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I blow out a breath.
“Thank you. Thank you very much. You’re fine with the expectation that I might not be fully available 24/7 though? I might take some classes at the college. Part time.”
“No. For that money and the fact that you’re living here and, I’m assuming, going to eat the food that’s here and use the toilet paper, shampoo, and laundry detergent that you’re going to be at my disposal 24/7.”
I blink. “You’re counting toilet paper as part of the deal?”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re not paying for it, are you?”
“I will happily pay for my own toilet paper if it means you don’t own me,” I counter. “I’m not looking for a master/slave relationship, bud.”
He eyes me from head to toe, a dark expression brewing in his eyes, and my heart skips a beat.
He doesn’t even crack a smile. It makes me wonder if Austin Carmichael has ever cracked a smile in his life.
“We’ll see how this first week goes. Consider yourself on probation.”
“Fine with me. Do you have a brand preference for toilet paper, shampoo or anything else?” I ask, hoping to get on a different track because while I didn’t mean anything sexual about that master/slave comment, suddenly it feels like I said something overtly in that vein.
“Probably. I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Fine. Maybe I can take a list of things you like and don’t like. Aiden gave me his meal and brand preferences, but most of it was ready-made and he could just heat it up when he got home. He usually didn’t know what he wanted so I’d have two or three fresh options here and get rid of whatever he didn’t eat. And if he didn’t like something or really liked something, he’d just leave me a note or send me a text. Since I’m living here, I can cook or pick up food each day if you’d prefer someone else cook it.”
“We’re not sitting down to meals together,” he clips.
“I didn’t mean like that. I wouldn’t expect that.”
“You cook and I’ll eat. I don’t need a pile of options every day. If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. Make sure there’s extra stuff here in case I don’t like dinner. If I hate your cooking, we’ll know soon enough.”
“Okay.”
“And again, I want it to feel like I live alone.”
“You’ve already said I’m only entitled to my room and the bathroom, so I’ll be out of your sight when you’re here.”
“Fine.”
My heart skips a beat. I have a job. I have a place to stay. I know where Shane is and hopefully he’s going to be getting some real help. I can deal with this guy’s awful attitude if I must. Things could be worse. Way worse.
“Thank you, Austin. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” he warns.
“So, if you want, we can do a list of the kinds of things you like to eat, anything specific you’d like done for you…”
The look on his face tells me he’d rather be having a root canal than standing here talking to me.
“Or,” I offer, “would you like to hook me up with your housekeeper in California? I can get tips from her.”
“I don’t have a housekeeper in California.”
I’m surprised. And it shows.
“I like Mexican food. Steaks and seafood. Italian. Sushi. Nothing much I don’t like.”
“Okay.”
“I have a big appetite. No bird-sized portions. And I want a bagged lunch every day.”
“Oh?”
“Sometimes hot, sometimes sandwiches. I don’t care how often it’s one or the other, I just want a variety. I just want a bag ready in the morning when I leave for work. Make sure I can find it in the fridge. I’m busy at work and hunger hits me and I hate having to send someone out or call something in. It hits me and I get hangry. I want a cooler bag, something I can have in my desk for when I’m ready.”
“Okay. Hangry? Yikes. Can’t imagine you hangry.”
His eyes narrow and a thrill shoots up my spine. Why though? Why am I provoking him?
I can’t imagine hungry-angry on this guy compared to how he seems, now.
“I don’t like laundry piling up,” he continues. “And I go through clothes fast. I wear a suit to work, I change to work out when I get home, and then I also wear casual clothes in between. There’s gonna be a lot of laundry. I usually shower twice a day so if Aiden doesn’t have a heavy towel supply and you have a problem doing laundry often, we’ll need more towels.”
“Okay.”
“I like things tidy. Spotless, actually.”
And he doesn’t have a housekeeper? Is he exaggerating to try to be a hard-ass? I can take it. I worked for his brother for almost a year; I’m used to terse hard asses. Terse good-looking hard asses, at that.
