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If she didn’t know who I was then (and I have no reason to assume she was lying when she said she didn’t), then she certainly does now.
Before she knew who I am—how much money I’m worth—she was afraid of me. I unwittingly creeped her out, just like that girlfriend of my father’s from all those years ago.
Maybe now that she knows I’m rich, she’ll be nice to me. Ingratiating.
I don’t know that I could handle that. Obviously, I shouldn’t care one way or the other. By the time Thursday rolls around, I’m annoyed with myself. It’s time to put an end to this shit.
So at six o’clock on Thursday evening, when Savannah shows up to make dinner, I am not up in my office, I’m sitting on one of the stools in the kitchen, answering emails on my laptop, music playing through my earbuds, like I own the place.
Which is my point.
I do own the place.
And that fact that I’ve been hiding from my personal chef for the past two months is ridiculous.
Still, I want the opportunity to look into her eyes and see whether my presence disturbs her.
What am I going to do if she is clearly still afraid of me?
I hate the idea of her working for me if she’s afraid of me simply because she has no other options. No one should have to work in that environment.
I can’t fire her. I know how desperately she needs this job.
That’s when she walks in. I pretend not to hear the front door open, not to notice the way her steps slow as she reaches the kitchen and sees me there, as if she’s debating what to do. I make a show of pulling out my earbuds and turning to glance over my shoulder.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
Today she’s not in the shorts and T-shirt she was wearing the other day.
Last night, a cold front came through. At least what passes for a cold front in fall in Texas. Today the high was in the mid 70s. Practically sweater weather.
So today she’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. It should be an improvement, because at least her legs aren’t bare, but she’s still barefoot. Her shirt looks to be a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt. It’s oversized, the neck stretched out so that it hangs off one shoulder.
“I can leave and come back later.”
Shit. I’m staring again.
Probably doing that thing where I don’t blink often enough and wait too long to talk.
“It’s fine.”
I force myself to drag my gaze from her bare feet up to her face. After all, that was the point, wasn’t it? To look at her. Not to ogle her, but to figure out if she’s freaked out by me.
So I give myself a second to do what I haven’t done before. To really look at her face. Her lips are slightly parted and glistening. Her cheeks flushed—probably from carrying groceries over from her cottage. Her eyes are a striking blue, almost indigo. Her pupils dilated, likely because she just came inside from the outdoors and they are adjusting.
She looks gorgeous, surprised to find me here, but not afraid.
Thank fuck.
I stand and move to pick up my laptop.
“I can move to my office.”
She takes a hasty step forward. “You don’t have to do that.” She sets the bag down on the other side of the counter and starts unpacking it. “You’re welcome to work in here while I cook. It’s your house, after all.”
“But it’s your kitchen. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
I’m watching her so closely I see the moment her gaze darts to mine, a frown of confusion flickering across your face.
