Self-preservation being the backbone of her existence since being dumped into the foster care system, she decided to listen to the Jolie side—no matter how much groaning Naughty Girl did.
Naughty Girl, however, couldn’t resist a peek, and was rewarded with a swish of his longish golden hair, a flex of his well-defined arm, and an accompanying sizzle to her own nerve endings.
So not good. Jolie had known he was a hunk before she accepted this position. Had had quite the crush on him, too. How could she not? The guy had been plastered all over every magazine in the country for years, most especially here in his hometown.
Todd Best. The Best, as the media had dubbed him. And rightfully so. The man’s landscape paintings were hanging in every high-end hotel, public library, and courtroom in the country. Even the White House, for Pete’s sake. Not that she had an eye for art, but when a painting looked like the scene down the road and made her think she was standing there, feeling leaves rustling, smelling fresh cut grass, hearing birds singing in the trees and ducks quacking on the pond, the whole set-up, that, to her, was talent.
And, of course, there’d been his fairytale marriage. But then, sadly, his wife had died suddenly and he’d moved out of their home, turned the reins of his company over to his brother, and put down his paint brushes.
Yes, Jolie had known exactly who she’d be working for. That’d been half the incentive.
“So, new girl, do you have a name? And what are you doing here today?”
Since he was talking, she assumed it was safe to turn around.
The old adage about making an “ASS out of U and ME” proved true.
Although he was the one with the A-S-S. And what a nice one it was. As was the muscled shoulder leaning against the stainless steel of the microwave above the stove, and the ninety-degree jut of his jaw line, the sculpted cheekbones, a perfectly proportioned brow, the fall of hair over his forehead…
She tore her gaze away from the visual smorgasbord and, traitors that they were, her eyes headed south.
Thank goodness he had the dish towel spread across his nether regions like a loincloth. But a hot guy in a loincloth was just as distracting as a naked hot guy. And she’d seen him in both. Or not in both. Whatever.
She ordered her eyes back on the pan. “Um yes, I do have a name, and as to what I’m doing here, I think that’s obvious—burning the butter for your morning omelet.” She raised the pan to illustrate and managed a quick push with her hip to get him to back away from the stove so she could start cooking again, praying all the while she wasn’t hitting something vital.
Luckily, the guy had quick reflexes—or a good hunch—’cause he stepped out of the way before her hip came anywhere close to anything important, saving them the extreme embarrassment of that.
“How’d you get in?” Mr. Clothing-Optional asked.
Okay, what was the protocol here? How long did one actually have to converse with a buck-naked human being before someone said something about it? Or did a strategically placed dishtowel negate all observances of nudity?
“Look, um, Mister.” What did one call their bare boss? Todd? Sir? Big guy? “How ’bout you go freshen up a bit and I’ll make breakfast. We can have our chat when we’re both, um, well, prepared for the day. ’Kay?”
“Fine. I’ll get dressed. Then we’ll talk.”
“You do that.”
As he sauntered—okay, maybe that was her overactive imagination, because could one really saunter with a Jim Beam-sized hangover?—from the fourteen-foot-ceiling kitchen with its state-of-the-art appliances that looked as if they’d come out of their packing boxes yesterday, so stainless steel shiny she could have used them as a mirror to fix her lipstick—if she’d worn lipstick—and she inhaled enough oxygen to jump-start primordial ooze.
Which posed a whole new set of problems for this job. How was she supposed to focus if she kept getting sidetracked by the physical?
But she would.
She could.
Heck, if she could outwit social workers and manage to keep her teenaged self out of the gutter, not to mention, actually make something of her life, she could certainly keep her own libido in check.
She had to. Her job, her livelihood, and all her dreams depended on it.
***
Each step up the goddamned grandiose stairway reverberated through Todd’s skull, setting his teeth on edge and his stomach roiling. Why the hell hadn’t the builder put carpet on these stairs?
Todd grabbed his head with one hand, keeping the other one hovering above his groin with the damned kitchen towel. It’d be funny if it weren’t so ungodly pitiful.
He, a grown man, hiding his modesty behind a piece of eight-by-twelve cotton because he didn’t have enough sense to pass out in his own bed.
He kicked open the bedroom door and grimaced. Bare, tan walls, minimal furniture, and the fucking king-sized bed mocked him.
He knew exactly why he’d chosen the couch.
And he wasn’t about to dwell on it. He’d done enough dwelling last night. More than enough, apparently.
He barreled through to the bathroom, his refusal to dwell on the reason just one more part of the person he’d become in the past two years.
And the poor woman downstairs who’d had to witness the person he’d become last night… God, wasn’t it just perfect she’d shown up this morning?
Todd grabbed the shower handle and turned the water full force to hot. He’d burn the alcohol out of his system if he had to. No one deserved that greeting her first day on the job. Even if it was his house.
Todd sucked in a breath as he stepped beneath the pelting liquid fire and realized he wasn’t as tough as he pretended. He turned the spigot back to warm and leaned his forehead against the cool ivory tile, and listened to the phone ring in his bedroom. Let the machine get the fucking thing. He couldn’t deal with the calls and the goddamned hounding.
Not today.
The water ran into his eyes and he wiped it away with the heels of his hands. Why today? Why’d she have to start today?
Why’d she have to start at all?
Why wouldn’t they all just leave him alone?
***
“You see what you’re up against, Jonathan?” The archangel, Raphael, waved his hand in front of the computer monitor in the executive office of Domestic Gods & Goddesses and the split-screen images of Todd and Jolie faded to a serene, heavenly blue screen saver. “Todd doesn’t think he’s ready to let go of his wife’s memory and Jolie is still a work in progress. Getting these two together could be difficult.”
Jonathan Griff took a seat on one of the burgundy chairs opposite the mahogany desk and sipped the lemonade Raphael had given him. Well, perhaps he gulped it. This was a big assignment. Todd was front-page news. Still. After two years out of the public eye, the man could have media coverage in an instant. He was high profile. He was hot.
What if Jonathan failed? Not only would Todd and Jolie, his Charges, suffer, but it’d be public. Then he’d never earn his wings.
Of course, personal aggrandizement was not what a Guardian should worry about. His Charges’ happiness should be his sole focus.
He’d had some success in the past, but there always seemed to be something he never got quite right. Could he take that risk with such a prominent case?
“You can do this, Jonathan.”
The archangel’s words reverberated inside his mind—another talent Jonathan hadn’t yet mastered. Why was Raphael offering him this assignment? The archangel had no malice in him so he couldn’t want to see him fail. Perhaps he had an overabundance of Hope?
Jonathan, left eye twitching, touched the keypad and the close-up of Todd’s face reappeared. The poor man was in so much pain and, while The Boss had a Plan for Todd, Jonathan couldn’t bear to see someone hurting.
And then there was Jolie. No one should have to endure what she had as a child. She was trying so hard to be all right that she’d almost convinced herself she w
as.
But she wasn’t. Not really. She played a good game, but she craved acceptance so much that she’d do anything to get it.
Well, almost anything.
Jonathan smiled, the twitch subsiding. He’d read her dossier. The girl had a fine moral character, as did Todd.
Character and a run of bad luck; that’s what the two of them shared. Not to mention the wellspring of love in their souls. That’s why the request for their happiness had been selected for fulfillment.
Now it was up to him to help them along.
Jonathan set the lemonade on an antique walnut-inlay table beside him and hopped off the chair to stand before the archangel. If Raphael thought he was capable of this job, then he owed it to his Charges to be the best Guardian possible.
“Yes, sir. I believe I can help them.”
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About the Author
Judi Fennell has had her nose in a book and her head in some celestial realm all her life, including those early years when her mom would exhort her to “get outside!” instead of watching Bewitched or I Dream of Jeannie on television. So she did—right into Dad’s hammock with her Nancy Drew books.
These days she’s more likely to have her nose in her laptop and her head (and the rest of her) at a favorite writing spot, but she’s still reading either her latest manuscript or friends’ books.
A PRISM Award and Golden Leaf Award winner, Judi loves to hear from her readers. Connect with her at:
www.JudiFennell.com
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Books by Judi Fennell
The Tritone Trilogy
In Over Her Head
Wild Blue Under
Catch of a Lifetime
Bottled Magic series
I Dream of Genies
Genie Knows Best
Magic Gone Wild
Once-Upon-A-Time Romance series
Beauty and The Best
If The Shoe Fits (coming soon)
Fairest of Them All (coming soon)
BeefCake, Inc. series
Beefcake & Cupcakes
Beefcake & Mistakes
Beefcake & Retakes (coming soon)
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