“Doesn’t mean I didn’t give you options.”
Arms crossed at her chest, she turns toward me, irritation on her face. “So what, you want me to clear this out for you, and you’ll pay me?”
“That’s usually how a job works.”
“For how long? Because, you know, I have better things to do than clean up your mess.”
“Do you?” I ask as I lean against the doorframe. “Please enlighten me.”
Her lips purse as she narrows her eyes. “Uh, like . . .” She pauses as she tries to come up with something more important, but I think we both know at this point, she’s mine for the taking. “You know what? It’s none of your business.”
“That’s what I thought.” I push off the doorframe and head down the hallway back to the kitchen. “I’ll pay you one thousand dollars a week in cash.”
“One thousand dollars?” she shouts after me. “Matt was making way more than that, and he was the one who stole the Grammy.”
I pick up my coffee and take a sip. “Matt was doing a lot more than just cleaning up my shit as you like to put it, so unless you want to field the pussy that comes knocking on my door, take my phone calls, schedule my life, and deal with all my brands, you’ll take one thousand dollars a week and be happy with it, or else I can just call it community service and leave it at that.”
“Is this how you’re going to be the entire time? An unrelenting ass?”
I turn toward her as she approaches, her young face both irritated and scared at the same time. I can’t remember the age difference between her and Ryland, but I do know she’s the youngest in her family, and there’s a big gap. It’s evident in her naive eyes.
I sip my coffee and meet her gaze. “Yes.”
“Great.” She tosses her hands as if she gives up.
“You can start tomorrow. Seven in the morning, sharp.”
“Seven?” Her eyes nearly bug out. “Have you lost your mind? I’m not arriving at seven.”
“If you arrive at seven, you can make my morning coffee for me.”
She glances at the mug in my hand and then back at me. “You can fuck off with that. Make your own damn coffee. Unless you want to pay me fifteen hundred dollars, then sure, I’ll be here at seven.”
“That’s a one-hundred-dollar cup of coffee a day.”
“That’s what I’m worth.”
“Fine,” I say, calling her bluff. “Fifteen hundred a week, you’re here at seven making me my coffee . . . and protein shake.” I hold my hand out to her. “Deal?”
Chapter Three
HATTIE
What the hell am I actually doing, and how did returning a box of items to someone turn into a job with the devil?
Oh, I’ll tell you how.
Hayes Farrow.
That’s how he works. There’s always an angle with him, and this angle seems to have taken me down within a matter of seconds. Do I truly believe he’d report me to the police so I’d get into a shit ton of trouble? Yes, absolutely. The feud between him and Ryland runs deep, so for Hayes to consider throwing another Rowley under the bus to spite Ryland, yup, I one hundred percent believe that could happen.
“I asked you if it was a deal,” he says, still holding his hand out.
His large, calloused hand.
I glance up into his light-gray eyes. There’s barely a drop of color in his irises, yet they’re rimmed in black, a unique color that only adds to the obsession people have with him. Little do they know the devil that rests behind them.
And that devil has me by the uterus.
What option do I really have?
Create more trouble in my family that doesn’t need it right now? It’s not like I have something to offer, even showing up at their doorstep. He’s right. I failed out of this semester. I have no job, no money—no place to crash while I try to figure out what to do—meaning, I’m out of luck, and shaking hands with the devil himself might be my only option.
I also don’t want to admit it, but fifteen hundred a week is more than I could get somewhere else, and I could desperately use the money.
I must reek of desperation because as I stare into his cold, dead eyes, I know he knows this. I know he can see my moment of despair.
Because of that, I take a deep breath and hold my hand out to him, connecting our palms with a shake.
“Deal,” I say, a shiver passing through me.
That shiver . . . that’s the telltale sign of hell burning up through me.
A slow, maniacal smile creeps over his mouth from my concession, and I know I just made a deal with Satan himself.
When he releases my hand, he brings his mug up to his lips, eyes set on me, and he sips. I hate to admit it, because I can genuinely say I despise this man, but he’s ungodly attractive. His tanned skin makes his eyes seem endlessly light, framed by long dark lashes. His morning scruff is dark, deliciously coating his strong jaw, and his backward hat covers up his nearly black hair that women have a conniption over when he styles it—which is rare. And then there’s his body. He’s easily six foot three or taller, with long limbs and a toned torso, which only seems attainable for those who spend forty hours in the gym—yet here he is, standing in front of me with a six-pack that I could lose my finger in. His pecs are the main feature of his body, lined with sinew that connects in the middle of his chest. It’s probably the most famous part of his body besides his eyes because he shows it off during his concerts. The many collages I’ve seen of just that part of his chest is frankly disturbing—yet I’ve watched every one of them. Even though I think he’s a horrible human, I can’t deny the fact that he’s the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Do you need a place to stay?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“What?”
“Weren’t you going to stay with Matt?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say.
“So do you need a place to stay? It’ll knock a few hundred off your payment, but I have a few guest rooms to choose from.”
“Ew, you think I’d stay here? No, thank you.”
“Why ew?” He glances around his house. “It’s pretty nice here.”
“Yes, your house is nice. You, on the other hand, just popped out of Satan’s asshole, and I’d rather not share a living space with a fiery anus. Thank you very much.”
“That’s a lot of ass talk.” He smirks. “Have a fixation with that? Because I can show you a good time if you do.”
The fucking audacity of this man.
“In your dreams, Hayes,” I say even though I bet he could show me a good time. A time to remember. I grab my puzzles and shirts and hold them close to my chest. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go scream into a pillow while I come to terms with the deal I just shook on.”
He smirks, the corner of his mouth pulling to the side, and it’s both hideously annoying . . . and seductively attractive. “Happy screaming. See you bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“Fuck off,” I mumble as I push through the door to his house and out to my car.