by Jordyn White
It makes me wish I’d agreed to three weeks instead of two so I could get a cheap scooter or something, too. Just some way to get around, because this transportation arrangement isn’t going to fly very long. God, I hate being a burden on everyone.
I miss having my own car, but what choice did I have? At the time, I needed the cash more than I needed a car. Here I am still needing cash, and look where it’s coming from. My boss. Again.
But this is legit. It’s not like before.
The GPS on my phone brings me to a sprawling modern, two-story home with smooth, straight lines and bold architecture. It’s white and practically glimmering in the bright, California sun. There’s a huge front landing with tall double doors, the large window above them giving a glimpse of the Art Deco style chandelier hanging in the foyer. The broad, sloping front lawn is covered in bright, green grass and has been expertly landscaped with mature Monterey pine and a few clusters of low bushes. The white house is on a slight hill, set back from the road, and a good distance from the neighbors.
The entire setting exudes a sense of power and confidence, without being overly flashy about it. Sort of like the man who owns it.
Tingles climb up my spine, and I take a deep breath. It’s just a job.
There’s a circular drive, which breaks off to the left side of the house. I navigate Aaron’s oh-so-humble Hatchback down this side drive. The house is to my right and a row of hedges are to my left. Before I reach the freaking six-car garage ahead, there’s a break in the hedges, just as I was told there would be. I turn through them and see there is, indeed, a small concrete parking area big enough for three cars.
I’m surprised to see a little red Acura, probably at least ten years old, parked in one of the spaces. I pull in next to it and kill the engine. In the silence that follows, the thumping of my heartbeat seems to echo inside the car. I couldn’t say if I’m nervous or excited or what. Everything’s bouncing around inside me and all mixed up.
I’m acutely aware of the fact that I refused to bring him a piece of cake, but he got me to agree to serve him two meals a day, day after day.
Point Mr. Rivers.
But if I’m going to do a job, I’m going to do it. Last night I spent three hours re-creating the kind of forms we used at Powerhouse Personal Chef, coming up with menu options, and in general trying to make sure I didn’t show up looking like an amateur. I stopped by the office supply store after dropping Aaron off this morning, and got everything organized in a little half-inch binder. It helped me feel that this is a real job. All I have to do is focus on the work, and everything will be okay.
But now that I am out here, sitting in my car knowing Rayce is inside that big, beautiful, white house, and I’m about to go into it?
I can’t seem to make myself open the door and get out.
What if I set a gigantic trap for myself? What if I make the same mistakes all over again? I doubt Aaron and Pierce would come to my rescue this time.
Who could blame them? If I did something like that again, I’d have no one to blame but myself.
This thought strengthens me somehow. This is in my control. All I have to do is watch my own actions. I cling to my resolve, grab the binder, and get out of the car.
I go through the break in the hedges and toward the side entrance near the garage. The sound of ocean waves is coming from somewhere behind the house. This neighborhood is on a bluff overlooking the Pacific. I caught several glimpses of it in between houses on the way here, but I haven’t seen what his view looks like yet.
I approach the door. I don’t hear any sounds coming from inside the house. I hesitate, then knock and drop my hands.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh, salty sea air. I focus on making sure I have a professional, neutral expression on my face.
The handle turns, my heartbeat speeds up slightly in anticipation, and the door swings open.
It isn’t Rayce on the other side. It’s a tall, thin woman, who looks to be in her upper forties. She’s wearing tan slacks and an orange polo shirt with the logo of a cleaning service on the left breast.
Oh. Right.
I remember the red Acura.
She’s wearing cleaning gloves and has a rag in one hand. She offers me a warm smile. “Are you Emma?”
I nod.
“I’m Lilith. Come on in.” She backs up, opening the door wider, and I step inside. “Mr. Rivers explained that you’d be working here. He asked me to show you to the kitchen.”
Well, all right then.
Maybe I have nothing to worry about after all.
Which is good. Totally not disappointing.
We go down a broad hallway that’s well-lit and inviting. We pass a massive utility room and another door that’s closed. Further down, there’s a gorgeous formal dining room to the right and an open entryway into the kitchen on the left.
Lilith indicates that I’m to go into the kitchen. “Here you go. He said for you to familiarize yourself with things.”
“Okay.”
She hustles off deeper into the house and just like that I’m left alone.
I take a shallow breath and slowly breathe it out.
I wander into the kitchen, my senses alert for any indication of where in the house he might be. Part of me expects him to jump out at any moment. But there’s no sight or sound of him.
Not surprisingly, the kitchen is gorgeous, with marble countertops, tall, luxurious cabinets, and professional-grade steel appliances. There’s a huge central island with a little sink on one end, high-backed barstools at the other, and an assortment of fruit in a heavy ceramic bowl in the center. The kitchen opens to the living room, which is so large there’s two separate seating areas, with room to spare.
I set the binder on the counter and go into the living room, and it’s here that I get my first glimpse of his view.
Through the floor to ceiling windows that cover the entire west-facing wall, there’s a spacious backyard that looks like it belongs to a resort, with covered cabana-style patio areas on either end of the deck and a massive infinity pool. Beyond that, a stunning panoramic of the Pacific Ocean.
“Holy shit,” I mumble.
I long to go outside to get a better look. Paradise is mere steps away. Instead I hover there for a moment, taking it all in. What would it be like to enjoy this view every day? I imagine sitting under the patio, a glass of wine in hand as I watch the sun set over the ocean. He’s there too, his legs propped up on the table, his warm arm draped over my bare shoulders as the wind brushes through.
Oh my god, Emma, seriously? What’s wrong with you?
I turn away from the fantasy scene to examine the rest of his home. In the center of the living room is a cluster of large, comfortable-looking white chairs gathered around a low stone coffee table.
In the far end of the room, a second seating area includes a couch, a loveseat, and a couple chairs, and is faced away from the windows and toward a curved wall. Centered on this wall is a large, flat screen TV that curves along with the wall. God, even the TV looks fancy in this place.
Above the TV is a massive painting that must have cost a pretty mint. It’s not the abstract, modern art I would’ve expected. It’s an Impressionistic painting of the ocean at sunrise, and is almost as compelling as the real thing. It’s the only touch of color in the entire room.
From the living room I can see the large entryway, with its tall double front doors and soaring windows above. This foyer leads to other rooms on both sides, one of which is the dining room I passed on my way in, but I don’t know what the other room is.
The foyer’s floor is stunning. There’s a large, circular pattern in the middle: an intricate, swirling, tile mosaic of tans, blues, and greens. The movement of the swirling pattern actually reminds me of my tattoo.
I’m dying to walk all over that gorgeous entryway. Bare foot. Maybe do a spin or two.
Centered above the mosaic, hanging from the tall ceiling, is the massive c
handelier I saw through the windows from outside. Someone coming in through the front doors would come through that stunning entryway and to the living room’s centralized sitting area with its pristine, comfy-looking white chairs, all the while presented with a million-dollar view of the ocean.
On the far end of the living room, next to the windows, a stairwell disappears into the basement. Near this is another curving stairway that leads, I can only presume, up to the bedrooms.
I wonder if that’s where he is.
I hear someone coming up the basement stairs and my heart leaps into my throat. I jolt back to the kitchen, realizing I haven’t been doing what I was told. I hurry to open a cupboard door, willing my heart to settle down.
Inside are an array of large serving dishes and platters. Hand gripping the cupboard door, I glance over my shoulder. The person who comes into view on the stairs isn’t Rayce Rivers. Yet again. It’s another cleaning woman, wearing the same outfit as the other one and carrying a little caddy full of cleaning supplies.
Disappointment drops into the pit of my stomach.
I chastise myself for being foolish. I remind myself that Rayce Rivers is the downside to working here, not the upside.
When she gets to the landing, she gives me a glance and a smile, which I return. She doesn’t say anything to me, just crosses the living room and disappears down the hallway.
I return to the open cupboard, my hand still on the knob. Okay. I’m here to do a job. I need to stop screwing around. I spend the next few minutes going through some of the cupboards, admiring the state-of-the-art appliances and cookware, and trying not to anticipate his appearance.
Everything is neatly put in its place and well organized. It’s all spotless and looks brand-new. Does he actually use anything in this kitchen?
There’s a pantry in the back corner, but before I get that far, something in the corner of my eye gets my attention.
My heart stops momentarily. There he is, nearly at the bottom of the upper stairway, which I’m sure I correctly guessed leads to his bedroom.
He’s wearing black suit pants and a white, button-down shirt. His untied tie is around his neck and his suit jacket is draped over his arm. He’s not wearing shoes, but is padding over to me in black dress socks.
Fuck, that’s hot.
“Good morning, Emma.” He hangs his jacket on the back of one of the barstools.
“Good morning, Mr. Rivers.” My blood is pumping thickly.
But it doesn’t matter how sexy he looks. I retrieve the binder, grateful for an excuse to turn my eyes away from him. I locate the checklist I printed out last night. “I thought we could start by discussing menu options.”
I’m forced to turn back in his direction and am immediately distracted as he lifts his collar and starts to tie his tie with strong, decisive hands.
He wraps one piece smartly around the other. He’s fast and precise. I already know this knot will turn out perfectly.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no time for that this morning. I had to schedule an early meeting.”
My eyes go to his. “Oh?” I hope I don’t sound as disappointed as I feel. In addition to feeling disappointed, I’m also confused. I wonder why Alice didn’t change what time she told me to be here. “I could’ve come earlier.” Geez, my first day and he’s already leaving hungry.
“No need. We can discuss things later.” He lifts his jaw slightly as he flips the tie up and through a loop. “For now, look through the pantry and decide on something for tonight. I already had breakfast.”
He finishes a neat Windsor knot, and tightens it snug against the top button of his shirt. It somehow makes his shoulders look even more broad, his chest even more inviting.
Dammit, Emma! Knock it off.
Determined not to gawk, I turn my back to him and open the pantry. It’s a large walk-in and has plenty of food for just one person I suppose, but it’s such a big space it still feels a little bare. I take quick stock, my eyes landing on, unbelievably, several boxes of sugary, multicolored breakfast cereals.
I grab one and turn toward him. “Is this what you ate?” I’m giving him an incredulous look.
That beautiful smile of his emerges and my heart stutters.
“Yes.”
I glance at the box, then back at him. “It’s no wonder you need help.”
He laughs and turns away. I’m delighted by his laughter one second, and let down by his exit the next. I watch him cross the living room and pad quietly back up the stairs. Is that all I get for today?
Gee. I was clearly worked up over nothing.
I put the box away and take another deep breath. Feeling a little irritated, I continue to assess what he has in the pantry. It’s a motley assortment of things like Flaming Hot Cheetos and Oreos alongside bags of quinoa and little jars of gourmet pesto.
I’ve advanced to a slender cupboard full of spices when he makes another appearance, this time the muffled step of his shoes announcing his entrance. I look automatically, then quickly return to the cupboard, refusing to ogle this gorgeous specimen of a man as he crosses his living room paradise.
“None of these spices look like they’ve been opened.”
“I don’t use them. Lizzy bought them for me.”
I watch him grab his suit coat and slide it on. “Lizzy?”
“My sister.”
“Oh.” Well, isn’t that cute? I’ve only thought of her as Ms. Elizabeth Rivers, but him calling her Lizzy makes them both a little more adorable. And more human.
“She mistakenly thought I wasn’t cooking because I didn’t have the stuff.”
I close the cupboard door and cock my head at him. It’s starting to come together now. “Did she buy the pots and pans, too?”
He nods, adjusting his suit coat so it sits squarely on his broad shoulders.
“Don’t you cook at all?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“You just eat Fruity Pebbles all day, Mr. Rivers?”
There’s that smile again, but it falters as his eyes skip over my body. “Why are you wearing a uniform?”
I’m wearing the same kind of shirt and slacks I would wear to work. “Wasn’t I supposed to?”
“Not in my home, you won’t.”
“But they are.” I gesture toward the hallway, indicating the cleaning ladies.
“That’s different. They work for a service. You work for me.”
I cross my arms, suddenly feeling prickly. I should be glad of the reminder that I work for him, glad he’s not flirting with me, glad this is going down just as it should. When guys like him are interested in girls like me it’s for the wrong reasons anyway. Hell, if I’m going to come here as his employee I want to be in uniform. But I’m inexplicably annoyed with him.
“Yes, I know that, Mr. Rivers. But shouldn’t I—”
“Look, Emma.” He comes around the island toward me.
The closer he gets the more my body temperature rises. I can’t stop the hot blush from blooming on my cheeks, but I hold his eyes and stand my ground, arms firmly in front of my chest.
“There’s really only three things you need to know here. One, no uniform. Two, cook whatever you want so long as it’s not spinach. I’ll eat anything else. Three, call me Rayce. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Rivers.”
I’m not trying to be obnoxious, I swear. It just slipped out.
At the same time, I shouldn’t call him by his first name. We need boundaries, and that one is so basic.
He gives me a look. We both stand here not saying anything, and shift into a stare down. He’s close to me. I could reach out and run my fingertips down the front of his shirt, feeling his chest underneath. The heat in my cheeks is slowly creeping down my neck.
It’s not my defiance that’s making me edgy. It’s the way he’s looking at me. Not like someone who’s only ever seen me a few times, but like he’s known me for years and has had to deal with my stubbornness over and over again.
/> Also, definitely not the way a boss looks at an employee.
“Does this mean you’re serving spinach for dinner?”
I smile, then press my lips together quickly, chasing it away. “Of course not. I just... want to keep things appropriate.”
“There’s nothing inappropriate about my given name. It’s not as though my parents decided to call me Dick.”
I stifle a laugh. I shouldn’t encourage this familiarity by laughing, but God, he deadpanned it so perfectly.
He comes a fraction of an inch closer. He’s not close enough to be directly in my personal space, but plenty close enough to make my heart race. “Alice assured me I could trust you to make this a painless experience,” he says in all seriousness.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Dammit. I’ve made him uncomfortable in his own house. That’s breaking rule number one in this business.
“I’m not Mr. Rivers here. I’m Rayce. That’s what you’ll call me in my home.”
He’s the client. He gets to decide these things. He does. I still hesitate because, and this feels ridiculous to say, it feels like we’d be taking a... step. Still, what can I say? “All right.”
He waits. Raises his brow. That damned demanding brow. I know what he wants. My heart is pounding so soundly I wouldn’t be surprised if he could hear it.
“Rayce.”
I was right. His name on my lips does feel different. More intimate.
So nice.
There’s a glimmer in his eye. Point two, Mr. Rivers.
He smoothly fastens the first button of his suit coat. “Thank you, Emma. Serve dinner at six.”
With that he grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl on the counter and exits into the hallway. He’s heading for the garage, I assume. Leaving for real this time. Before he disappears from my sight, Lilith passes him in the hall.
“Thank you, Lilith.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Rivers.”
But no correction is forthcoming. So she can wear a uniform and call him Mr. Rivers, but I’m to wear jeans and call him Rayce? I’d call him out on it, but I hear the door leading to the garage close behind him.
