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His bathroom isn’t so bad with just an open tube of toothpaste and some deodorant lying on the counter, and about five towels laying on the floor.
The rest of the house isn’t messy, just in need of general dusting and vacuuming. He appears to limit his time to some select areas… his kitchen and bedroom, and I’m guessing his office on the third floor, since he told me that’s where he’d probably be when I came over. I haven’t seen him since I got here fifteen minutes ago and familiarized myself with the house.
Luckily, I brought all my cleaning supplies with me, including my vacuum cleaner and mop, because I assumed, rightly so, that he wouldn’t have any forethought to provide that stuff. I even brought laundry detergent because I doubted he had that either, and immediately start a load of his laundry after stripping his bed sheets.
After putting in my ear buds and dialing up some Black Eyed Peas on my iPhone, I decide to tackle the kitchen first because it’s the nastiest. It takes me a good twenty minutes to wash all the dishes because Gavin didn’t even bother to rinse them when he stuck them in there. It appears the man subsists on canned ravioli and ham sandwiches. After scrubbing down the counters, I go ahead and dust the entire house, top to bottom, and then scrub the bathrooms. When I finish that, I creep up to the third floor and see that his office door is closed. I put my ear against it, and I can hear the faint clicking of his fingers on a computer. I hadn’t known if he was even here or not until now, but decide against disturbing him. I’m absolutely certain I’d be treated to a whole lot of cranky if I did that, so I carefully creep back down the stairs.
After changing out another load of laundry, I go ahead and start vacuuming the house. All of his floors are hardwood and tile with some scattered rugs, but I find it easier to run the vacuum cleaner rather than use a broom on the hard surfaces. After giving the first floor a once-over, I move onto the second-floor bedrooms.
While I am generally not a fan of house cleaning in general, for some reason I enjoy vacuuming. I think it’s the gentle push and pull of the machine that lets my brain seem to lull and my mind to wander, allowing me to escape into a lovely daydream. Sometimes I’ll fantasize about an epic romance, where a handsome man with an amazing body sweeps me off my feet and tells me he will adore me for all time. Sometimes, I even let my fantasies stray to the bedroom, where said handsome man with a rockin’ body will give me pleasure beyond my wildest imagination.
I’m betting Gavin Cooke knows how to do that for a woman. Sure, he’s brash, arrogant, and a jerk, but deep within those eyes, you can tell that part of his ego is what would make him undoubtedly a fantastic lover. I bet he doesn’t know how to do a poor job at anything.
Shaking my head with an internal smirk, I try to banish those thoughts. While Gavin may be well equipped in the bedroom, that’s about as far as his talents would take him, I’m betting. He absolutely screams “loner,” and you can tell he probably has no concept of what a loving relationship would be about. At least in my limited experience. Yup… need to keep his gorgeous face completely segregated over into the sole category of “pornographic fantasies” and keep waiting for my dream man that will hopefully resemble someone of Hunter or Brody’s caliber.
Suddenly, something grabs ahold of my upper arm and I scream at the top of my lungs, releasing the handle to the vacuum cleaner and thrusting my elbow upward and back in self-defense. It cracks into something hard, and I leap forward a few feet, spinning to face my attacker.
Gavin is standing there, looking pissed and holding his hand to his jaw while he flexes it back and forth. He says something but I can’t hear him, so I hastily pull the ear buds loose and scramble forward to turn the vacuum cleaner off.
“Jesus f**king Christ,” he says as he fingers his jaw. “What the f**k did you hit me for?”
“You scared me,” I say defensively, my heart still pounding like a jackhammer.
“I called out to you,” he throws at me, anger heavy in his voice.
“Well, clearly I didn’t hear you or I would have responded. ”
“Clearly,” he sneers. “How could you hear me with all that f**king racket you were making? I’m trying to write for Christ’s sake, and you’re hoovering the house down. ”
“Hoovering?” I ask, confused.
“Hoover,” he says as he points to the vacuum cleaner.
“It’s a Dirt Devil,” I say as I look at the bright red model with a devil’s tail on it.
“What?” he asks, confused, his eyebrows drawn inward.
“It’s a Dirt Devil,” I confirm.
“What the f**k ever. We call them hoovers in the UK,” he growls, and I have to resist the urge to laugh. But then he brings me back down to earth by saying, “I can’t have you making all that noise when I’m trying to work. ”
“I can’t clean properly without vacuuming,” I tell him. “Hoovering, I mean. ”
“Then use a f**king broom so you don’t make any noise,” he snarls as he turns away from me, “or I’ll find someone that can clean my house in a way that caters to my needs, not theirs. ”
“I’m sorry,” I say softly as he starts to climb the staircase, because I truly am. He’s my employer and I do need to find a way to work around him and fulfill his needs.
“Whatever,” he gripes. “Daft Yank. ”
I’m not sure why his words set me off. Maybe it’s because adrenaline is coursing through my body from having the pants scared off me or maybe it’s because I’m tired of being a doormat that certain douche bags walk all over, but I put my job in jeopardy once again when I say, “Why are you always such an ass**le?”
The words pop out of my lips so suddenly that I have an insane urge to clap my hand over my mouth. But I don’t. I straighten my spine, stand tall, and cringe internally while I wait for him to bring the hammer down on me.
Gavin turns slowly on the staircase until he’s facing me directly. His eyes are narrowed and his teeth are clenched. “What did you just call me?”
“An ass**le,” I confirm. “You’re mean. Really mean, actually. ”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me a moment. Then my heart really starts pounding when he steps down off the bottom stair and walks toward me. His gait is slow, his eyes holding me in place. He walks right up to me and when I have to crane my neck upward to look at him, I finally take a step backward. It doesn’t stop his momentum though, because he takes another step in my direction, even as I back up. We continue this dance until he backs me right up into a dresser. The halt in my progress doesn’t stop him though, and he takes one more step into me until there’s nothing more than a few inches separating our bodies.
He glares down at me… his eyes probing my gaze deeply. I swallow hard, not knowing if this man is certifiable enough to hurt me, but pretty damn sure he’s getting off on the fact that he’s scaring the daylights out of me.
He surprises me when he brings a hand up and I struggle not to flinch, unsure if he’s going to strangle me or not. Instead, his fingers graze along my jaw before giving it a firm grip to hold me in place. “So, you think I’m an ass**le?”
I lick my lips once and swallow again to wet my tongue. “Yes,” I whisper.
The frostiness in his gaze dissipates, and he slides his thumb over my chin. The move is soft, sensual, and his breath fans out over my face in a rush of cinnamon scent. “You’re an interesting woman,” he muses.
“I am?” I ask, my voice still held hostage by fear, but also something else that I can’t quite put my finger on. Curiosity? Excitement?
“Indeed,” he murmurs. “I thought your backbone was made of jelly. I’m thinking I might have misjudged you a bit. ”
I don’t know how to respond, and I’m slightly offended he would think that. Sure, I’m quiet and a bit withdrawn, and yeah… I’ve put up with all kinds of shit from Eric, but I’m not without mettle. As evidenced by the fact I just called him an ass**le, which admit
tedly, is a bit of a surprise even to myself that I did it.
“Tell me, sweet Savannah. ” His voice pours out of his mouth smooth as melted chocolate. “Did I piss you off the other night… at that bar?”
“No,” I immediately deny.
“Little liar,” he whispers and grazes his thumb across my chin again and, this time, my body shivers in reaction. He sees that and chuckles deep in his chest, clearly delighted to have that power over me. “You’re not just interesting. I find you positively fascinating. ”
Gavin releases his hold on my face and turns away from me, heading back to the staircase. “Use a broom,” he orders. “And I’ll be ready to eat dinner around seven. ”
“But… you don’t have anything in your refrigerator or cupboards other than ravioli and molded cheese,” I lament.
“Then I suggest a trip to the grocer to buy something. I have money in my wallet beside my bed,” he says, leaping up the staircase two steps at a time. In just a few seconds, I hear his office door open and slam shut, and I’m left behind with my heart still pounding and my hands shaking.
Giving a last toss to the shrimp stir-fry, I turn the gas off and place a cover over the wok. Reaching into the refrigerator, I grab a bottle of water, taking a small measure of pride in the contents. In addition to buying stuff for his dinner, I took the liberty of buying more lunchmeats along with some vegetables I cut up and put in Ziploc bags for him to munch on. I also made a quick tuna casserole that he can pop in the oven tomorrow night and a Mexican casserole for the following night. At least he wouldn’t starve to death before I got back on Friday, and it makes me feel better because he’s overpaying me.
His footsteps on the staircase alert me to his impending presence and suddenly, I’m nervous. What seemed like a nice gesture to prepare a few meals for him seems to now be stepping across a line that maybe I should steer clear of. But it’s too late now to worry about it.
I hastily turn to the cabinets and pull out a plate, then rummage in a drawer for a knife and fork. Pulling a paper towel off the rack, I have it folded and sitting under the cutlery by the time he walks into the kitchen.
“Something smells delicious,” he says, and every bit of anger and animosity, as well as intimate danger he showed me earlier, is gone. He’s dressed same as he was, in a pair of faded jeans and an olive green T-shirt that fits his upper body well. His feet are bare and his hair dark hair is slightly disheveled. I’m not sure if it’s the five o’clock shadow he’s sporting, or his smoky gray eyes, but he looks dark, dangerous, and utterly freakin’ gorgeous. Add on that silky, smooth British accent, and he’s what you’d call a classic panty-melter. That is, if he kept his condescending, cranky mouth shut, which would then obviate the sexy accent. Still, his looks alone would make a woman twitchy and damp.
I walk over to my purse on the kitchen counter and grab it, rustling around inside for my keys. Keeping my eyes averted from his, I say, “That’s a shrimp stir-fry in the wok and there’s some rice in the pot next to it. I um… left you a few other things in the fridge. ”
Heading for the front door, I hear him open the refrigerator. “What’s all this?”
Turning around, I bring my gaze to his and he looks confused. So I elucidate. “I made you a few casseroles. Instructions are taped to the top on how to cook it. That will hold you over until Friday. ”
I reach for the doorknob, but he stops me. “Why don’t you stay… eat dinner with me?”
My jaw sags a little, completely caught off guard. This was the guy that was manhandling and cursing at me a few hours ago, and now he’s inviting me to eat with him?
Sugar on the Edge Page 7