Hard 5 by Stephanie Brother
3
Wandering around someone else’s house when they’re not there feels as intimate as rifling through their underwear drawer. Everything here is unfamiliar. I use the bathroom, then head straight back to the kitchen, opening doors to rooms on the lower level and finding the den and what looks like it should be a formal dining room, but without the furniture.
There’s a door from the kitchen into the laundry room, and I open cupboards, gathering polish and cloths. I think I’m going to need soap and water to tackle some of the dirt. In the kitchen, I take in the chaos. These men really don’t have the time to keep house. I’m torn between cleaning my room and dealing with areas of the house that the Bradfords will notice the most. I may not know if I want to stay long-term, but I’m not a slacker, and I’m not going to coast for the time that I’m here.
In the end, the dishes win out. I start by washing all the crockery and silverware, leaving pans soaking in hot soapy water. I wipe down all the counters, finding places to store the things that don’t need to be there. When the pans are more manageable, I wash them all and pack them away. There is dust on all the baseboards and cobwebs around the ceiling. I find a long feather duster and knock everything down before I sweep and mop. By the time I’m finished, the kitchen is smelling fresh, but I’m definitely not.
Big Boy keeps me company, watching me with interest and whining when I get too close with the big wet mop. I’m humming as I take out the trash, looking around for somewhere to put it.
“What the fuck?” A deep voice says. The man with a potty-mouth is one of the Bradford twins. Dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, he could be a carbon copy of his triplet brothers, but there’s something very different about his almost-black eyes and the way he stands with his head cocked and legs spread wide. There’s an alpha-ness to him that comes from his posture and gaze and makes me freeze. “Who are you?” he barks.
“Melanie,” I say. Then, because he’s annoyed me with his surliness, I drop into an exaggerated curtsy. “Your new housekeeper.”
“Housekeeper? You’re the girl from Cooper’s Farm.”
The mention of my home puts a lump in my throat as big as an apple.
“Not anymore,” I whisper.
“Who arranged this?” He moves closer, assessing me like a breeding animal he’s considering purchasing.
“Cash. Maybe you should talk to him about it. Oh, and deal with this, would you?” I shove the trash at him and bolt back inside before he can utter another word.
While he’s absorbing the shock of my sudden disappearance, I grab the vacuum and the cleaning products I need and dash upstairs. Closing my bedroom door is a big relief, and knuckling down to restoring the room to the haven it must have been at some time in the past takes my mind off my new situation.
There is something so therapeutic about cleaning, especially the kind that takes real effort. When I’ve stripped the bed, and the dust motes are flying, I open the window for some fresh air. Time to do some laundry.
I decide to be selfish and deal with my bedding first, happy to find the kitchen is empty of disgruntled men. The washer is new and seems efficient. There’s a drier too, although I do prefer my clothes to have a line-fresh scent.
Next, I decide to deal with the hallway.
I’m on my hands and knees when I hear the thud of the front door closing. “Who the hell is it now,” I mutter under my breath.
“Hi honey, I’m home,” someone yells. Colt appears, leaning against the door jamb, looking mighty pleased with himself.
“I’m not your honey.” I scowl.
“Ah, now. I’m only messing with you,” he grins. “This house is smelling fresher than a daisy. I think Cash made a good choice hiring you.”
“I’m glad my cleaning skills meet with your approval,” I say formally.
“They do.” He nods as his eyes seem to rake over me. I get the feeling he’d like to say something else. Something a whole lot more personal, but he seems to stop himself. Sensible boy. I’ll be quick to squash any funny business if it arises, although I doubt it will. I’m grimy and smell riper than the stables. There is no way this good-looking man would have eyes for me. Maybe someone like Amber would be better suited. I’m sure she’d flounce in here, all chiffon and perfume, and blow his mind.
“I heard you met Scott.”
Shrugging, I lower my cloth. “If he’s got a dirty mouth on him, then yes, I met Scott.”
“What did he say?”
“Something no man should say in front of a lady.” It comes out more primly than I intend, and Colt shifts as though he’s trying to stifle a chuckle.
“Outside of the bedroom, anyway,” he mutters. “Well, Melanie, I’ll be seeing you.”
He turns, disappearing as quickly as he arrived.
Are they all going to be popping in to check on me all day? I won’t get any work done at this rate.
I tackle the den next. It seems to need the least work. The shelves are all bare and only require a cursory wipe-down. The TV has a layer of dust along its top edge, but after that’s dealt with and the cushions are straightened, I only need to vacuum to finish it off.
I’m loading my sheets into the dryer when the front door bangs again. I stick my head around the corner and find Scott is back. “Did you deal with that trash?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Trash?” Scott’s head jerks back, his brow furrowed with confusion. It’s then I realize that it isn’t Scott at all.
Ugh. Not the right person. “I thought you were your brother,” I correct quickly.
He nods, his dark eyes traversing my body in an observant way. There’s less swagger to this version of Scott. Maybe when the egg split, the swagger and arrogance were divided unevenly.
“I’m Sawyer,” he says. “I’m here to fix myself a sandwich.” He gazes around the kitchen with wide eyes that tell me he’s struggling to recognize the place he left earlier in the day. His hesitancy is what drives me to leave the laundry.
“I can fix you something.”
Sawyer doesn’t seem to know what to say as I find the fridge. There are cold meats and cheese and some salad vegetables. There’s bread on the counter too. I can work with this. “You don’t need to do this,” Sawyer eventually says.
“I’m getting paid.” I breeze past him, finding everything I need quickly. He watches with eyes that are physically identical to his brother’s but somehow reflect something soulful rather than dark.
“Well, you’ve worked a miracle in here.” He leans against the counter, watching me slice thick hunks of bread and spread them with rich butter. The ham smells delicious, and my stomach growls. “Sounds like you should be making a sandwich for yourself,” he chuckles.
“I guess I should.”
I find another plate and finish preparing our sandwiches. When I hand him his plate, he waves to the long wooden table. “Will you sit with me?”
“Sure.”
We take bites at the same time, and his eyes meet mine as he nods with approval. It’s only a sandwich, but when things are prepared with love, they always taste better. I mean, I don’t love him, but I love taking care of people—nice people who are grateful.
“So, you’re from Cooper’s Farm.”
I nod because what else is there to say.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I know what it’s like to lose parents.”
“It’s not been a good time,” I admit, surprised that I’m so open with this virtual stranger. There’s something in his dark eyes that is kind, a softness to the way he looks at me that I can’t quite put my finger on.
“It won’t be, but I, for one, am glad that Cash had the sense to get you over here. We don’t usually live like pigs, but with everything that needs doing out there, it’s hard to find any energy for what needs doing in here.”
“I can understand that,” I say. “But I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. I committed to a week’s trial.”
Sawyer nods. “I hope we pass your test,” he says.
It doesn’t take him long to wolf down his food, and then he’s up, washing his plate and his hands. It warms my heart that he’s considerate of the work I’ve put in to clean the kitchen and doesn’t want to spoil it with dirty dishes from the get-go. My eyes trail over his big, manly body, lingering on the broadness of his shoulders and the close-cropped hair at the back of his neck.
When he turns, he smiles broadly, and I catch sight of a little dimple on his right cheek, visible through his short beard that is cute as hell. I mean, Sawyer’s six foot tall and all man, but there’s a boyishness to him that is missing from his surly brother. “Thanks for this. I’ll see you later,” he says, grabbing his hat and sliding on his boots. At the front door, he turns, hesitating. “Oh, and don’t mind my brother. He always comes across as worse than he actually is.”
I don’t get a chance to answer before the door closes behind him.