The Bachelor Auction (The Bachelors of Arizona Book 1)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  His grandfather had preferred a smaller room—leaving the larger to his parents—and God, it felt like their ghosts were still there.

  If he had it his way, he’d re-do the entire west wing of the house and bulldoze the shit out of the walls in an effort to get rid of the memories.

  Sighing, he grabbed one of the towels and dried off, then quickly dressed. Maybe being here was a good thing. Maybe he could battle his demons once and for all.

  * * *

  Somehow he managed to make it out of the shower without jacking off to the vision of a shirtless Jane.

  “Fuck.” He pulled a clean T-shirt over his head and ran his fingers through his hair. So she was going to be cleaning the house; it wasn’t like he would see her every second of every day.

  And it wasn’t even that dirty—his grandfather scarcely used it.

  Maybe she would finish early?

  Besides, she was an employee.

  Which meant she would be making herself scarce.

  That was what he should want.

  He slammed his fists against the bathroom counter and glared at his reflection in the mirror. A man of thirty-five stared back at him, but he didn’t see the man. He saw the exterior, the shell, but on the inside, he knew what he felt like.

  What this fucking house made him feel like.

  A lonely boy.

  A terrified lonely boy whose only plan in life was to please everyone but himself.

  With a growl he ran his hands over his face. Amazing that all it had taken was walking in the door, and his emotions were all over the place.

  Jane’s presence wouldn’t help matters either.

  Having her clean things, rifle through his family’s stuff—it wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was—well he wasn’t sure what it was, but he didn’t like it.

  With a sigh, he picked up his phone and called his grandfather.

  Of course, the old man answered on the first ring.

  “Brock! I take it you’ve made it? How’s the ass?”

  Brock paused, then rolled his eyes. “I haven’t had the opportunity to greet the animals.”

  “A shame.”

  “Yes,” he said in a dry voice. “My thoughts exactly. Then again I’ve been a bit distracted. You wouldn’t know anything about that, now would you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Grandfather—”

  “Don’t take that tone with me. I taught you that tone, boy,” Grandfather grumbled. “She’s only there helping air out the property and clean the rooms, unless you’d rather tend to those things while you’re there?”

  “It hardly needs a deep clean.”

  “Of course it does, especially after the chickens got loose in the hall.”

  Brock frowned. “Since when did the chickens get loose?”

  “New Years’.” Grandfather chuckled. “To be fair, we weren’t actually betting on the cocks, but you know how parties tend to get out of control.”

  Hunh?

  “Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “She’ll stay mostly out of the way, and I hardly think she’ll be a distraction, all things considered. I mean, you’re practically family!”

  Brock froze, gripping the phone with his hand so tightly he was afraid it was going to break in half. “Come again?”

  “Family,” Grandfather said in a painfully slow voice. “God knows she could be.”

  “What!” Brock seriously hoped this was another of his grandfather’s more senile moments.

  Grandfather burst out laughing. “I recognized her last name when I was looking to hire out a cleaning company and did some digging. I knew her grandmother—gorgeous lady, just like her granddaughter. At any rate, she’d been left a widow in her prime and we had several one-night stands. Glorious one-night stands. All before your grandmother, of course, rest her soul.”

  “All right then.” Brock tried to stop the flow of information from his grandfather but the old man wouldn’t stop talking.

  “The things she could do with that body of hers,” Grandfather sighed longingly. “Such a shame, such a shame.”

  “I hope you’re done traumatizing me now.”

  Grandfather coughed. “Never.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “The point I’m trying to make is, she shouldn’t be a temptation. I’m sure she’s a pretty girl, but like her grandmother, quite completely out of our league.”

  “I think you mean we’re out of her league,” Brock corrected him.

  “No.” Grandfather sighed. “I said it correctly. Now, make sure the cock stays in the barn and the ass has enough food and water.”

  Brock groaned. “That’s what the ranch hand is for—”

  “Oh, I sent him on vacation; didn’t I tell you?”

  Brock froze and then wheezed out a choked cough. “What?”

  “You need to get used to taking care of the animals. After all, it’s your house, or will be soon. If you can’t manage a few cocks in the henhouse, you truly have no business getting married in the first place, am I right?”

  “Please stop saying ‘cock’.”

  Grandfather made a weird clicking noise with his tongue, sneezed, then uttered a curse before mumbling. “Cock.”

  “Are you day drinking again?” Brock asked.

  “Of course not.” Grandfather sounded offended. “Though I may still be drunk from last night. Bentley had another one of his parties and what type of guardian would I be if I didn’t attend and keep my eye on him?”

  “The normal kind,” Brock said with an irritated edge. “Don’t tell me I’m going to have to keep your ass out of the newspapers now as well.”

  Grandfather laughed out loud. “Silly boy, when have you ever needed to watch out for me?”

  Groaning, Brock had a brief vision of slamming his cell phone against the nearest wall and following it with his fist, then his head.

  “Now then, make sure to check in on those animals. It would be a shame if they died because you were too busy flirting with Jane. Remember, out of your league.”

  With that, the conversation ended. Brock was met with silence as a stab of irritation hit him square in the chest.

  “Did he just hang up on me?” Brock stared at his cell then glared at himself in the mirror.

  Could it really be a coincidence that his grandfather had just happened to hire Jane and her company? It had to be. There was no damn name on the list when he’d checked. He let out a frustrated sigh.

  Regardless. It didn’t matter.

  He walked into the living room and nearly groaned aloud when the Grandfather clock chimed nine at night—just another reminder that he was literally his own ticking time bomb. He opened his mouth to say something to Jane—anything that would put them back on even ground rather than the shaky as hell situation that had him ready to ram his fist through a wall.

  What he’d expected to find was a woman doing her job.

  What he found instead?

  A woman on her hands and knees cleaning the very same floor that his mother used to clean. In the exact same position. Only there was nothing familial about Jane.

  Raw lust pounded through his system as she moved her hands back and forth over the wood. And then, his gaze lifted to the side table where a few vases and pictures lined the wall.

  One of the vases was missing.

  There were always three.

  Always.

  And then he noticed a piece of crystal on the ground. “What happened here?”

  Jane’s hands jerked on the rag she was using for the floor. “Sorry, I bumped into the table.”

  “Sorry doesn’t bring back the vase,” he heard himself saying.

  “I can replace it.” She looked up at him with wide eyes. “It was an accident. I was moving some of the pictures.”

  That, of course, made him look at the pictures, then back at Jane. “It’s not replaceable. Just how long have you been cleaning?” Great, now he was questioning her. And from the angry look in her eyes he knew he’d p
ushed her too far.

  “Four years,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Four years what?” He shook his head, clearing the memories of his mother arranging and rearranging those vases. One for each of her sons.

  “You asked how long I’d been cleaning.” She stood to her full height. She wasn’t very tall but she somehow still managed to make herself look menacing as she jutted out her finger. “Did you want to see my references, Mr. Wellington?”

  Hell. He didn’t have the energy to fight with her and the longer he stayed inside the more he felt choked by the memories—the louder they screamed, begging to be dealt with.

  “I’ll be outside,” he snapped, turning on his heel. “Try not to break anything else, or I’ll be forced to take it out of your paycheck.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath as the screen door slammed behind him. She was probably plotting his murder right now, and he’d deserve it. But she was the one moving things.

  Cleaning out ghosts.

  Even though she didn’t realize it.

  And his reaction was instinctive—even if it was wrong.

  A cool breeze picked up, and now, thanks to his grandfather, he had animals to find.

  A cock, to be exact.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He smelled like pine soap.

  Not Pine-Sol, but pine soap, the kind that reminds a person of cozy nights sipping wine by the fire.

  Not that she’d ever really had any nights like that—at least not recently—but still, he reminded her of warmth.

  Oh heck, it wasn’t even warmth; that word made him sound boring, like he was temperate—rather than hot, sizzling to the touch.

  Jane shivered as the memory of his hands pounded through her body. It was as if he was touching her all over again, pulling her shirt from her body and gazing at her like she possessed something he wanted.

  Too bad he’d turned into a complete tool.

  “Are you okay?” Brock’s voice interrupted her scrubbing.

  Jane stood too fast, nearly knocking over the bucket of soapy water, and pressed a wet hand and rag to her face, causing dirty water to run down her chin. “I was just…scrubbing.” Great, was he going to accuse her of doing that wrong, too? It was bad enough that she’d apparently broken a family heirloom.

  “Scrubbing.” He wiped his face with his hands and let out a frustrated sigh. He might be beautiful to look at but tension rolled off him in waves. And when he opened that gorgeous mouth, at least since this morning, all he’d had to offer were angry biting words.

  With a curse, he seemed to force a smile that looked more irritated than amused. It was a smile that reminded her yet again she didn’t really belong in his world, let alone his house.

  He didn’t want her here anymore than she wanted to be here.

  With him.

  Trapped.

  She took a few steps back and nodded. “I’m almost done cleaning the mud off these floors and then I’ll go back to my room—your room.” She frowned. “Well, my room now and…” She nodded again. Why? Why was she suddenly afflicted with one ability? Nodding in his direction and embarrassing herself.

  “Why?” He barked out gruffly.

  “Hmm?” She blinked up at his face, trying to keep herself from staring at the way his T-shirt molded to each and every one of his muscles.

  “Why are you going to your room?” He said it more slowly this time, drawing out the sentence as if she was stupid, which grated on her nerves. It wasn’t like people had never talked down to her before; she just didn’t expect him to.

  Not the man who’d bought her shoes.

  And made her feel like a real life Cinderella.

  Better that the dream got shattered before she started the hero worship, she decided. He was just like every other man out there.

  Embarrassment washed over her as she croaked out, “It’s been a long night.”

  “It has,” he agreed.

  The staredown that followed had her suddenly wishing she was wearing a sweater she could pull across her body. Brock apparently wasn’t the type of man who stared; he looked through people with a laser-like intensity that had a way of making her feel naked and way too hot.

  With a gulp, she bent down to retrieve the bucket of soapy water and begged her legs to move faster as she scurried past him and dumped the water into the sink.

  Ignore him.

  She could ignore him, right?

  After all, it wasn’t like he was going to be following her around, offering his help or advice on how best to get stains out of the carpet.

  That idea was laughable.

  He probably didn’t even know how to iron a shirt.

  “Something funny?” came a raspy voice behind her, causing her to jump a foot and let out a little squeak.

  “Just…” She gulped. “Nope. Nothing at all.”

  A large masculine hand moved into her line of vision and turned off the faucet. “Just Jane, I think we should talk.”

  She fought to keep her shoulders from slumping. After all, she knew that tone of voice, so well in fact that she had these types of speeches memorized by heart.

  Every human voice in existence sounded just this way when relaying bad news. The doctors had when her father was diagnosed with cancer and there was nothing they could do, so had her boyfriends who’d gotten bored; even past employers, when upset with her work, had this type of voice.

  She should be used to it.

  But coming from a man like him? A man that a few days ago had been like a dream, a dream she could rely on to take her away from the monotony of her life…well, it affected her more than it should.

  He affected her more than a stranger should.

  “Okay.” She managed to turn around and keep her face impassive.

  His crystal blue eyes searched hers briefly before he crossed his arms over his bulky chest. “Three weeks.”

  She frowned. “Yes…” Her head tilted just slightly as she tried to digest his meaning. “It’s going to be three weeks of cleaning?”

  “Are you asking or telling?”

  “Telling.” She winced at her airy tone. “Is that what you wanted to discuss? The amount of time I’ll be here?”

  His eyes stayed glued to her face and then, as if she’d scared him, he took a large step backward and shook his head. “You know what? I’m tired, too. We’ll talk in the morning. Just try to stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

  “Don’t worry.” She held her head high. “I’m very good at being invisible.”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it.

  Nothing.

  Her prince didn’t offer up any excuse for why he was being mean and she supposed he didn’t have to.

  He was Brock Wellington, one of the most sought-after bachelors in the country.

  And she was a maid.

  Chapter Sixteen

  What did a man do when he knew he was being a jackass? He drank, of course.

  So that was what Brock did.

  Until two a.m.

  It didn’t help.

  He even moved from the bedroom to the living room in hopes the couch wouldn’t trigger the memories he’d tried so hard to lock down.

  It should have helped.

  But the whiskey seemed to bring alive every single memory that he’d worked so hard to keep trapped inside this house. He hadn’t realized how messed up his head still was until he saw Jane leaning over the sink smiling.

  His mom had loved that sink because it was so deep. She’d joked that she used to wash Brock in it when he was a baby because it was easier than the tub.

  Seeing Jane there had been absolute hell.

  And telling her that she reminded him of his mother seemed like the worst idea in history. So he’d done the only thing he knew how to do.

  He’d pushed her away.

  So he’d had a shitty start to what he was beginning to realize was a haunting vacation.

  Too many ghosts.

 
Too many memories.

  He managed to fall asleep around three in the morning, only to toss and turn with an ache in his groin that refused to go away. Finally in a moment of desperation he gripped himself and in a drugged sleep envisioned Jane’s sweet mouth.

  It was over in seconds.

  As he spilled into his hand, in a drunken stupor he imagined what the next three weeks might be like if he could live them for himself.

  His sight blurred as the idea washed over him.

  Three weeks where his grandfather wasn’t watching his every move.

  Three weeks where he wasn’t Brock Wellington, millionaire, but Brock Wellington, ranch hand.

  Three weeks…

  * * *

  Sunlight heated Brock’s chest and then a loud animalistic bellow sent him flying off the couch and onto the floor.

  He rubbed his head and blinked his eyes as a giant donkey stared at him from the middle of the floor.

  The donkey made another ear-splitting noise and glared.

  It was too early.

  Way too early for a donkey in the middle of the room.

  How the hell had it gotten into the house?

  “Coffee?” Brock asked aloud. “Can’t I at least have coffee first?”

  “Are you talking to a donkey?” came Jane’s silky voice from behind him.

  Brock’s headache gripped his head like a vise. “Well, it seemed the other option was to ignore him and I wasn’t sure if that would just piss the damn thing off more.”

  “Fred’s harmless.” She breezed past him and moved into the kitchen while the donkey continued staring at Brock like he was the one who didn’t belong here.

  “Wait. Did you call him Fred?” Brock stood slowly, eyeing the donkey for any sudden moves.

  “Yup,” came her reply. “All the animals have names. The ranch hand said it makes them feel more like pets. He left a list on the fridge.”

  “Donkeys aren’t pets.”

  Jane’s eyes twinkled. “Oh?”

  “No,” Brock argued.

  Jane pointed. “He seems to think differently.”

  The donkey was directly behind him; the damn thing had followed him into the kitchen.

  “Out!” Brock clapped his hands, which of course made the donkey neigh or whatever the hell they did—louder, until the ear-splitting sound was deafening.