by Maisey Yates
“Now that’s a real interesting thought, darlin’.” His voice was deep, and if she wasn’t imagining things, and she was sure she wasn’t, laced with innuendo.
It should have made her angry. Should have shocked her. Upset her.
It didn’t. Instead, it sent a little shiver of deep, unending longing through her. She recognized it, because longing for things out of her reach, things she couldn’t have and shouldn’t have, was something she did all the time these days.
She looked up at him. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
Chapter Two
Well, hell. This entire encounter was starting to sound like a porno. He had a gorgeous woman in high heels applying to work for him and promising to do whatever he wanted. Now all that was left was for her to show him her qualifications.
Rather than turning him on, that thought only made him feel dirty. He wasn’t into taking advantage of women; not in the least.
And while his body wasn’t immune to Lucy Carter née Ryan, the thought of taking that anything you want offer and twisting it to suit his physical needs made him feel sick inside.
He just wasn’t that particular brand of bastard.
Now he was the brand of bastard who enjoyed the thought of Lucy scrubbing his floors. To enjoy watching her slum it for a while. Yeah, he was that much of a bastard, and he was self-aware enough to admit it.
And then when she was done playing at being a big strong independent woman and went back to her husband, fine. But in the meantime, he would enjoy watching the princess of Silver Creek get her hands a little dirty.
And just like that, his decision was made.
“All right, Lucy, when can you start?”
“Now?” she asked, her eyes wide, as though he’d shocked her completely with the question.
“Now?” he echoed.
“Well, I’m basically homeless until I start this job.”
Well, now, that did make him feel a little like an ass. “Not anymore. Come on out back with me.” She stood, clutching her handbag in front of her. He looked down at those long, shapely legs, and further still to her shoes. “I don’t know how those are going to survive the mud.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“All right then, this way.” He started to head out of the living area and toward the kitchen, but he noticed Lucy was still sitting on the couch, dark eyes wide. “Are you going to follow me?”
“Did you just give me the job?”
“Yes. Unless of course you intend to do it from the couch, in which case I may have to rethink the offer.”
“No”—she scrambled to her feet—“no, I’m ready to go. Just show me the… stuff.”
“Kitchen,” he said, indicating the big open space. “I eat lunch with the hands, and I have a guy who cooks in the big kitchen out by the barns for everyone, so you’re off the hook for that. But I take breakfast in here, and dinner. And I’ll need you to take care of that. Otherwise, during the day, just regular housecleaning stuff. I have a full laundry room, there’s a vacuum somewhere. I’m only one guy, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”
Truthfully, he didn’t really know what all went into taking good care of a household. His mother had done it as a job for other people, and she’d been too tired at the end of the day to do much of it for them.
And, of course, he didn’t do a very great job of it himself. But he was way too tired at the end of the day to do anything but put a frozen pizza in the oven. Carly had been coming over and making sure he didn’t starve, either by giving him the leftovers of her and Lucas’s dinner or by coming over and cooking for him.
She’d drawn the line at laundry, though, and he’d been managing to get the clothes clean and dry, but he hadn’t managed to get them in the closet.
He’d been fishing his clothes out of a laundry basket every day for the past few months, ever since the loss of his previous housekeeper.
Still, though, with full-time hours to devote to the job, it couldn’t possibly be too hard.
“Otherwise, the cottage is back this way.”
“Cottage?”
“Yeah, that’s the ‘room’ part of the room and board that was in the ad,” he said.
“I wasn’t expecting a cottage. I was thinking… a room.”
The idea of sharing a room in his house with Lucy sent a shot of heat through his veins that burned like whiskey. He wasn’t sure why he was reacting so strongly to her. Why the room he’d thought of had been his own bedroom. His own bed.
Lucy was beautiful; she always had been. But a sweet face didn’t atone for a personality as sour as hers. Not that she seemed overly sour now—but she’d come to apply for a job. And even in those circumstances, there was a little bit of tartness to her.
He shifted his weight and tried to ignore the heat pouring through him. Assigning her a flavor, even a borderline unpleasant one, wasn’t helping with his issues. Because now he was wondering if she tasted as sour as she seemed, like a green apple, or if she was sweet like she looked. Like a peach.
Oh, dammit.
He shifted again and tried to redirect his blood flow back to where it belonged.
He opened the back door and held it for her, waiting for her to walk outside before he closed it. She brushed past him, and the wind kicked up, blowing her scent back in his direction. Honeysuckle.
She smelled sweet. Which made him think she very likely tasted—
No. Not going there.
He led the way down a trail that was worn through the grass. It was only wide enough to walk single file, and Lucy stayed resolutely behind him.
“This was one of the original structures on the property. It’s pretty old, and it’s not fancy, but… it ought to do.” For the first time he wondered if it would do for Lucy. He knew what kind of house she’d been raised in. A house on the waterfront in Silver Creek’s premier gated community. Not a ranch house. Not even a ranch.
And then there was that husband of hers. Everyone in town knew about Daniel Carter, how well Lucy had done for herself marrying him. Her mother had made sure of it. He was part of the elite social set over in New York, an old money family that still had money. And manor houses. Anyone who talked to Mrs. Ryan for longer than a few moments heard about the family’s impressive collection of manor houses.
The cottage came into view, and Mac couldn’t help but feel a small bit of amusement over the situation. This was no manor house. Just a small, faded blue structure with a slab foundation and poured concrete steps that led up to a screen door that squeaked when it swung open.
“It’s clean,” he said. “At least it should be. Carly said she hired a one-time cleaning service to come in and make sure it was nice for you.”
Lucy was looking at the cottage, her expression bleak. “So, you and Carly are still close?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He couldn’t imagine not seeing his sister a few times a week. She’d been a huge part of his sanity and stability while they were growing up. “Especially now that she’s marrying Lucas.”
Lucy blinked a few times. “Lucas… Lucas from school?”
“Yep.” He wasn’t surprised that Lucy couldn’t remember Lucas’s last name. Neither of them had rated on her social radar.
“That’s nice.”
Her tone was so even, so carefully modulated. He could tell she was hiding a whole lot of emotion— he wasn’t sure what she was hiding, but he was sure there was something. What he didn’t get was why he wondered, even for a second, what it was. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to try to get to know her, or get her to talk about her feelings. He was hiring her to clean his house.
“I’ll let you go in and get settled,” he said
Mac nodded once, then turned and walked away, leaving Lucy standing there in front of a house she was af
raid might fall down around her ears.
This wasn’t what she’d expected. Not at all. She should go inside and see where she was living now. See just how far she’d fallen.
She opted, instead, to watch Mac Denton walk away for just a little while longer. It wasn’t often, if ever, that she allowed herself the illicit thrill of checking a man out. And with Mac, there was a lot of good there to check out.
She could have laughed at the absurdity of it if she thought she could possibly show that much emotion without crying.
Here she was, newly divorced, disowned by her parents, about to move into a place the size of one of the walk-in closets she’d had in her ex’s, house and she was looking at the way the denim of Mac’s jeans hugged his butt.
Well, there had to be some perks to her position.
She blew out a breath and walked up the concrete steps that led into her new house. They were bowed up and cracked on the edges. The screen door pushed open easily, and she wondered if it latched at all. It also squeaked like a son-of-a-gun.
The kitchen was tiny. Faded yellow cabinets lined the wall, and peeling linoleum was spread over the floor. She’d never been in a place this run-down. Unless you counted structures that bore the title “barn” and not “house.”
The floor creaked beneath her feet as she walked past an old living room with a chair and little else, down the hall and to the single bedroom. There was one window, lace curtains and a bed with a patchwork quilt.
She moved to the bed and sat on the edge, the springs groaning beneath her.
“What did I get myself into?” she asked. No one answered, of course.
She had to wonder, for the very first time, if leaving Daniel had been a mistake. She’d been unhappy with him, but she didn’t feel particularly happy now.
She thought back. Could see his face—distant, haughty, angry, disdainful. Could hear his words. So cold, designed to cut away what remained of her self-confidence. What remained of the way she saw herself. He was intent on removing vital bits of her, leaving her unable to function without him.
And finally, just as he’d been about to succeed, she’d looked in the mirror and seen how much she’d changed. Had seen that she was too thin. Her dark eyes flat, cold. The light behind them snuffed out.
He never hit you, did he, darling?
No. The answer to her mother’s question had been no. Daniel Carter would never do anything so common as to use his fists to control a woman. And he didn’t have to. His words were even more effective.
Everyone has bad days. He has stresses at work, surely. He can’t spend all of his time propping up your self-esteem.
Her mother’s response to her denial of physical abuse had nearly broken her. Because it had taken Lucy so long to realize that the things Daniel said to her were wrong. To realize that his words were a form of abuse, and that she didn’t have to take it.
Only to have that realization undermined when she’d arrived home.
“I didn’t deserve that,” she said. “I didn’t.”
She only wished her own parents didn’t think she did. Or maybe that was the wrong way to look at it—but it felt like they thought she must have deserved it. Like the vows she’d taken to the smiling man on her wedding day should have, logically, extended to the monster he’d revealed himself to be.
And she just couldn’t believe it. Not anymore.
Which meant that regardless of the shabby state of her new home, it was her new home. And she wouldn’t doubt her decision again.
Because no matter how run-down it was, there was no one here to insult here. No one here to berate and belittle her.
Just then, the little house seemed more beautiful than any manor home ever had.
Chapter Three
How hard can it be?
Lucy asked herself that question while she rummaged through the pantry. Mac had food. Plenty of it. There had to be some way to combine some ingredients to make an edible meal.
She felt a little shot of panic when she looked at the schedule that was posted on the fridge. She imagined the schedule—useful, neat and organized—had not been made by Mac.
Another helpful tidbit from Carly, she imagined. But it wasn’t helping her now. She only had an hour to make dinner, and she was pretty sure she’d never cooked in her life. Unless pouring cereal counted. And she was pretty sure it didn’t.
Lucy did some more digging and found a cookbook in one of the cupboards. There was a recipe for tacos, which seemed straightforward enough. Especially if she opened the jar of salsa and the can of refried beans, rather than making her own from scratch. And Mac had both of those things ready to go.
A couple of thawed out chicken breasts would boil quickly, and she put them in a pot of water and put the burner on high heat.
Then she found an apron stashed in the pantry and tied it around her waist, hoping to shield her nice outfit from any potential oil splatter as she prepared to make the taco shells.
The instructions were clear, but after mangling a couple of tortillas she opted against folding them, and just laid them flat in the pan and let them fry. Tostadas would be good too. They were basically the same thing anyway.
An hour later, she had a spread that looked more than vaguely edible and a sense of pride that was so unexpected, so foreign, she was hardly able to identify it at first.
Along with that came a significant hunger pang. She was more than ready to eat, and Mac had invited her to eat with him but the idea of that seemed… wrong, somehow. Strange.
If they were strangers it might have been easier. But they weren’t. They had a pesky history that made her blush just thinking about it. She’d been so full of it back then. So sure that life couldn’t touch her because she was a Ryan. She was set for life. College paid for. A ticket out of Silver Creek and into society anywhere else if she wanted it, and she had wanted it. And she’d taken it.
And now she was back. With none of the certainty. With none of that feeling of inborn sparkle that she’d thought made her better than other people.
She jumped when the front door slammed shut.
“Smells good.”
She looked up and saw Mac walking toward her. “Great. I’m glad. Everything is… set out. So if you want to go ahead and sit I’ll just leave you to it.”
“I thought I told you that you could eat with me.”
“You did. But… it just feels awkward. I mean… Did your last housekeeper eat with you?”
“Yes.”
Lucy felt a brief burst of annoyance at the thought of another woman sitting down to dinner with him, and she wasn’t sure why. Just because it was another reminder that she was in no way unique, maybe.
Get over yourself.
Yeah, she had to get over herself. And over all the junk that Daniel’s words had buried inside of her, beneath her skin.
Probably not today, though.
“So you were… friendly with her, then? Why did she quit?”
“She retired. To spend more time with her grandchildren. They live out of state, and she moved closer.”
“Oh.” The fact that the other woman was a grandmother made her feel better. It shouldn’t have, because she shouldn’t have felt bothered to begin with.
“Yeah. Have a seat.”
She complied. She was hungry, after all, and this was, apparently, normal to him.
Mac put two of the tortillas on his plate and loaded them up with all of the fixings she’d provided. Then he got up and went to the fridge, and her stomach sank a little bit.
“What did I forget?” she asked.
“Beer. Want one?”
She almost said no. She didn’t drink beer. Never had. Wine and wine coolers, yes. Some nice mixed drinks at a party, yes. But nothing so common as beer.
“Yes,” she said.
He nodded and pulled two bottles out of the fridge, pausing to pop the tops before returning to the table and setting one down in front of her.
“Sorry, I’ll remember next time,” she said, curling her hand around the cold glass.
“It’s no big deal. First day and all.”
“Still… thanks.”
He raised his bottle. “To new beginnings?”
She raised hers too. “Why not?” She tipped it back and took a sip. It was kind of disgusting, but she relished the choice. If Daniel could see her now, drinking beer from a bottle across the table from a cowboy with muddy boots, he would think she’d gone crazy. Maybe she had. But why not? Her entire life was tilted sideways. She might as well enjoy it. With a little alcohol and a little eye candy.
She took another sip of the beer and grimaced. Okay, “enjoy” was too strong a word where that was concerned.
“What do you like for breakfast?” she asked.
“Eggs. Bacon. Whatever. Normal stuff.”
Not cereal then. Damn. That would have been easy.
“Great.” She looked down at her place. “I bet you’re used to a slightly larger spread than this too.”
“Usually, but this is fine.”
“You don’t have to go easy on me.”
“Trust me,” he said. “I’m not.”
“You don’t just feel sorry for me?”
“Not in the least.”
She frowned. She felt sorry for her. “All right. What do you feel?”
“Amused, mainly, that my little jab about you cleaning my floors has come to pass.”
She set her fork down. “Low blow, Denton.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but no one’s perfect, and I haven’t forgotten our last big conversation.”
Neither had she. It was weird, because she didn’t know what had started it. Not really. She’d said something terrible, she had no doubt about that. She couldn’t remember what—only that this time Mac’s ears hadn’t turned red, and he hadn’t looked down and walked away. This time, he’d turned around, hands clenched into fists, and he’d hit her back verbally. Called her on what a bitch she was. He was the first person to ever do that.
