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He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving it in disarray. “I don’t need a maid.”
My shoulders slump because I need this money for Christmas. “It’s in your rental agreement I clean twice a week, so you might as well let me do the work.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I can’t let him say no so I ramble on about cleanliness being next to godliness and he won’t even know I’m here.
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”
He drops his arms from his chest and shows an even row of white teeth.
Whoa.
I’ve never felt dazzled by a smile until now.
“I’m going to take your silence as a yes. I’ll start in the kitchen.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder. “If you need anything, let me know.”
He nods, not giving me a verbal response.
That’s fine. Dad says it’s good manners to say nice things. If you have nothing nice to say, keep your mouth shut. Perhaps that’s why Fender remains silent as his eyes clock me going into the kitchen. It’s unnerving having him watch me as if I’m prey.
I set my bucket of cleaning supplies on the curved island, assessing the large area with my eyes. The granite countertops are clear of messy debris, and the stainless sink holds two dishes. Well, at least he isn’t a complete slob. The place is immaculate, and I wonder if he’s cooked here at all. Doesn’t matter what he’s doing in his private time. I need this job more than water, so I’ll play nice with the statue of a man standing in front of the fireplace and clean things that are already clean.
I take out my sponge and the expensive cleaner my boss, April, likes us to use and get to work, wiping the stove. When I glance over my shoulder, Fender is still staring.
“Am I doing it the wrong way?” Who knows, people in California may clean with rose petals, or something else just as fancy.
Fender shakes his gorgeous head and his eyes dart away. “No, you’re fine. I’ll be outside.”
He stalks across the living room, past me, and out the patio doors. A brief laugh escapes my lips. Of the few things I know about California, one of them is endless sunny and warm weather.
Well, here in Alaska, it is not either of those things. I’m sure Fender will discover that after being outside for two minutes.
Once the stainless appliances sparkle, I move onto sweeping the tile floor. It’s too quiet, so I grab my iPhone and put on my favorite playlist.
As I sweep behind the breakfast table, I glance out the patio doors. Fender went outside five minutes ago, with no coat, mind you, and he’s still out there. As I move to the sink to wash the plates, I worry he froze to death.
Nah. I’m sure he gained survival skills from those action scenes in his movies.
Confession: I know those scenes by heart.
I’m a shark movie junkie. Cheesy shark movies are even better. Corny shark horror movies are the best. If I had to rank them, SharkQuake is my favorite shark movie of all time. Actually the whole series is top of the list.
Second, SharkZilla. Fabulous ending.
Third, When Sharks Dream. This is kind of a Nightmare on Elm Street meets Shark Week. Fun times.
Fourth, Sharks On A Plane. Yes, you guessed it. It’s so ridiculous that it’s hilarious.
Last, is a little low budget number. Shark Master. I think I’m one of the few people in the world who has seen it.
My younger sister, Joanie, and I discovered our mutual love for cheesy shark movies when Sharknado came out. She’s a senior in high school, so she doesn’t enjoy hanging out with me too much these days, but we’ve drooled over Fender Fallon many times. Since he split with Trinity, not so much anymore.
I’m not the type to dwell on the lives of famous Hollywood actors or singers, but sad to say, I was rooting for them. Probably because Fender was perfect to me in every way.
What’s not perfect is my luck.
When Fender slams the patio door shut, my favorite Trinity song pipes into the kitchen.
“It’s fucking freezing outside.”
If I ignore the tune, hopefully, he won’t notice. “It’s Alaska.”
He gives his perfectly sculpted arms a brisk rub. “Yeah, but I never imagined it would be so…” He stops talking and stares at me.
I stop scrubbing the dishes. “What?”
He folds his arms. “You’re going to make me say it?”
The lyrics to Trinity’s song, ‘You no-good son-of-a-bitch,’ waft through the air, and I reach for my phone, hands all sorts of sudsy, to turn the music off. “Sorry. It was on my playlist,” I say.
His sapphire eyes look defeated. Without a word, he crosses the kitchen floor, heading into the living room and disappearing down a hallway. A door slams shut.
