning,” she says warmly. “You must be Sierra. I’m Marianne.” She picks up a mug, pours herself coffee like she owns the place, and perches on a kitchen stool. “I thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell her, and she grins back like we’ve been friends forever.
“How are you settling in? Rogan hasn’t scared you off yet?” She sits at the breakfast bar and sips her coffee.
I crack a smile. “So far, so good. I haven’t seen much of him, honestly. I think he’s allergic to direct communication. He just leaves me these sticky notes.” I nudge the stack.
She snorts, nearly spilling her coffee. “That sounds like Rogan.” She rolls her eyes. “But he’s not so bad once you get to know him.”
God. I hope she’s right. I’m not sure I’ll be able to take six months of silence and Post-it notes.
We finish up our coffee, and Marianne tells me, “I’d better head over to the operations building before they come looking for me.” She points at the list of numbers hanging next to the main phone. “My cell phone number’s on the ranch list. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” I tell her as she heads out the back door.
The rest of the day flies by, and I end up finishing my list by early afternoon. Since I don’t have anything else to do, I grab my new book and slip out onto the back patio to read.
When the sun starts to slip from the sky, I head back into the house. I take a nice, long bubble bath and attempt to relax, but my mind refuses to forget about my grumpy boss. Knowing I have to do something to change the situation, I decide to write him a note. Let’s see how he likes it.