Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 68736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
At the top of the stairs, there are many open doors. The room at the end of the corridor is closed, and this is where Cash heads, turning the handle and glancing inside before stepping over the threshold.
"The bedding will need changing. And it'll need cleaning. No one has been in here for months."
I follow him inside, looking around at the place I'm going to be staying. It's pretty, but every surface is covered in dust that's thick enough to write in. I'm going to have my work cut out just getting this room habitable. Forget the rest of the house.
"I have to go now," Cash says. "There are cleaning products in the laundry room. The vacuum, mop, and broom are there too. If you need anything, I'll leave my number on the kitchen table. Just call, okay?" He nods once briskly and leaves me standing in this place that is now my home.
Home. Will I ever feel like that about anywhere that isn't my farm?
I have no idea, but at least tonight, I will have a soft bed to rest in. It's better than a straw-covered barn floor, that's for sure.
I guess “Take every day as it comes” will have to be my new mantra.
I'm living with the ruthless Bradford brothers now. What would my ma and pa think about this situation?
I guess I'll have to get used to sleeping with one eye open. I think it was Shakespeare who said, “Heaven is empty, all the devils are here.” Well, now I have five of them to deal with.
If they think I'm going to be a pushover, they've got another thing coming.
3
Wandering around someone else’s house when they’re not there feels as intimate as rifling through their underwear drawer. Everything here is unfamiliar. I use the bathroom, then head straight back to the kitchen, opening doors to rooms on the lower level and finding the den and what looks like it should be a formal dining room, but without the furniture.
There’s a door from the kitchen into the laundry room, and I open cupboards, gathering polish and cloths. I think I’m going to need soap and water to tackle some of the dirt. In the kitchen, I take in the chaos. These men really don’t have the time to keep house. I’m torn between cleaning my room and dealing with areas of the house that the Bradfords will notice the most. I may not know if I want to stay long-term, but I’m not a slacker, and I’m not going to coast for the time that I’m here.
In the end, the dishes win out. I start by washing all the crockery and silverware, leaving pans soaking in hot soapy water. I wipe down all the counters, finding places to store the things that don’t need to be there. When the pans are more manageable, I wash them all and pack them away. There is dust on all the baseboards and cobwebs around the ceiling. I find a long feather duster and knock everything down before I sweep and mop. By the time I’m finished, the kitchen is smelling fresh, but I’m definitely not.
Big Boy keeps me company, watching me with interest and whining when I get too close with the big wet mop. I’m humming as I take out the trash, looking around for somewhere to put it.
“What the fuck?” A deep voice says. The man with a potty-mouth is one of the Bradford twins. Dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, he could be a carbon copy of his triplet brothers, but there’s something very different about his almost-black eyes and the way he stands with his head cocked and legs spread wide. There’s an alpha-ness to him that comes from his posture and gaze and makes me freeze. “Who are you?” he barks.
“Melanie,” I say. Then, because he’s annoyed me with his surliness, I drop into an exaggerated curtsy. “Your new housekeeper.”
“Housekeeper? You’re the girl from Cooper’s Farm.”
The mention of my home puts a lump in my throat as big as an apple.
“Not anymore,” I whisper.
“Who arranged this?” He moves closer, assessing me like a breeding animal he’s considering purchasing.
“Cash. Maybe you should talk to him about it. Oh, and deal with this, would you?” I shove the trash at him and bolt back inside before he can utter another word.
While he’s absorbing the shock of my sudden disappearance, I grab the vacuum and the cleaning products I need and dash upstairs. Closing my bedroom door is a big relief, and knuckling down to restoring the room to the haven it must have been at some time in the past takes my mind off my new situation.
There is something so therapeutic about cleaning, especially the kind that takes real effort. When I’ve stripped the bed, and the dust motes are flying, I open the window for some fresh air. Time to do some laundry.