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I barely finish responding when another message pops up.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mumble. “It’s Grand Fucking Central Station on this damn phone.”
Bastian: Won’t be at work today, boss.
Me: No fucking shit, Sherlock.
Bastian: What? The weather didn’t pencil itself into your busy schedule?
Me: Fuck off.
Bastian: Oh shit, are you firing Mother Nature?
Me: No, but I might fire your ass.
Bastian: As if.
I sigh and head into my bathroom to get dressed for my workout. Bastian knows damn well that his job is safe. And I hate that I fucking care about the prick. He’s somehow weaseled his way into my cold, dead heart.
I have just enough time for a run and to feed the dogs before my first meeting in the morning. I brush my teeth and toss on my gym clothes before heading down the hall.
Normally, my dogs come running, demanding that I feed them, but I’m greeted in the east wing by more silence. I decide to get a mile run in along with my circuit training before I attempt to find my dogs. If they aren’t looking for me, then I’m sure they are fine. When I asked for guard dogs for the property, I definitely thought of scarier ones than Ames and Isaac. They basically act like two overgrown puppies who enjoy naps and playtime.
I contemplate what Ms. Garren is doing while I run. Did she get up already? Did she find the kitchen? She certainly didn’t leave, because I set the alarm, but also, she’d have nowhere to go with the three feet of snow piling up outside.
As I finish running and start lifting weights, I ponder if she’ll have to stay longer than today. The weather forecast called for snow through tomorrow. That means it could be at least two more days before the plows get out here. My estate is off a side road that is plowed by the county, but my drive is privately plowed. However, the guy we hire to plow the drive won’t be able to get out here until that side road is plowed. Fuck.
There was one other blizzard years ago and we got stuck out here for almost a week. But surely, this storm won’t be as bad.
I finish my reps and grab a towel and water. As I walk out of the gym, I glance in the direction of the guest room. Curiosity gets the better of me and I find myself walking toward the room. I take a deep breath and decide to knock on the door and offer her coffee. I can be a host. I can be kind.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I hear nothing on the other side. This time I knock louder.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
Still nothing. What in the hell?
I slowly turn the doorknob on the right-side door and open it, peering inside. All three dogs are lying on the bed. They raise their heads, stare at me, and then lay their heads back down as if I’m the least interesting thing they’ve ever seen.
What. The. Fuck?
“Ms. Garren?” I ask.
I step inside and turn to the right.
Christ!
Isabelle Garren is standing at the bathroom door naked. A towel in her hand. Her eyes lift from the towel to mine and she gives a barely audible squeak before quickly clutching the towel to her chest. But it’s too late. I’ve seen her…all of her…and she is absolutely gorgeous. A painter or sculptor couldn’t have made a more perfect woman. Her curves, her pale skin, even a cute little heart-shaped birthmark on the right side of her abdomen. I admit, I’m a little surprised to find she shaves or waxes…everywhere. In my head, I envisioned some full-bushed, spinster librarian who hadn’t thought to bother with such frivolous societal expectations.
I spin around and face the other way.
“I’m sorry…I knocked and thought you might have gone downstairs,” I explain.
I hear the rustling of what I assume is clothing.
“I—I was just going to feed the d-dogs,” she stammers, clearly embarrassed.
