I just hope the new live-in caretaker I hired this time is better than the last few have been. Firing the live-in caretaker has also become something of a ritual when I come back from business deals. Part of it is seeing that my daughter, Sophie, hates their guts. Another part is whatever list of complaints my mother has compiled about them. Maybe the biggest part is just wanting to get rid of the reminder that I left again. It lets me pretend for a few weeks or months that I’m a good father and son, one that would never put anything before his family.
I wanted my daughter to have something close to a normal life after the divorce, so I moved us to the suburbs of Jacksonville, Florida. She goes to a regular elementary school and has normal friends. When I divorced Julianne five years ago, she refused to be involved in Sophie’s life, with the exception that she decided to have her house built only about twenty minutes away from ours.
I stop at Toby’s on my way home. It’s a little family owned grocery store just a few miles from my house. I want to grab ingredients to cook Sophie’s favorite dinner when I get home--fried salmon patties with macaroni and cheese. It’s still before noon, and there’s hardly anyone in the store at this hour. I’m reaching for the last box of macaroni and cheese when my hand brushes against a woman’s smooth skin. I look up, not realizing someone was in the same aisle.
“S-sorry,” the woman stutters.
She has light brown hair and the eyes to match. She has thick lashes that frame the most perfect, innocent doe-like eyes I’ve ever seen. If that wasn’t enough, there’s a hint of something mischievous and sexual behind them, like she could be the proper little preacher’s daughter in the open and a devil between the sheets. Breathtaking. I’ve heard the word and read it in books before. I’ve always thought it was just something someone thought up because it sounded good. But the breath literally slips from my lungs at the sight of her. It’s not because she’s the most textbook beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, either. It’s because she carries so much passion in those big, light brown eyes. So much, in fact, that I feel like I know her from one glance.
“Sorry?” I ask, smirking. “You will be if you don’t drop that box.”
Her almond eyes widen slightly and her lips part.
Fuck. I can’t tell if I’ve just been buried in my business for too long, or if this woman really is the most perfect blend of sweet and sexy I’ve ever seen. She wears glasses, conservative clothes, and has her makeup done in a natural, understated way. But no amount of conservative clothing can hide the full curve of her hips or the swell of her tits against the cardigan she has on.
I’m particularly drawn to her neck. It’s long, like a dancers, and she wears a thin necklace that rests just inside her clavicle, pulsing faintly with her heartbeat.
She sets the box back on the shelf. “I had better--” she starts to say, grabbing her cart to move on.
I place a hand on her cart, meeting her eyes. “This is a small town. Why haven’t I seen you before?”
Her fingertips go to the necklace, touching it as if it offers her some kind of protection. It’s a thick heart with hinges, maybe the kind that holds a picture inside. “I’m new here.”
I take a step closer to her, but not out of any deliberate thought or purpose. I just feel a compulsion to be closer to this woman. To breathe her in. To touch her. “Let me show you the sights, then,” I say.
She shakes her head, looking down. “I have work.”
“When do you get off?” I ask.
“Excuse me?” she asks, eyebrows drawing down. “I hardly think that’s appropri--”
“Off work…” I say slowly, feeling the corner of my mouth pull up in a smile.
Her cheeks redden and she covers her eyes in the most adorable way, like if I can’t see her, the embarrassment will pass faster. “I think I’m just going to go drive this cart off a cliff now,” she groans.
“Bad news, sweetheart. We’re in Florida. Closest thing you’ll find to a cliff around here is the pothole on State Road Thirteen.”
She laughs, biting her lip as she looks up at me. “Okay, fine. I’ll go drive my shopping cart around until an alligator gets me. Is that better?”
I chuckle. “Better. Yes. So, when do you get off?” I ask.
She swallows, giving me a glare of warning for teasing her. “My job is kind of an all day sort of thing. I don’t really get much time off.”
“Your boss sounds like an asshole,” I say.
“I haven’t met him.”
“Fuck him then,” I say. “I’ll come by tonight and show you around.”
The humor leaves her face and she pushes the cart a little, forcing me to step aside. Her voice is cold now. “I can’t risk losing my job. I really need to go,” she says over her shoulder, leaving me standing by the macaroni and cheese box, wondering if I’ll ever see her again.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out to see I have a new voicemail. Fuck. Only a handful of people have my private line, and only one of them would ever leave a voicemail. I don’t want to ruin my first day back listening to it. Not yet.
23
Aubrey
I pull up the long driveway to Mr. King’s house and breathe out a long, shaky breath. My fingertips brush down my neck and clutch the necklace at my throat. That man.
It’s hard to believe I didn’t dream up the man from Toby’s. He certainly looked like he could’ve walked right out of my imagination. Tall, dark hair, shockingly green eyes that brought images of silken bedsheets and bare flesh to my mind. He had it all. Sexuality, power, charm. He wore what looked like a very expensive suit but somehow it didn’t seem stiff on him. He wore it casually and comfortably, as if he was as at home in a suit as most men are in a t-shirt.
I’m still mentally smacking myself for walking away, but the moment he talked about blowing off my job, I knew I had to walk away. I knew a man like him could probably override my better sense and make me do something dumb enough to risk losing my job, which I absolutely can’t afford to do.
Still, he was so insanely handsome. I head inside Mr. King’s house, barely noticing how massive it is anymore. I remember I thought I had the wrong address on my first day. As an in-home caretaker, I’ve worked a handful of jobs since graduating college two years ago, and they’ve all been in a similar type of house--old, dusty, and cramped.
Mr. King’s house, if I can even call something so big a house, couldn’t be farther from those places.
For starters, there are three main buildings. There’s the main house, which is broken into three wings, each of which is a sort of home within the home for Mr. King, his daughter, and his mother. There are also a central cluster of rooms with everything from indoor swimming pools, a cinema, a fitness center, an art gallery, and even a small garden room filled with natural light. The room where I sleep is tucked in beside all the other rooms presumably built for Mr. King’s personal enjoyment, which struck me as slightly odd when I saw where I was staying. Living in his cluster of “fun” rooms made me wonder if he thought I was here for his enjoyment too.
The thought makes me shiver with the creeps. He’s probably some old, crusty man who’s arrogant and abrasive. Yeah, no thanks. If he wants to try coming into my room, I’ll introduce his crotch to my knee. Except I’d probably be too chicken to actually do that. But he can bet his butt I’d at least firmly tell him to leave. Okay, I’d ask him to leave, but it’s basically the same thing.
There’s also an auxiliary building a few dozen yards to the west of the gardens where Mr. King has accountants, investors, and bankers working full-time to manage his ever-growing fortune. And then there’s the separate training facility in addition to the smaller fitness center in the main house, where there is every type of exercise equipment imaginable, a boxing ring, a tennis court, swimming pool, and even a smoothie bar inside the gym.
It’s the definition of excessive, and I’ve spent my two months here wondering what a man who can afford all of this luxury would be like.
Probably overweight, underslept, and an asshole. But I don’t have to wonder much longer, because he’s supposed to arriving home today.
I enter the house and pass through the foyer toward the kitchen. Floor to ceiling windows give a full view of the patio, which is walled in by rock formations and waterfalls that surround a small swimming pool styled after a grotto.
Mr. King’s daughter is lying face down beside the pool in a swimsuit. When I see it, I drop my bags and rush outside, nearly breaking the glass doors in my hurry to open them.
“Sophie!” I shout, heart beating out of my chest. My instructions said it was okay to leave Sophie home alone as long as it wasn’t for more than an hour, but I should’ve--
She rolls her head to the side, smooshing her cheek against the ground and giving me a blank look. “Aubrey!” she yells back at me in the same tone of voice I just used.
I plant my hands on my hips, giving her my best glare. “Sophie King, so help me. I’m too young to have a heart attack. What are you trying to do? Kill me? I thought you were dead or something.”
Sophie turns her head so her forehead is resting on the ground again, answering me in her usual, dry monotone. “I’m tanning.”
I look at the dozens of perfectly good lounge chairs scattered across the patio. “On the ground?” I ask.
“Aubrey,” she says in a level voice. “I know you think I’m just a simple-minded child, but I’m actually a very grounded young woman.”
I close my eyes, sighing when I realize what this is.
Sophie sits up, mouth quirking up in the faintest smile. “Get it?”
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head and laughing. “How long were you lying there just so you could say that?”
“Not sure,” she says, brushing dirt from her stomach as she stands. “I didn’t want to risk checking my phone to see the time in case you came back. You get it though, right? Grounded?”
“Yeah, four out of ten stars. Weak pun,” I say.
She growls. “Lame.”
“You didn’t think seeing if your grandmother needed anything might be a better use of your time?” I ask.
Sophie folds her arms. “She knows how to yell for me.”
“Aubrey, is that you?” calls Roxanne from somewhere deeper in the house. “If you forgot the Crisco again I swear I will end you!”
“See?” asks Sophie.
“Would you go inside and put on some clothes, sweetie. Your father is coming home soon, remember?”
Sophie is a very, very dry and sarcastic little girl, so getting a smile out of her is about as rare as me getting the evening off. But despite all the times I’ve imagined her father as some grim business tycoon who rules his family with an iron fist, the happiest I’ve seen Sophie is when we talk about him coming home. She hurries off to her room, hopefully to change out of the bathing suit and into something presentable.
I head toward the wing of the house where Roxanne can generally be found. I turn the corner to the main hallway and nearly get run over by her wheelchair as she comes speeding--relatively speaking, that is--out of the hallway. She sees me and points a wrinkled finger, narrowing her eyes.
“Don’t even say you forgot it. Don’t you dare,” she warns.
I move behind her chair, smiling as I wheel her to where I dropped the groceries just outside the foyer. I find the bag with Crisco and hold it out. She reaches to snatch it from me, examining the label. “Not that low fat garbage, is it?”
“It’s exactly what you wanted, Roxanne. Trust me, I learned my lesson about trying to sneak healthier ingredients into your food.”
“Damn right you did,” she agrees, nodding with satisfaction. She flashes a quick grin in my direction. “What do you say we break this can open? Maybe we can whip up some apple fritters or maybe even some quiche?”
“You could pick one,” I suggest carefully.
She scowls at me, but doesn’t protest. “Apple fritters sound good. Hot damn do they sound good. C’mon little missy! We don’t pay you to stand around and look pretty.” She makes a sad attempt at swatting for my rear end.
I laugh, hurrying off to the kitchen to get the food started. Just as I step into the kitchen, I hear the front door open and the sound of suitcases dropping.
“Daddy!” yells Sophie from the top of the stairs. Her footsteps come rapidly as she charges down toward him.
“Soph,” says a deep, oddly familiar voice. “I’ve missed you so much, honey.” He sounds younger than I expected, too. Hotter. I mentally laugh at myself. Really? Am I so desperate for a guy in my life that I’m trying to convince myself he sounds hot?
“Daddy,” says Sophie in a thick voice. It’s more emotion than I’ve ever heard from her. She sounds genuinely happy to see him. It warms my heart to hear her so happy after months of seeing her calm, collected little fifth grader-self.
“It’s about time, Liam,” says Roxanne.
“Don’t tell me,” I hear him say. “You want me to fire the help again?”
The help? I think, clenching my teeth. What does he think I am, a servant?
“Fire her?” asks Roxanne. “Hell no! I want you to marry her. She’s the first person you’ve ever hired who understands the difference between olive oil and extra virgin olive oil. She learns fast, too. You try to fire her and I’ll make you pay,” she adds in a deep, threatening voice.
The man chuckles.
I decide this is only going to get more awkward the longer I wait to introduce myself. I brush the wrinkles from my clothes, set my jaw and walk out into the main gathering room. “Hi, I’m--” I stop short when I see the man.
The man from Toby’s. It’s the guy who was hitting on me. The one who was trying to get me to dip out of work.
He makes the connection at the same time I do and raises his eyebrows. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” he says smoothly, slipping away from his daughter to come toward me. He extends a hand.
I shake the offered hand, looking up into those piercing green eyes. I can’t say exactly how I know, but I see something churning behind them. “Mr. King,” I say stiffly.
“Aubrey, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He quirks a brow, turning to look at his mother. “She has the personality of a plank of wood. You sure you don’t want me to fire her?”
“Excuse me?” I ask, voice shaking.
“I mean, look at this place,” he says, running a finger along the crown molding. “Dusty. Stale. You call yourself a maid?”
I clench my teeth, balling my fists at my side and trying not to say something that is going to get me fired. “I’m a caretaker, Mr. King. It’s not my job to take care of the house. I’m here for your mother. That’s all.”
I don’t mention the fact that his mother barely needs a caretaker. I think she only insists on it because she wants someone at arm’s length to bully and make uncomfortable, but as crazy as it sounds, I love being that person. My mother was the exact same way, and I know just like my mom, it’s Roxanne’s way of enjoying my company, so I don’t mind it at all.
He smirks, leaning close so only I can hear him. “That’s a shame. Cause you’d look damn cute in a maid’s uniform.”
My hand itches to slap him but I hold it tightly to my side. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. King. I was about to get started in the kitchen.”
I don’t wait for him to respond before turning on my heel and storming back into the kitchen. The nerve of that man. I rip open the flour and start prepping to make apple fritters in jerky, fast movements. I spin to grab the Crisco and accidentally knock the entire bag of flour on the ground, which puffs up in a cloud of white that immediately settles on all the appliances, counters, and cabinets. I sink down to my knees and do my best silent rendition of Charlton Heston’s “you maniacs!” line--the part where he sees the statue of liberty on the beach and the truth hits him. It’s my go-to anger release when I do something stupid.
I’m pounding my fist on the flour-caked groun
d and mouthing, “You blew it all to hell” when a voice startles me.
“Planet of the Apes?” asks Mr. King, who’s leaning against the pantry and watching me in amusement.
I freeze, fist half-raised and eyes wide as I look up at him. I must look like the craziest, most immature woman in the world right now, and I’m just glad there’s so much flour on me that he can’t see me blush. “It was a mistake.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “They never should’ve given the apes so much power.”
A surprised laugh slips out of me.
Mr. King grins. “Want some help?”
“You don’t have to. You’ll get your suit all--”
He pulls a broom and dustpan from the pantry and starts sweeping up the flour, not seeming to care that it’s floating up and settling in his expensive clothes. I lose myself watching him for a moment. In the grocery store I was so startled I hardly had time to register a thought any deeper than “mmm, sexy man. Would bang. Ten out of ten.” Now I have time to take in his features and his build, from the powerful cheek bones, the thick eyelashes, and his perfectly defined jaw-line, not to mention his lean, athletic build.
His attractiveness goes deeper than physicality though. There’s an aura about the man, as if he’s some larger-than-life legend, ripped out of fantasy and thrust in front of me. I don’t know what he did to make his billions, but looking at him now, it’s clear that he commands men and women. He can rule with an iron fist or a charming smile, and he’s equally proficient in both. Fire and ice. He has both. Liam King could be your worst enemy or your best friend. Every last bit of that is written in the expression on his face and the way he carries himself.
I’ve never seen a man more plainly and effortlessly powerful, and--
“You know, when I said I’d help, I kind of thought it’d be fifty-fifty,” says Mr. King.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, scooping flour into small piles with my hands, still on the ground and on my knees.
He laughs. “You want to borrow this?” he asks, handing me the broom.
Knocked Up by the Master: A BDSM Secret Baby Romance Page 18
