Well, two can play at that game.
I’m scrubbing down one of the bathrooms when the energy in the small space shifts, the way a barometer drops before a storm. Glancing behind me, I find his bulk taking up the entire doorway. “You’re still here?” The breathless tone to my voice is not from scrubbing the shower tiles, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
“I am.”
I meet his stubborn stare with one of my own. “If you need something to do, feel free to make yourself useful. This place doesn’t clean itself.”
Those deep umber eyes drop to my ass, currently on display since I’m on my hands and knees, my chest hovering over the edge of the tub. “I see that.”
Feeling the heat rising to my cheeks, the curse of being a redhead, I turn around. “There’s another bathroom just down the hall. Cleaning supplies are under the sink”
I hear him sigh. “You really don’t have anyone helping you?”
“Nope.”
His receding footsteps are proof that this current state of affairs is unlikely to change anytime soon. Which is fine. Cleaning bathrooms is hardly glamorous, but I don’t mind. For a few hours of elbow grease on Monday, I get to enjoy a sparkling beachfront mansion all to myself for the rest of the week.
What little free time I have, anyway. Once the house is restored to order, my weekdays are spent running from job to job, whatever—
I’m distracted from my thoughts when I hear water running in the hall bathroom, a cabinet door opening and closing. And then . . . the unmistakable wheeze of a Windex bottle, followed by the squeak of a paper towel wiping on glass.
Is the Viking really cleaning bathrooms in a share house?
After finishing with the tub, I make another trip downstairs to swap a load of laundry into the dryer, start another load, and carry a still-warm set of sheets back upstairs. The Viking—I wonder if I’ll actually learn his name—has moved on to another bathroom. I glance at my Fitbit. Richard bought it for me, and although I considered tossing it, I’ve become slightly obsessed with tracking my steps.
Maybe because it helps combat the feeling that I’m stuck in a rut, going nowhere.
Fifteen-thousand, four-hundred-and-thirty-six steps so far today.
I need to leave for work soon, but I’m not quite sure what to do about him.
I send a text to Seth explaining the situation. Then I finish making up the two double beds before leaving the room and heading toward the sound of running water.
I come to a stop outside the now sparkling master bathroom. I have to admit, the Viking’s bathroom-cleaning skills are damn impressive. Almost as impressive as his body. He’s bent over a soaking tub that overlooks the ocean, his powerful thighs clearly outlined in dark denim. He’s taken off his button-down shirt, and his biceps bulge from the short sleeves of a basic white tee.
A wave of heat rises up my chest. Jesus, is the air-conditioning working?
“Might as well grab a toilet brush and make yourself useful.”
My heartbeat stumbles, mortification flooding through me as he repeats the suggestion I gave to him just a few minutes ago. I grab for the can of Scrubbing Bubbles under the sink and lift the lid of the toilet. Not a smart move. I immediately drop it and flush, waiting until the water stops running to open it again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Whatever was in there wasn’t from me,” he deadpans.
I aim the spray at the bowl. “When guys are taught to pee standing up, what exactly are your instructions? Are you taught to aim into the water? Or is it more like, You know, son, there’s plenty of liquid in the bowl, your job is to get everything else wet.”
When he doesn’t answer, I look over my shoulder. He’s watching me with an amused, almost sardonic smirk on his face.
“I’m serious. Because, otherwise, I have to believe there is some magnetic force field that keeps male urine out of the bowl—like a missile shield system, but for pee.”
He bites his lip, and I turn back to the toilet, attacking it with the brush. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious your missiles make it in there just fine. You leave plenty of evidence behind.”
“Me?”
“Your se—gender.” I stop myself from saying the three-letter word it’s impossible not to think about when it comes to this buff stranger. The last thing I need to do is say it out loud.
“Well, I haven’t unzipped anything in this house yet, and I’d rather not answer for half the human race.”
I snort. “That’s a first.”
He turns on the water and begins spraying down the tub. “What is?”
“The first time I’ve asked a guy for his opinion, and he’s declined to give it.”
I finish cleaning the toilet about the same time as he finishes with the tub. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a habit of generalizing?”
“Nope. Another first,” I answer blithely, ignoring the twanging of the nerve he’s just hit. “Anyway, I need to get ready for work.”
“I thought this was your work.”
“Taking care of the house gives me a place to live, but it doesn’t pay my bills. Speaking of which, if you know of anyone needing summer help, I’m available for hire.” I throw out that last bit out of habit. It’s amazing how many jobs I’ve picked up through word of mouth rather than official postings. Occasionally, I get hired for things tailored to my skill set, like house staging and retail merchandising. But I’m not picky—I walk dogs, run errands, babysit, waitress.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
His jaw clenches as he crosses his arms. “Exactly what kind of services are you offering?” There’s an edge of contempt to his tone, and I realize what he thinks I’m implying.
Not that desperate.
“The kind of services I do with my clothes on,” I snap.
His stare drags up and down my body, one eyebrow lifting in a silent reminder that my current outfit is a barely-there bikini.
I lift my chin defiantly. “Don’t you have to be going now?”
“Nope.”
“I’m not leaving you in the house alone.”
He ignores me. “Hey, are there any towels?”
“Why?”
“To dry off after my shower.”
I blink. “Now? Here?”
He looks around. “I did just clean it, so . . .”
“So . . . ” I mimic him. “I don’t even know you.”
“Knowing me wasn’t a factor when you asked me to scrub toilets.”
He has a point. I sigh. “Tell me the truth. Have you paid Seth or not?”
His answer is unhesitating. “Yes.”
“Fine.” It wouldn’t be the first time Seth forgot to tell me about a new share before they showed up with a weekender bag and a handle of Tito’s. I walk past him into the master bedroom where the towels I folded earlier in the day are arranged in stacks, waiting to be stored in the linen closet. I grab a bath sheet, hand towel, and wash cloth, and return to the bathroom, setting them beside the sink and regarding the Viking through the mirror. “You can shower. But if I haven’t heard from Seth by the time I have to leave for work, you’re leaving, too.”
Before he can reply, I head down to the bedroom I claimed at the start of the summer. Tucked between the kitchen and garage, and probably intended as a maid or au pair’s room, it barely fits a twin bed and single dresser, but I don’t mind. It’s cozy and has a gorgeous view of the beach.