The covers slowly slip down. “Why?” His voice is rough, gravelly, deeper than its normal morning gravelly sound.
Good question. Maybe so he’d see me as a person and not as revenge. “Because.”
He sits up and holds his hand out. I open the bottle and hand it off. “Where’s your pain meds?”
“In the bathroom.” He puts the bottle to his lips and I have to turn away before I see the way his throat works and his muscles ripple. The room’s not dark enough to miss that.
The bathroom smells like him—but it’s the him from Mexico, when he used my stuff. I look around. No Natural Glow products rest on the counter by the whirlpool. None are in the shower. By his sink is the massage oil I made him. The toiletries are in containers. Like he made his own.
I forget the pain meds for the moment and select a clear bottle off the edge of his whirlpool. Unscrewing the lid, I sniff. Coconut and citrus. It smells almost exactly like one of our early lines of hair care products.
At the sink, I select a clear vial. It looks like any other generic travel container, but when I open it and sniff, I smell the signature eucalyptus scent of Natural Glow’s old-fashioned aftershave.
Unless he took the time to pour Natural Glow’s products into dollar store vials, these were homemade.
Doubt filters through the cracks of denial that continue to linger after seeing the video in his downstairs office. I accept my parents’ past. But I thought his accusations about the company were complete bullshit.
Until now.
I have to talk to Diana.
I open the medicine cabinet and find some Excedrin. I leave the bathroom, and all the questions my trip in there has aroused, with the maximum dose in hand.
Jacobi’s drink is nearly empty. He uses the last swallow for the pills and drags his gaze up to mine.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
He winces and squeezes his eyes shut. Right. My volume is normal, but to him, I might as well use a bullhorn. Migraines can last for days and I woke him up in the middle of his nap.
“Just a minute,” I say as I go back to the bathroom and grab the oil. At his bed, I wave my hand toward the pillows. “Lay down.”
He blinks up at me. “Why are you doing this? Being nice?”
“Because it’s what people do.”
“Not for free.”
I roll my eyes even if he can’t see it. “I’ll send you a bill. Feel better?”
He lies back. Bending over him, I gently rub his temples and work my way down his neck. He’s on his back and I didn’t dare touch his pecs. So many questions crowd my tongue. In the throes of his migraine, he might actually talk. But it’d hurt.
He doesn’t move and his breathing’s even. I’m sure he’s fallen asleep. As I’m straightening, he catches my wrist and peels his eyes open.
“Thanks.” The word sounds painful to say. Not physically, but emotionally.
He’s been dealing with these himself since his mom died. Whenever and however that was.
“You’re welcome.”
His thumb strokes a circle on my inner wrist and I imagine crawling over him and snuggling into him like I did only last week. That feels like months ago.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers, his eyes drifting shut.
“Or the boogeyman will get me?”
“He’s worse than that.”
I can’t speak. There’s more to Jacobi Dixon than I imagined, but it’s getting harder to separate him from Jake.
Chapter 4
Jacobi
A gentle touch prods my shoulder a second before London whispers, “Jacobi. There’s an alarm going off in the house.”
I peel my eyes open. London stares down at me, her hair hanging over her face. I could wake up to her angelic face every day. My hand twitches to stroke her soft skin, but her expression isn’t warm and welcoming. A line has formed between her brows and she’s looking around like the house is about to be stormed by a troop of unknown assailants.
She’s not in my bedroom because she was already here, sleeping next to me. Sun bleeds through the blinds and she’s wearing a loose sundress that makes her look like a tourist more than a CEO. Not the same clothing she had on when she massaged my temples. My phone’s pinging with the alarm to the front gate.
“What day is it?” I croak.
“What? Wednesday.”
“The staff.” I fumble for my phone and punch in the code.
“Staff?”
I roll onto my back and fling my arm over my face. “Lock the office.”
“You’re going to need to fill in some details there, boss.”
I almost manage to smile at her snippy tone. “On Wednesdays, the housekeeper, my personal chef, and my groundskeeper come to take care of business. I limit it to one day a week.”
“And you want your office locked. I see. Next time, ask nicely.” Footsteps pad away and then stop. “Why don’t you lock your office when I’m here?”
I didn’t bother to answer. I’m not ready to hear myself admit that I left the space that I’ve sought refuge in since I bought the house open to a woman who has every right to hate me.
When she leaves the bedroom, her soft floral scent lingers. I doze until voices arguing on the other side of the door wake me.
London’s stern tone is loud and clear. “I don’t care if you do the bedroom every Wednesday, without missing a single one, you’re not doing it today.”
My housekeeper’s voice is shriller than I’ve ever heard. “I always clean his bedroom and I’m not missing a week because some random woman tells me not to.”
I suppress my groan. At the time I hired Elsa, she was a struggling actress, heavy stress on the struggling part. Since I know what it was like to wonder where the next meal’s coming from, I hired her. She was grateful and good at her job, but lately she’s been different. Forward. Flirty. I knew it was a problem coming to a head, but her housekeeping business was taking off, a lot better than her acting career ever will, and I thought I’d give her more time.
Time that’s biting me in the ass now.
I swing my feet down and wince at the invisible pain stabbing through my skull when London’s words give me pause.
“Well, this random woman just happens to have the last name Dixon, first name Missus. Want to argue with me some more?”
I doubt she acts like that in the boardroom when her employees argue with her. But when Elsa insinuated she’s just some hookup, London established her territory.
My grin chases away the worst of the pressure in my skull. I don’t bother standing up. London has everything handled, but I will need to carry through with firing Elsa after today. I can only have people in my home that I trust.
“Mrs. Dixon?” Elsa couldn’t sound more disbelieving if she tried. What I wouldn’t give to see London’s face right now.
“Yes. Both bedrooms are off-limits today.”
My smile stays in place. She doesn’t want Elsa to know she’s not sleeping in here with me. That’s straight out of the CEO handbook. Never let the competition know that you don’t have the upper-hand.
Elsa’s raspy tone is firm. “You have to excuse me, Mrs. Dixon. I’ll need to verify this with my employer.”
“Consider me your employer. It’s verified.”
As much as I’m enjoying the pissing contest outside my door, London doesn’t have to put up with this. I stagger to the door. Straightening my shoulders and blinking my gaze clear, I whip it open. “As my wife said, consider it verified.”
London doesn’t appear relieved to see me. She lifts a cool brow as if to say seriously? Her gaze flicks to Elsa and back to me.
Ah, yes. One look at Elsa, and I know she didn’t arrive with plans to Swiffer. I know next to nothing about women’s hair, but I doubt that many who run housekeeping businesses would have it loose and hanging over their shoulder when they clean toilets all day. And instead of the sweats and T-shirt she used to wear when she first started
cleaning for me, what she’s wearing resembles a French maid’s outfit, complete with heels.
London’s thoughts blaze loud and clear in her eyes. She assumes my Wednesday housekeeping is code for fuck Elsa all day.
I should keep delaying the inevitable just to get a rise out of London however long she’s with me. But having Elsa over once a week would make London’s eye twitch and keep her thinking the worst of me. I don’t want that.
Maybe the migraine’s making me soft, or maybe it’s my pride. I didn’t need to hire someone to come have sex with me. Only blackmail them into marrying me. “Elsa, I’ll still pay you for today, but I’m no longer in need of your services.”
Yes, I phrased it like that on purpose.
Her blue eyes go wide. “But, Mr. Dixon—”
I hold up a hand. “No, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong conclusion. I truly only want my house cleaned, I’m not looking for adult company.”
She puts her hand to her chest, feigning innocence. “Mr. Dixon, I am a professional. What are you insinuating?”
“Does all your staff wear French maid outfits?”
Her mouth tightens and she puts a hand on her hip. “Canceling without giving a thirty-day notice incurs a thousand dollar penalty.”
“Consider it paid. But don’t give out my name for a reference.”
She shoots both me and London a glare before she flounces away, her skirt barely covering her ass. London narrows her eyes on me. “You should’ve made her mop the first floor in those heels. Wait here.”
I sag against the door frame. I don’t have to ask to know that London’s making sure Elsa leaves with no drama.
When she appears at the top of the stairs, I don’t hide my open appraisal. The yellow sundress swings just above her knees. The way it flows over her breasts and fans out to play peekaboo with the curves of her hips nearly drives me to my knees.
She stops in front of me, her hands balled on those hips I want to embrace. “I’m supposed to believe that she does more than light dusting?”
It’d be nice, but it’s not necessary. “Believe me or don’t. I’m going back to bed.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I never bring women back to my house. The only person I want to sleep with in this place is furiously glaring at me. My back burns under her vexation.
She follows me into my room. “Does the groundskeeper wear booty shorts to water the lawn? I saw the chef and he’s fully dressed.”
“It’s the oven. He can’t burn his spare parts.” I lay on my back in my still-warm spot. She’s several feet away, arms crossed, no bullshit glare, so at odds with her sunny clothing. “The groundskeeper’s name is Jim and he’s married with three kids. The chef is William and he knows what to do. You won’t have problems with either of them.”
“Do you need me to search for another housekeeper? Another struggling actress who sees a bigger paycheck if she lets you stick your dick—”
“How do you know she’s a struggling actress?”
London gives me a don’t be an idiot look. “Puh-lease. I was born and raised here. She’s small-town Ohio, born and bred.”
“It could be Nebraska.”
“Regardless. LA is like Vegas. Those of us from here can spot those who aren’t, French maid outfit or not.”
I chuckle and ignore the vise that tightens around my head. “If you know of any housekeeping services, I happen to be looking.”
“Will you need them to clean your bedroom every week, without fail?”
“Yes.” I hold back my grin, enjoying her reaction over the whole ordeal. “And I’ll be working in my office every week when they’re here like I normally do.”
She walks away and I assume she’s leaving. I curl onto my side. I hate being out of commission like this, but it’s better to rest than make security mistakes on a multi-million dollar contract.
There’s rummaging in the bathroom. She returns and places more medicine on the nightstand.
What’s her angle? Does she think caring for me is going to butter me up and I’ll sign her company back over to her?
Because it’s dangerously close to working.
“Thanks.”
“Yep.” She leaves me in my dim room and softly shuts the door, barely making a sound.
For once, I don’t curse the migraine. If I wasn’t bedridden because of it, I would’ve missed an enlightening interaction.
London Vanderbeek Dixon might not like me, but she doesn’t want me fucking around with anyone else.
* * *
London
I know Natural Glow isn’t mine anymore, but I still use my phone to send out a million emails and postpone meetings. It feels unprofessional as hell since I disappeared for two weeks and this week was supposed to be catch-up week.
What is he going to do with my company?
What is he going to do with me?
And as long as I’m asking questions I don’t know the answers to, why was I so ragingly jealous over Elsa the French Maid earlier?
So what he hired a gorgeous housekeeper? So what she cleaned his bedroom every week without fail? So what she refused to believe that I was Mrs. Dixon? I’m not. I’m London Vanderbeek.
Well, this random woman just happens to have the last name Dixon, first name Missus.
My cheeks burn. He heard all that.
And then he fired her for being rude and unprofessional. I would feel bad if I thought French Maid Elsa was interested in buffing surfaces that weren’t his dick.
I should’ve flung open the door and said Have at it. What do I care?
Turns out I care more than I want to. But, hey, we’re married. Out of pride, I’ll be faithful and he’ll keep that dick to himself.
The yawning ache between my thighs since he left me in Cabo won’t go away. I think it got worse after he handled Elsa.
I suck in a deep breath. The smell of a million different seasonings assault me. Whatever the chef is preparing is going to be delicious. He’s been here for hours, prepping food for the next seven days. Jacobi’s in his room, so I amble downstairs.
The chef is dressed like he came straight off a TV cooking competition. He looks up from a variety of containers on the counter, his amber eyes pleasant.
“Am I to understand you’re the new Mrs. Dixon?”
I’d be irritated if I didn’t announce it so firmly with Elsa. “London, please.” If I hear one more Mrs. Dixon today, I’m going to choke. I can’t even say Please, darling. Mrs. Dixon is my mother-in-law because all I knew of her was that she liked organic body creams and died a tragic death. Someday, I’ll know the whole story.
“Everyone calls me Chef Big Boy.”
I lift a brow. He’s shorter than Jacobi and maybe not as muscled, but still a normal size. “Do you want to be called Chef Big Boy?”
He chuckles and selects a black Sharpie. “I gave myself the name. Thought it’d be good branding. I wasn’t always this trim. But in the kitchen, there’s never a moment to sit. I’m hustling.”
“Is this what you do? Go house to house and cook a solid week’s supply?”
“Only this one house, really. I work for two other families, everything from grocery shopping to food prep, but they know that Wednesdays, I’m unavailable.”
“Just for Jacobi?” It’s nosy, but I ask, “Doesn’t that make getting other work hard when Jacobi insists on a set day?”
His smile fades. “No one would hire me, and I couldn’t afford the quality ingredients even though I could cook it a hundred different ways. Mr. Dixon, though. He gave me a chance. I didn’t get that other work without his reference.”
Jacobi gave a struggling actress a job. Then Chef Big Boy. What’s the groundskeeper’s story?
I bump my butt onto a stool and hope the chef keeps talking. The days in Cabo with only Jake to talk to went by so fast. But the last four days have been lonely and isolating.
He labels containers and separates them. When he sees my interest, he
explains, “Some go in the fridge, but many won’t keep for a solid week, so these go into the freezer. With warm-up instructions.”
“He seriously doesn’t cook for himself?”
“He’s a busy man.”
Diana loves cooking, but we eat out a lot. The key there was out. Jacobi works from home and eats at home. He makes himself be busy. So he doesn’t have to face the world.
“So what have we got? It smells delicious.”
As he rattles off a menu that’s filled with fresh this and organic that and free-range meat and cage-free eggs, I’m left thinking… where’s the fun stuff?
“Since I’m here”—for now—“maybe we can add a few things. I’m not as rigid with my diet as Jacobi.”
Chef Big Boy’s eyes twinkle. “Absolutely. Tell me what you want and I’ll add it when I clear the menu with Mr. Dixon.”
He’ll clear the menu with Mr. Dixon? I can’t fault the loyalty, but damn. I’ll give Jacobi a menu to clear. “Do you make homemade ice cream?” I search the kitchen for paper and a pen. I have a list. “How about truffles? Mac ‘n’ cheese. You know, I’d love to have, like, Toaster Strudel, but homemade, to reheat for breakfast. And muffins. Those freeze well. What can you do in a day?”
Chef Big Boy’s dark skin flushes, like he wants to do nothing more than accommodate me, but won’t cross Jacobi. “I can make all this, but Mr. Dixon—”
“Doesn’t have to eat it if he doesn’t want to. And I can pay for it myself.” Guilt gnaws at me. Chef fiddles with his apron and I recall his appreciation for this job. “Don’t worry. I’ll warn him ahead of time and ask him to confirm with you.”
He smiles, but there’s tension around his eyes. “It’s just… you know how he is about food and waste.”
No. Actually, I don’t. What Jacobi said in Cabo comes back to me. “He doesn’t want processed food.”
He nods. “And he can’t stand wasted food.”
I thought of eating out with Diana and how we’d each leave a half a plate of food, not bothering to bring it back to the penthouse because I was just going to eat out the next day. I’d done that my whole life.
Redeemed: Ruined and Redeemed Duet - Book 2 Page 4
