Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 114775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114775 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“Find out.”
“Okay. I’ll call the bank—”
“Make the call on your own time, not mine.”
Yes, sir.
I nod my head and finish filling the forms out.
I hand them and the pen back to him. He doesn’t even bother to look at them. Just opens a drawer on his desk and shoves them inside.
“So, I guess I should get to work.” I start to rise from my chair.
“One more thing.”
His voice halts me, and I put my butt back in the seat.
He sits forward, putting his elbows on the desk, and stares at me with those unyielding black eyes of his. “There are things of value in this house, but I’m guessing you already know that.”
I do?
“And I know the temptation might be great, but I have to ask you to try not to steal anything. I’d hate to have to send you back to prison.”
What. The. Hell?
I feel like he just slapped me. My cheeks sting with humiliation.
God, I hate that this stuck-up bastard can affect me in this way. I’ve known him for, what? An hour, and I despise the fucker already.
If I didn’t need this job as badly as I do and if assault wouldn’t land me straight back in prison, then I’d kick him right where it hurt—which would probably be his wallet because I’m pretty sure nothing else would penetrate his rhino skin.
My fingers curl into my palms, and I let the sting of pain ground me.
Come on, Daisy. You’ve heard…had worse than this. He’s just a stuck-up arsehole who clearly needs to get laid.
Says she who hasn’t had sex in…well, forever.
“Yes, Mr. Matis,” I grit out the words.
Really, what else could I have said?
Try to defend my honor? I almost laugh out loud at that absurd thought.
I tried doing that in a court of law, and it didn’t work out so well for me.
And this jumped-up prick believes I’m a thief because that’s what the law told him.
It doesn’t matter to him if I’m innocent or not.
I’m poor and a criminal; therefore, I’m beneath him.
I’m beneath everyone.
I’m branded for life.
I was always poor. Now, I have the criminal tag to go with it.
Well, aren’t I a perfect catch?
God, I hate Jason fucking Doyle. He ruined my life.
But I know I’m not a thief, and that’s all that matters.
Or that’s what I tell myself.
But I figure, if I say it enough, then I’ll start to believe it one day.
Kas’s head is tilted, his jaw tight but his eyes appraising, like he was expecting more.
Almost like he was expecting…retaliation.
Why would he think I’d retaliate?
Because I’ve been in prison; therefore, I’m a thug.
God, I’m so fucking done here.
This guy is the biggest of all arses. I just want to get my job done.
The thing that’s bothering me most is that he hired me, knowing I have a criminal record. Why do that if he wants to be a complete tool to me?
Maybe he gets off on it—belittling people.
Well, he can do what he wants, say what he wants.
Because I don’t care what he thinks of me. I just care that he pays my wages at the end of every week.
“We’re done here,” he says blandly, like he’s suddenly bored.
And I take leave before he can say anything else shitty to me.
Seven
After changing into my work outfit, which surprisingly fits me, I get to work. I figure I’ll begin downstairs. So, I make a start on the kitchen.
By the time one o’clock rolls around, every surface in the kitchen is shining. The oven is sparkling, inside and out, and the floor is so clean that you could eat your dinner off it.
Speaking of eating, my stomach is rumbling.
I wash up my hands and grab my bag from where I left it hanging in the coat closet in the hallway. Then, I head outside to the back garden as the sun has made a rare appearance, and I’m determined to enjoy it while it’s here.
I do a little wandering around the huge back garden where it’s clear that it’s been lovingly cared for. A lot of hard work has gone into this garden.
I can’t see Kas-hole—see what I did there?—getting his hands dirty with gardening, so I’m guessing he has a gardener. Unless his parents do the gardening.
I wonder when they’ll be back. Hopefully, they’re nicer than their son.
But then, if they raised that miserable twat…I shouldn’t hold out much hope.
It’s such a shame he’s a wanker because he’s really good-looking. Shame his personality spoils what could have been a perfect person.
I spy a bench by a colorful shrubby, so I decide to sit there.
I take out my phone and check it.
There’s just one text from Cece, sent a few hours ago. Not surprising, as she’s the only person who has my number—well, aside from Kas-hole and my probation officer.
How’s your first day going?