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I walk toward her, taking in her bare feet. I need to talk to my father about his recruits. She’s clearly unsuitable. What housekeeper walks around barefoot for a start?
“Thirty-three.” I extend my hand in greeting.
She eyes it before placing the carton on the counter. The second her wet, juice-covered fingers meet mine in a handshake, my jaw clenches.
“Thirty-three? Wow.” She whistles. “I see why you think I’m young. You’ve got a whole decade on me.”
I clench my jaw as her cool fingers coat mine in stickiness.
“It’s nice to meet yo—”
“You’re twenty-three?” I scoff. “What experience do you have?”
Something akin to defiance flashes in her light irises.
“Enough. What experience doyouhave?”
I suck in a breath through my nose. I might be tired and cranky from the flight, but that doesn’t change the fact my father has hired a brat with a bad attitude as his new housekeeper. One who doesn’t realize she’s doing the equivalent of poking a bear right now.
I take the cap from her other hand and screw it back onto the carton, giving her a pointed look.
“Glasses are in that one.” I point at a cupboard, then walk to the sink to wash my hands.
When she snorts, my hands ball into fists beneath the running water, and I glance at her.
“Do the flowers grow better if you wear a tie to water them?” She leans against the counter with her armsfolded. The position accentuates the red lace beneath her wet top.
“You think I’m the landscaper?” I dry my hands and turn to face her.
Her plump lips part, and she blinks, confused. “Aren’t you?”
Heat fires across the back of my neck as my irritation spikes. “Regardless of who you thought I am, one, next time use a glass. Two, don’t cuss while working, and three—”
“Who the fuck are you?”
I stare at her. I should fire her now. Save my father a job.
She inches away from me slowly, her eyes darting to the open doorway.
“Robbers don’t let themselves in with a key,” I snap, placing my hands onto my hips.
“Then who—?
“Jet.”
She looks at me blankly.
“Jet Grant,” I snap.
“Oh.” She frowns, pausing her creep toward the door. “Magnus said you live in LA?”
The way she calls my father Magnus so easily when she’s still in her first week of employment has my shoulders tensing, besides walking around barefoot, wearing a tank and shorts as if she lives here. What’s she going to be doing after another week? Registering this address for her personal mail? Walking around nude?
She shivers under my scrutiny.
“I do. But there are these things called planes.”
“I’m well aware what a plane is,” she snaps.
