I Like Being Watched by Jessica Gadziala
Two
Wynn
My life was a series of hemming and hawing every single article of clothing I put on until seventy-five percent of my closet was strewn around my bedroom, and I inevitably circled right on back to my first choice to begin with, slipping it on, chiding myself for being so damn indecisive and such a chronic over-thinker.
If I added up how much time I wasted on this particular cycle, I would likely have the time I always lacked to get my hair and face in order.
I was rushing out the door with my mascara tube in my hand, swiping a lightly tinted balm to my lips as I said a little prayer that my hair would dry fully by the time I got to my appointment.
In the end, just as in the beginning, I had settled on a pair of basic black slacks I had bought for an occasional bartending gig I landed when a friend of mine needed an extra hand with her shift. They were hot and rode up in weird places, but I figured they were the most professional pair of bottoms I had in my closet. I paired the slacks with a simple deep hunter green long-sleeved, button-up blouse, leaving the top button open, but no more. And, lastly, I had on a pair of black ballet flats since I figured you didn't want to show up for a job interview that would involve some light labor dressed like you were seeking a corner office.
First impressions mattered.
I really wanted to make a good one.
Because one look at my bank account that morning while I ate off-brand cereal and questionable milk made me realize I had to get this job. I needed the money. Even if I managed to pull all my little side gigs and sell a painting or two this week, I would still be in the red.
I had to nail this.
So I had to look the part.
I lucked out being stuck behind a train for a few minutes, letting me get my lashes lacquered, inspecting my teeth, popping in a mint, and spritzing on my perfect work perfume—a light vanilla and rose scent that not a single person I'd ever come across had found offensive—then finally made my way across town.
Into, you know, the nice area of it.
Where every house was a sprawling estate that would likely cost a couple million very easily.
None of them, however, came anywhere close to the one I turned my car into.
The one with the custom paver driveway that likely set it back a cool couple hundred grand. The landscaping with its intricately shaped bushes and hedges likely cost a small fortune to maintain as well, along with the sprawling lawn that was likely bright green all summer, and the pristine, gleaming pool I could see a sliver of in a glass room attached to the back of the house.
All those people—gardeners, lawn service, pool guy—I would be in charge of managing.
It was a foreign concept but one that felt interesting and wholly doable.
I mean, I could walk six dogs at once. I could be a shot girl to a group of gross, horny old guys who wanted to do body shots off of me and licked a little more than they should have. I could babysit kids and help elderly people run their errands, and teach pissed off teenagers how to paint in their forced art therapy classes.
I could do all of that.
In the same week.
I could absolutely do this.
I parked my car, inwardly worried it might leak something onto the expensive driveway and that I might be expected to shell out money I didn't have to replace the pavers, took a deep breath, and made my way up toward the towering white stucco home.
As one might imagine, a multitude of massive windows gleamed in the late fall sunlight, reflecting back the barren trees, giving no insight onto what might lay inside.
But I would soon find out as I pressed my finger into the pad of the electronic doorknob. No sound accompanied it, and I wondered if I would ever be cool enough in life to own a doorbell that didn't chime through the whole house.
It wasn't long before the door pulled open, producing a woman in a utilitarian gray dress that cinched at the waist and came down to the kneecaps, worn by a woman closer to my grandmother's age than my mother's with black hair flecked with salt & pepper, bright brown eyes that seemed to look right through me and see all my secrets, and a crucifix around her neck.
"You're Wynn," she said, giving me a nod.
"Yes. You're Elsbeth?"
"Yes. Come through. I have an appointment. I can only be with you for a few moments."
A few moments?
I had to convince this woman I was worthy of twenty-five dollars an hour in just a few moments? Perry? Sure. She could do that any day of the week, a natural-born chameleon with all the charm of your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill cult leader.Me, though, with my subpar social skills and strange resume full of various small gigs that never lasted very long? I wasn't so convinced.
But Elsbeth was already turning, heading inside, leaving me no choice but to follow behind.
The inside was what an episode of The Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous looked like, except more modern, sleeker. Gone were all the dark woods and stuffy Oriental rugs, replaced with sleek gray-washed hardwood floors, gray walls with minimalist, abstract art in neutral shades that I could have painted when I was two-years-old, but knew were likely purchased for the cost of a decent mid-sized SUV.
We walked past the butterfly staircase that led up to the second floor, and back into a kitchen that I was relatively certain was the size of my entire apartment with its stark white cabinetry, marble counters, and oversized, top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances. There was actually an echo in the space when Elsbeth spoke again.
"You can work the hours?" she asked, cutting to the chase. "Ten until seven. Monday through Thursday. Then ten until three on Friday. Mr. Buchanan takes half days on Fridays, and he likes his space."
Maybe so he could sit and watch his little home movies in private, I thought, a little tingle moving through me at the idea.
"Absolutely. My schedule is open." Or, rather, it would be if I got this job and informed all my other side gigs of the new arrangement. I might even try to squeeze them in on Friday afternoons and on the weekend. It was always good not to put all your eggs in one basket, my level-headed stepfather had told me after my mother urged me to go on a three-thousand-dollar artist retreat for a month as though I didn't have bills to pay. I loved her. And my heart ached that I couldn't go. But real life required at least a small amount of practicality.
"Good. That's good. And you can do the cleaning? It isn't much. Mr. Buchanan is naturally neat. But the mirror and counters and toilets all need a daily wiping down. That sort of thing."
"Of course."
"And you will need to go to the store for groceries. I will leave that list. As well as the dry cleaners or any other errand you find written down for you. I saw you have your own car, so that is good. You can submit receipts for gas to Mr. Buchanan at the end of the month. And communication skills are important. To make sure the groundskeepers and pool cleaners, anyone doing any sort of work here is doing what they are meant to be doing, not lazing about."
My lips curved up slightly at that. "I can be a good motivator when the occasion calls for it," I told her. "I might even enjoy it."
"Good. That's good," she agreed, sharing my smile. "Okay. I will pass you on to Blake. He prefers being called Blake. Says Mr. Buchanan is his brother. He should be here in a moment. He was taking a call in the study. I have to get going. It was nice meeting you, Wynn," she told me, already grabbing her purse and rushing out the door.
The kitchen was spotless.
Curious, I walked over to the fridge, opening it, seeing a dozen or so glass containers full of various items. Slices of salmon with a side of asparagus and some rice in some, brightly colored vegetable and beef stir fries in others. There were salad greens and a massive green smoothie. Nothing even resembling unhealthy. I mean, the man's only condiments were mustard, hot sauce, and some kind of homemade salad dressing that looked like little more than oil, vinegar, and some spices floating around.
"It's sad, isn't it?" a male voice asked behind me, making me jump, cringing at myself for getting caught snooping.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked. I was just curious since Elsbeth left but there was no evidence that she'd cooked."
Blake Buchanan was somewhere in his mid-twenties, brown-haired, blue-eyed, dressed in jeans and a button-up. Young, confident, rich, but not snooty.
"Fitz likes having meal prep instead of daily cooking. I guess so he has some choice in what he is eating. Even though it all looks entirely too healthy to me. Unclench your hands, Wynn, I'm not going to tattle on you for looking. If you get the job, you will be looking at every inch of this house. I'm Blake. And this is really just a formality. Elsbeth usually weeds out the lunatics. I just make sure whoever she picks isn't too senile to get the job done."
Or too old to be hot enough for the cameras, I imagined, though I wondered if he knew about them, if he helped his older brother indulge in his little fantasies. Maybe Blake was just given the instruction to pick someone young and reasonably attractive, with no explanation as to why.
"I only spent two minutes with her, but she seems like a tough cookie."
"That she is. She once slapped me across the hand with a wooden spoon when I tried to sample something she was making," he told me, smiling.
I wondered if Elsbeth knew about the cameras, if she cared.
"Well, you should have known better," I teased, getting another of those charming smiles of his.
"So, Wynn. What do you do for a living?"
"Excuse me?"
"Well, no one does this job because they are a house manager. We had a musician, a children's book illustrator, a cosplayer—and, yes, she took that very seriously in her spare time—, and I think the most recent was an actress of some sort."
"May I ask why there have been so many?"
"Oh, this and that. The musician got a gig on a small tour. The illustrator moved back home with her ailing parents. The cosplayer got pregnant and didn't want to do any of the cleaning. And the actress, well, her I am not sure about. She just up and quit. Maybe she was just flighty like that."
To be fair, she was.
And the fact that everyone else left the job because of some other kind of life event made any of the small worries I might have had about the position slip away. Perry likely was being—as was very on-brand for her—dramatic about the cameras. They probably were simply situated where there were valuables or around exits of various kinds, Mr. Buchanan wanting to keep an eye on his pricey possessions.
He might only view the footage as a security measure, but he was going to be pleasantly surprised by what he would find once I got the position.
And just like that, ten minutes later, I had all the forms filled out, was walking down the front path with a small binder full of household information—preferences about brands and scents that were acceptable or banned from the household, the names and locations of shops and dry cleaners—when a sleek black Lamborghini hummed up the drive, making me gasp and jump to the side as it nearly side-swiped me to get into its chosen space, which so happened to be beside mine.
The engine cut.
The door opened.
And out slid the most gorgeous man I had ever seen outside of a television screen.
Yes, he was primetime TV hot.
Maybe even late-night Showtime hot.
Standing at least around six-three, his body was strong, yet not overly jacked—a swimmer's body, one might call it, long and lean, wide of shoulder, but narrower at the waist and hip.
He had sharp slashes for cheekbones that created small hallows beneath. Under what could only be called a stern brow were striking eyes the color of morning skies illuminated with fresh light, so bright they almost hurt to look at, all the while begging you never to look away. They were made all the more dramatic by the rich, thick black lashes that nearly matched his dark brown hair. His jaw was a severe angle, so chiseled it looked as though it could slice your finger if you trailed it along that edge.
Generally speaking, my desire to be watched had nothing at all to do with the attractiveness of the man doing the watching. It wasn't about me being attracted to them, but rather their desire for me that seemed to fuel the behavior.
That said, there was no mistaking the thrill inside I felt, knowing a man who was that beautiful was going to sit down to rewind his security footage only to get something he hadn't bargained for, that it would make his cock stiffen, would make him reach up to undo a shirt button, would have him reaching under his desk to relieve the pressure that came with his need for release.
I could feel my own desire growing as he looked over, his head jerking back a bit at seeing me standing there, like he had missed me in the driveway, hadn't noticed almost hitting me.
"Mr. Buchanan," I greeted him, giving him a smile, wondering if my need was as plain on my face as it felt in my body, that frantic sizzling and simmering in my belly, in my core.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, his voice a deep, rich, smooth sound that washed over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
"Wynn," I told him, not minding a bit when his gaze did a sweep of my body before landing on my face again. "Your new house manager," I clarified.
His reaction was slow at first.
He stared at me for a long second.
Then away over the front lawn.
Then back at me.
"Shit," he hissed, slamming his car door, and making his way up the front path, leaving me looking after him until he disappeared.
Taking a breath, I climbed in my car, flipping down the visor, looking at my reflection. Blonde hair, red lips, green eyes, but they were heavy-lidded with desire. And my usually pale cheeks were tinted pink with it as well.
I turned over my car, carefully backing out of the driveway, making sure not to let a tire touch the mostly dead but very uniformed grass, pausing at the end to let a sleek silver sedan pass.
My gaze slid back to the house, finding the drapes parted in the front room, one I had gotten a short glimpse of while rushing to keep up with Elsbeth.
The study.
And there he was.
Fitzwilliam Buchanan.
Tall, dark, handsome, looming.
And completely unprepared for what I had in store for him.
