Take Me Home for Christmas (Whiskey Creek #5)(29)
Author: Brenda Novak

But what if he didn’t like her cooking? Or she couldn’t manage the clerical tasks he expected her to do? Or being around each other was simply too awkward?

She wasn’t sure she could take any more disappointment or rejection.

Especially from him.

Maybe he was giving her the job so he could take it away, dash her hopes and send her packing. Hurt her the way she’d once hurt him.

She twisted around to look at her Mercedes, parked in a gravel lot to one side so she wouldn’t block his driveway, and nearly walked back to it. She was crazy to think any type of arrangement with Ted Dixon would be successful. She’d be working for her old boyfriend, of all people. They had too much history, would never be able to put the past behind them. He’d barely been civil to her the mornings she’d joined his friends at Black Gold Coffee….

But before she could take a single step, the door opened and he stood in the entryway, looking more handsome than ever. He’d always been tall and thin, with a rangy, rock-star build. Truth be told, he was a little too thin, even at thirty-four, but he’d put on a good twenty pounds over the past decade. The added muscle was apparent beneath the tight-fitting thermal shirt he wore with a pair of faded jeans and expensive-looking house shoes.

He’d also grown into his hawkish features. She’d noticed that before, of course. Although his face retained a sort of raw-boned quality, his eyes were so intelligent and his mouth so expressive and dynamic that he drew immediate interest, if not admiration.

His looks appealed to Sophia, but not as much as his blatant sexuality. He had a way of taking command of…everything, including a woman’s body, without becoming an insufferable, selfish pig—a distinction Skip had entirely missed.

Anyway, the zing that went through her the moment she laid eyes on him worried her. It was too risky to feel so…aware of her new employer.

“You’re early,” he said.

She’d been afraid she might be late when she dragged Alexa out of the house at seven-fifteen instead of seven-thirty. She was already getting off at three today, for Halloween. “I’m sorry. I came as soon as I dropped Alexa off.”

“It’s fine. Come on in.”

His house was a converted sawmill that appeared to have four levels, all of them open except for the top one—most likely his bedroom. It was loft-like, artsy and unique with brick walls and a wood-beamed ceiling.

She loved the pop art he had hanging all over, too. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

There had to be a story behind his home. She’d known when he converted the old sawmill. She’d heard his friends talk about it at coffee and had secretly driven past several times when Skip was out of town. But she didn’t know what had inspired him to buy the property and make such radical changes to it, and he didn’t volunteer any details.

“You can leave your purse and coat over there.” He indicated some rolling shelves of corrugated metal that had hooks on one side. “I’ll show you where the kitchen is.”

They descended half a flight of stairs and then another half a flight before entering a gourmet kitchen with a floor of polished rock, windows that overlooked the river and copper pots hanging above an extensive woodblock island. Somehow this part of the house managed to be cozy, even though it was large and reminded her of a medieval manor. There was a fire burning in the hearth at one end, a pantry off to the other side and stairs leading down to what she guessed would be a wine cellar. She inhaled the aroma of fresh mint hanging on a drying rack not far from the oak table and the rich smell of coffee.

These would be very pleasant surroundings….

“I put on a pot of Black Gold’s finest,” he said. “Feel free to pour yourself a cup.”

She was far too nervous to eat or drink. “Maybe when I take a break midmorning.”

He paused for a second, and his eyes ranged over her. She wondered if she was inappropriately dressed. She’d put on a pair of jeans, a lightweight sweater and tennis shoes, and she’d brought an apron in case he didn’t have one. “Is this okay?” she asked.

“Is what okay?”

“What I’m wearing.”

He averted his gaze as if he hadn’t really been looking at her in the first place. “Of course. Dress however you like. I rarely get company during the day when I’m working.”

So it would be just the two of them in his secluded house for hours on end….

She rubbed sweaty palms on her thighs. “When’s your next deadline?”

He was leading her back up the stairs. “End of December.”

“Will you be able to meet it?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Instead of thanking her, he turned and gave her another assessing look before continuing the tour. As they passed through the dining room, which was quite formal, she guessed he typically ate in the kitchen. His living room had more of a lived-in feel. So did the game room, which included a pool table, darts and video game systems, along with a big-screen TV. The only thing he didn’t show her was his bedroom. It had to be on the top floor, as she’d initially guessed.

On the third level, double doors separated his workspace from the rest of the loft. Inside, Sophia saw an extra desk. He said that was where she’d be handling the clerical tasks he assigned her and gestured at the chair. “I’d like you to take a typing test, if you don’t mind.”

“Right now?” she asked.

One dark eyebrow quirked up. “Is there something wrong with right now?”

“No.” Except that her anxiety had her feeling queasy. “What do you want me to type?”

He grabbed a research book from the shelves lining the two walls that weren’t glass. “How about half a page from this? I just want to get a general idea of your speed.”

She was a far better cook than she was a typist. She preferred to start proving herself in the kitchen, but she couldn’t say that, not without sounding as if she was making up excuses. At home, she’d used a laptop to surf and shop on the internet. She could limp along on a keyboard but wasn’t what anyone would consider a crack typist.

He held the book while she tried to copy it. But having him so close, watching her, brought out the worst of her nerves. Her hands shook so badly she couldn’t avoid making mistakes. Soon her eyes were burning, too, with the tears she was holding back, and that made it difficult to read. Terrified that he’d notice she was about to break down, she blinked and blinked and consequently finished the paragraph by slaughtering almost every word.