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This particular client was an easy one for me—she sent me the bones of a draft, and I picked it apart and put it back together again. I didn’t know much about her except that she loved to write but her day job got in the way, so she sent every book to me to fix up.
I liked it. I didn’t have to use much brain power and I got a nice chunk of money in my bank account every two months.
I sent her the book with my usual message that I loved the story and was looking forward to the next one, sent it, and scanned the rest of my emails. After responding to one asking about my pricing, I clicked the one from a local paper I’d written for before.
They wanted me to do research into a supposed haunted hotel in the middle of the next town over and write up its history. They’d pay me, plus my gas to drive there, and it sounded like fun. I confirmed with them I could do it and cleared the junk emails out.
The front door opened. I glanced at the clock; Jay had the early shift today opening the gym, and holy shit—was it past lunch already?
Ugh. Apparently, Jay wasn’t the only one who needed an adult.
The door shut a second later. I paused, raising my eyebrows, then shrugged and grabbed my basket full of dirty laundry.
Yes, I needed to eat, but I also needed clean panties.
I paused only to grab the detergent and fabric softener from the cupboard under the sink and made sure I had my keys to get back in. The elevator was on the floor above, so it was quick to get me and take me down to the ground floor, where I stepped out with the basket on my hip, turned a corner, and took to the small flight of stairs that led to the basement.
The shiny, tiled floor of the small hallway leading to the laundry room was slippery thanks to my slippers, and I almost ended up on my ass before I hit the door.
Then, I froze in the doorway.
Jay was standing on the other side of the room in front of an empty washing machine. His hair was sticking up as if he’d just run his fingers through it and—yep, there it was, he was running his fingers through his hair. His tank top hugged his muscular torso, showing off his strong shoulders and unfairly lickable biceps.
Roving my eyes farther down his body, I lingered over the gray sweat shorts that hung low on his hips, just giving a tiny peek at the waistband of his Calvins.
“How can this be so fucking hard?” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “I can drive a car with a stick, but not operate a fucking washer.”
Eyeing the basket full of clothes on the machine next to him, I let my lips curl into a smirk. “Well, it helps if you put the clothes in the machine.”
He jerked, turning to look at me. “Fucking hell, Shelby, you scared the shit out of me.”
I grinned and joined him at the back of the small room. “What’s up? Can’t find the power button?”
Jay rolled his shoulders. “It’s complicated.”
“Yeah? Is getting detergent also complicated?” I shook the box from my basket.
“Didn’t think of that,” he muttered, this time cricking his neck.
Aw. He was embarrassed.
“Careful,” I said, leaning over and hitting the power button for him. “You’re gonna blush in a minute.”
“God, I hate you.”
“All right. You figure it out by yourself.” With a shrug, I took the only other empty machine in the room, two down from him, and went through the motions on autopilot.
He watched me tossing everything in and pushing all the buttons until I was finally done, put down the lid, and set it to start.
Then, I smiled at him, propped my basket back on my hip, and made my way out of the room.
“Shelby!” His pained voice carried into the hall.
“Yes?” I said sweetly, taking a few steps back to look at him through the door.
He turned his bright green eyes my way. “Will you please help me figure out the machine?”
My tongue darted out over my lower lip. “That killed you, didn’t it?”
He ground his teeth together, but that was his only answer.
I laughed and walked back in, setting my basket down by the door, but grabbing the detergent and softener. “Look. It’s simple. You have to turn it on here,” I pointed to the light, “to open the lid.”
He opened the lid.
“Now put your clo—whoa, whoa, hold up. You can’t put those socks in with the red shirt.”
He held a pristine pair of white socks in his right hand and the red shirt in the left. “Why not?”
“They’ll go pink.”
He eyed them. “Are you sure?”
