Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Until I saw the five grocery bags at his feet.
With a curt headshake, I brushed past his narrow frame and slid halfway out the door. I wordlessly input the alarm’s code. I turned to find his eyes quickly jerking back up to my face. He’d been checking out my half-naked body. And he was flushing all red again.
“You didn’t give me the PIN,” he said quickly.
“Yeah. I know. You could have called me.”
Noah opened and closed his mouth, clearly looking for a way out of the blame, before frowning. “That’s true. I’m sorry.”
Huh. Surprise, surprise.
Almost disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see him all fired up and self-righteous, I jerked my chin at the grocery bags.
“You were gone for three hours to buy that?”
He glanced down, frowning deeper. “The traffic is insane—”
“Welcome to summertime in the Hamptons.”
“I’d never been to the Hamptons before our meeting, so I didn’t know what to expect,” he said sharply. “Anyway, it took me an hour to get there and another one to get back, and the store was massive. I didn’t even know what you wanted. Your guidelines were pretty vague.”
“Vague? I’m not picky, baby. Just a few chicken breasts, bacon, an avocado or nine, and I’m good to go for lunch.”
His jaw dropped. “A few chicken breasts for lunch?”
“Your serving size is a third of mine.”
His mouth seemed to gape wider. It was giving me really nasty ideas.
“Man, I’d love to be able to eat like that.”
And there went my admiration for his pretty lips.
“It’s not a fun hobby, kid. Eating is a job for me. A chore. I have to force-feed myself to keep my weight up to two-sixty. My body type is naturally lanky, so it’s a struggle to not be a beanpole like you. Then I’d be trampled by the D line all across the goddamn field.”
“First,” Noah said flatly, “I’m not a beanpole. Second, I don’t know what a D line is. Dick line? Seems like there must be a lot of those on the field, so good luck to you.”
My mouth pressed into a tight line. I wasn’t going to laugh at his ignorance. I was not.
“Defensive linemen.”
“I see.” Noah rolled his eyes and snagged the bags from the floor. “Welp, I got enough chicken for lunch, and you can make yourself some fish for dinner.”
“What about breakfast?”
He paused with a Subway sandwich bag in his hand. “I’ll have to go back tomorrow morning. I’ll get here on time and be back from the store by the time you finish your workout. I swear.”
“Uh-huh.” I pointed at the Subway bag. “And what is that?”
“My lunch?”
“Wha—” I was confused. I’d assumed he’d eat whatever he cooked for me. Was that not how this worked? Maybe not. And I didn’t want him thinking I was trying to be nice. Except, he’d already caught on to my confusion and had cocked his head. “I see,” I said. I chewed on several follow-up responses before snapping, “Well, it’s already almost one o’clock, and I need you to do all the other shit on that list before five. Don’t forget. And call me when lunch is ready. I’ll be in my room. Remember—you were the one who wanted to be paid extra for cooking.”
He sneered at me with genuine animosity and turned away.
You had to love a sexy-ass geek with an attitude.
Chapter Five
Noah
“I have five vehicles I need to be serviced, and I was really hoping I could get them all done by the end of the day.”
“End of the day? Not gonna happen.”
I paced the cavernous garage and cast an evil eye at the shining, and likely untouched, vehicles that were causing me so much trouble. I’d avoided the garage for the last few days, mostly because I hadn’t known where to start, but it was already the end of the first week of my probationary period and it would be a major fail if I ignored the task.
“What about if we start today and finish tomorrow? My boss wants them done, like yesterday, and I don’t even know how I’m transporting them all to you.”
“Drive them back and forth. How else?” The guy on the other end of the line sounded amused. “Does he have a driver? Housekeeper?”
“No. Just me.”
“Huh.” Given the amount of mystification in the mechanic’s tone, it was clear he was used to having filthy-rich clients with a number of house staff. “All right, what are we looking at?”
I rattled off the makes and models of each vehicle, cringed when he told me he didn’t work with motorcycles, but internally cheered when I realized the Phantom and Wrangler hadn’t been driven often enough to need servicing. I pleaded for twenty minutes before he exasperatedly told me he could try to get three vehicles done by the end of the day, and told me to start with the Maybach. My relief lasted for all of five minutes. Then I realized this involved me driving an extremely expensive car into town on the congested highway.