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“Right, I do have a bathing suit. Is wearing one in your rule book?”
That brings a half grin to his face. “Of course.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He goes back to his food, and I do the same, eating slowly when I really just want to scarf it down and put some much-needed distance between myself and my new boss.
He finishes and stretches his arms over his head. I try not to stare, or admire the way his muscles flex and bulge, but I do it anyway.
“Are you up for a tour of the place?” he asks when I set my fork down.
“I’d love a tour, sir.” I note the tension on his face as I push away my plate and stand. We make our way into the kitchen. “How long have you owned this house?”
“A few years now. I bought it after... Let’s just say, it’s a secluded location that no one knows about, and the locals respect my privacy.”
“So the locals know who you are, then?”
“Yes,” he says. I wonder how they feel about a famous millionaire living among them, especially when there are some very poor areas, not to mention the damage done from the hurricane a few years back.
“You get along with them?”
“We get along just fine.” He waves his hand. “This is the kitchen, obviously. You decide what meals you want to cook. I like breakfast at seven sharp, lunch at noon, and dinner at seven. You don’t have to use local culture recipes if you don’t want to, although one of my assistants left a cookbook if you’re so inclined. My likes and dislikes are in the rule book.”
“I bet they are,” I murmur.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Want to show me the rest of the place?”
We leave the kitchen and move through the mansion. He shows me the airy living room, a dining room that could comfortably seat eighteen, his large den with a massive desk and not much else, all the bathrooms, and all the bedrooms—most decorated in beach decor. I think there were six. I take in the opulence of the place, but it saddens me. There are no pictures, no homey touches, no stamp of a guy who entertains friends and family, a guy who welcomes love and laughter into his home. He’s become quite the recluse after the exposé, and damned if I don’t feel a niggling of remorse myself. I might not have written the article, but I worked for the magazine that did.
He goes on to explain more of my duties: shopping, cleaning, laundry, running errands. Our last stop on the tour is his bedroom, and he doesn’t invite me in. Instead, we stand in the hall and his eyes cut to mine.
“Just remember, anything you see or overhear doesn’t leave the confines of this house.”
I glance into his room, take in his perfectly made bed. It doesn’t even look like he slept in it. That brings a pang of guilt to my stomach. He stayed up to take care of me and probably never even got a wink of sleep. Maybe he’s not such a bad
guy after all.
My gaze roams to the comfy-looking soft blue bedding, and I engage my mouth before my brain. “What kind of noises are you worried I’m going to overhear?” His throat makes a sound, and I turn to him. “Oh, right. I get it. You...visitors...women.”
Things would have been so much easier if I’d just been flushed out into space.
“No one is to come into this house unless they are vetted by me.” He dips his head, and as he pins me with a glare, his mouth is right there. If I wanted to kiss him, all I’d have to do is go up on my toes. But I don’t want to. The man is the most gorgeous specimen on the face of the earth, but clearly insane. Not to mention he can’t keep it in his pants, and straight up admitted it. “Do you understand?”
“What I think you’re trying to say is you’re allowed ‘visitors.’ But I’m not.”
“I never said that—” He runs his hands down his chest, a gesture that is becoming familiar, and that crinkle is back in his forehead. “Do you want visitors, Khloe?” he asks.
He’s been honest so far, so I don’t see the need not to return the favor. “For the record, my days of Netflix and chill are over,” I admit.
His eyes narrow in on me. “Why is that?”
“They just are, okay?” I am not about to admit that men don’t find me attractive, and that my ex wanted to change me, and that I’ve given up finding anyone because I no longer believe there is a match for me. No, it’s best I keep my deepest flaws to myself.
He studies me too closely, too intently. He opens his mouth like he’s going to push, but the door chimes.
“Expecting a visitor, sir?” I ask with a raised brow, even though it could end up in him canning my ass. But for some reason I just can’t help myself.
“No,” he grumbles, but I catch a hint of caution in his tone, a rigid restraint in his body as he heads to the front door. My teasing turns to concern as I follow him. He opens the door, and a gorgeous olive-skinned woman who looks to be in her early thirties stands on his steps. She gives him a sexy, come-hither smile when their eyes meet.
