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)
“I can understand that,” I say. “But I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. I committed to a week’s trial.”
Sawyer nods. “I hope we pass your test,” he says.
It doesn’t take him long to wolf down his food, and then he’s up, washing his plate and his hands. It warms my heart that he’s considerate of the work I’ve put in to clean the kitchen and doesn’t want to spoil it with dirty dishes from the get-go. My eyes trail over his big, manly body, lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the close-cropped hair at the back of his neck.
When he turns, he smiles broadly, and I catch sight of a little dimple on his right cheek, visible through his short beard that is cute as hell. I mean, Sawyer’s six foot tall and all man, but there’s a boyishness to him that is missing from his surly brother. “Thanks for this. I’ll see you later,” he says, grabbing his hat and sliding on his boots. At the front door, he turns, hesitating. “Oh, and don’t mind my brother. He always comes across as worse than he actually is.”
I don’t get a chance to answer before the door closes behind him.
4
As it gets later in the day, I realize that dinner will most likely be expected. I haven't rested at all since I arrived, bar the fifteen minutes I took with Sawyer, but after all this work, I know tomorrow will be easier. In the fridge I find two large chickens, which I place together in a roasting tray. I stuff them with half an onion and half a lemon and cover the skins in garlic powder and mixed herbs. They'll take at least an hour and a half to cook, but I allow for more because I'm not familiar with their oven. It takes more rooting around for me to find potatoes that I peel and cut into chunks. My mom's roast potatoes were the best things ever. Cooked simply with salt, pepper, and dried rosemary, they had a sweet taste to them, which went so well with chicken. I prepare the carrots and broccoli that I'll steam later. While the oven is doing the hard work, I decide that showering is an absolute necessity.
I find straw in my hair from last night, which is mortifying, and the skin on my hands is a little sore from all the scrubbing. I use the Bradford brothers’ simple shampoo to preserve my own stock, but they don't have conditioner. Their soap is something with a citrus scent that seems to wake my senses. I go from tired to invigorated in just fifteen minutes.
I don't have a dress like Amber to wear for dinner, just clean jeans and a simple white t-shirt. I towel-dry my hair and pinch my cheeks to brighten my complexion. When I stare at myself in the mirror, I scowl, not because I look bad but because I don't like it that I want to look nice.
A person's value isn't in what they look like on the outside, at least that's what my momma always used to say. I'm not sure if it was because she thought I was plain or if she simply wanted to encourage me to look for the qualities in people that matter. I don't think I'm plain. My eyes are a pretty shade of blue, like Amsonia blue star flowers, and my hair is long and straight, the color of a cornfield. My body is healthy and strong, but I have no idea if it has the proportions that men prefer. Who knows what they like? Half the women in magazines look as though they're starving themselves and the other half look like parts of their bodies have been inflated with a balloon pump. It's impossible to know what to aspire to, so I keep it all concealed behind simple, functional clothes.
I don't think the Bradford brothers think anything of me other than I'm useful to keep house and someone they need to pity for being in difficult circumstances, and that's good. At least, I tell myself that's what I should think, but a little part of me is fascinated by their intense masculinity, their crazy similarities, and glaring differences.
Now the floors are clean, I wander back down to the kitchen with my feet bare, bending to check on the chickens and sliding in the tray of potatoes to start cooking.
The only room I haven't gotten around to cleaning downstairs is the deserted dining room. The kitchen table is big enough for us all to eat around, so it's not a necessity to ready it today. The thing that draws me is the pile of boxes stacked in the far corner. The house is really lacking the homely personal touch, so I take a peek inside to see if there is anything that the Bradfords have neglected to unpack.