Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
The reason I was suddenly not only employed as a house manager to a member of the Costa Family, but also a man who held my entire future in his hands, who had the potential to ruin my life.
I mean, fine, it wasn’t much of a life to ruin. But it was mine. I wanted the chance to keep fucking it up by my own hands.
“I’m working,” I hissed, suddenly furious that he’d inserted himself into a day that had been going so well.
I mean I hadn’t lied to Emilio. I wasn’t going to complain about a day spent shopping. Especially if I got to do so with someone else’s money.
I loved to shop.
But because my bank account was more often in the red than the black, I had to either subject myself to the disappointment of window shopping, or avoid stores completely.
I usually chose the latter.
Even when I did have a little money to buy something with, I never got to walk into a nice store and just… pick out whatever looked nice.
Not that I was making the choices carelessly. I was trying to imagine what would look most appropriate in Emilio’s old Brownstone.
I’d eventually decided on a gorgeous four-poster full-sized bed. But I’d opted out of buying the matching set, remembering hearing someone say that doing that was dated. Instead, I bought a dresser from a different store. And nightstands still from another.
I had set up all of that and the mattress to be delivered around dinner time, which would hopefully give me enough time to grab some of the other small details. Like the lamps and linens.
I hadn’t thought to check for towels in the guest room. But judging by the rest of the house, I was going to assume he hadn’t thought to stock those, so I probably needed to pick up a few of them as well.
I had a feeling a lot of shopping was in my future. And I wasn’t going to bitch about that, that was for sure.
I’d even, for a few short, blissful moments, had been able to sort of… not forget, but put aside, the whole reason I was doing this new job.
“Yeah, looks like real ass-breaking work,” Renzo said, tone lazily amused. “Did you break a nail opening and closing all those dresser drawers?”
“You made me take this job, and now you’re going to give me shit about doing it?” I asked, still in the opening of the alley, wanting to stay out in the sunlight, around all the people.
“Just checking to make sure you aren’t forgetting exactly why you are doing this job, Av.”
“I am well aware,” I snapped, feeling the damn tears start to well up in my eyes again.
I’d never been someone who had any control over their emotions. It seemed like they always sprang up on me, demanding to be acknowledged and felt.
I didn’t just get teary-eyed, I cried rivers.
I didn’t just get frustrated, I had to scream into a pillow.
I didn’t just have a good day, I floated on air.
The only comfort I had about this quirk was that most of the sudden emotions usually burned themselves out really fast.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Renzo snapped. Sighing, he pushed off of the wall, and moved in the shadows until he was standing just a foot in front of me. Still in the alley, but the light was on his face.
I kind of hated that he was good-looking.
Guys who were forcing me to do what Renzo Lombardi was doing shouldn’t be allowed to look like a walking, talking cologne ad.
Dark hair, deep eyes, great bone structure. The scars through his lip and brow were the only thing keeping him from being too pretty, and giving him an intimidating look instead.
“Waterworks don’t work on me, kid,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’m not trying to use them on you,” I snapped, raising my hands to scrub at my cheeks with my sleeves. “I’m a little fucking stressed out, okay?” I added.
“Hey,” Renzo said, using his boss voice on me. And, yeah, it was… effective. “Pull yourself the fuck together. Can’t be going back to his house looking like a fucking head case. Remember what’s on the line here.”
With that, he moved past me, and was gone.
I actually turned to watch him leave, wanting to make sure he wasn’t still watching me, finding myself more than a little unnerved that he’d been lurking about, watching me without me knowing.
He’d seen me looking at nightstands.
Had he seen me spill my coffee on my shirt? Readjusting my bra when I thought there was no one around? Balking at the price tag on one of the dressers I’d seen?
It shouldn’t have mattered.
I was pretty accustomed at this point to making a fool of myself.
But I was trying not to give Renzo Lombardi a reason to doubt me. Too much was on the line.