Sidling into the kitchen as soon as the interior garage door shut behind Emily and her brood several days later, Shane felt momentarily ashamed for waiting until all the Wakelands disappeared before making his own appearance. But hell, a man needed his solitude in the morning. Especially a wealthy single man. Shane realized he was not quite ready to live with six other people on a day to day basis. He was almost ready to throw in the towel. Almost. Regrettably, that kind streak of his kept Shane from speaking up, for he was sure he'd get used to his lack of solitude. Oh, his suite on the top floor, or the “penthouse” (as he'd heard ten-year-old Dana call it), was off-limits to the Wakeland clan and therefore secluded; however, any time he went into the living areas of his home, he had company. Noisy company. As Shane poured coffee and sipped the delicious brew this morning, he admitted there was another strong reason for keeping the Wakelands around: the woman made damn fine coffee.
Smiling, Shane stepped out on the deck into the cool, foggy California beach morning and took a seat at the table. His phone chirped, signaling a text, and soon Shane was engrossed in a long, written conversation with his literary agent. Shane often wondered why he didn’t just pick up the phone and call Angie, his agent. But being a writer, he figured writing just came with the territory.
About an hour later Shane surfaced from his texted conversation, closed his phone, and glanced around at the retreating clouds and gray ocean. Awake and ready to work, he went back inside the still silent house. Usually he had one hour on his own in the morning while Emily Wakeland chauffeured her children to their various schools. Since it was so quiet inside it looked like Shane was catching an extra break today, so he took the stairs two at a time up to his suite, eager to begin the plot spinning around in his head for his next thriller.
Throwing the door to his office open, no one was more startled than he to stumble upon a bent-over Emily Wakeland as she swept the floor. She must have returned while he’d been outside texting. Before him was a fine rear end, and normally Shane would have stepped back to admire it, but her shriek returned him to the doorway, hands up in supplication.
"Hey, it's just me!" he cried, eyes bugging wide behind his tortoise-rimmed glasses.
Emily's hand rose to her throat at his entrance, but at least she now recognized him and took a deep breath. Before she could speak, Shane glanced at the desk and realized she had shuffled his papers around.
Unreasonable irritation prodded him to say sharply, "Why are you in here? No one but me goes in here, and you don't—you never-- touch the desk, or anything on it. Understood?" As soon as the words left his mouth Shane wanted to snatch them back; he knew he'd spoken too sharply. Too late; Mrs. Wakeland stood ramrod straight, staring frostily into his eyes.
"Completely, Mr. McNeal. I apologize. It won't happen again. If you'll excuse me," and Emily made to pass him in the doorway. Growling under his breath, irritated at his uncalled for crossness, Shane grabbed her forearm. Oops. Emily's eyes dropped to his hand pointedly, and then met his gaze with no emotion whatsoever.
"Excuse me," she repeated, pulling away to hustle down the stairs faster than Shane could gather his thoughts. The author watched his housekeeper disappear, wondering again who really was in charge in this arrangement.
"Shit," he sighed, running a hand through his mop of hair and entering his now spotless office, resigned to apologizing, but not yet ready. He needed a few moments to swallow his pride, after all.
Emily, on the other hand, bristled about the downstairs living area, dusting in record time, straightening couch pillows and loading the dishwasher with clanks and bangs, all the while chanting in her head, "He is my boss! He is my boss!" After speed-cleaning the family room, Emily finally cooled down enough to plop on the sofa facing the ocean, still irritated with Mr. McNeal's high-handed manner of speaking. Even if he was her boss, she still deserved to be treated with respect, not barked at like a—like a… well, like a dog!
About fifteen minutes later Shane entered the family room. Emily heard his tread on the carpeted stairs and jumped to her feet, but he waved her down when he appeared, saying, "Please, sit. You're entitled to a break."
He flung himself into the brown leather chair at right angles to her sofa, darting glances at her through the loose hair falling over his eyes. Emily hesitantly sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped together on her knees, and said, "I am really sorry—"
"Don't apologize.” The author cut through Emily’s words bluntly. “It was my bad. No one should be spoken to the way I spoke to you. It showed a lack of respect, and God knows I have loads of respect for you! My place has never looked this good. The food is actually edible, and healthy, too. When I'm in my head writing, I sometimes speak without thinking, and I'm sorry for sounding like a jerk." Shane sat forward now, his hair hanging in his face. Emily studied him, noticing how youthful he appeared, though he had to be forty at least. Of course, the mismatched sweats, long hair, and casual method of speaking belied his age. Latching onto the author’s compliments and cocking her head she asked,
"You like my food? And my cleaning? What were your other housekeepers like?"
Shane sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin and grinning to himself. For one thing, they sure as hell didn't look like Ms. Emily Wakeland, with her tight little butt, slim waist, and curly hair that begged to be touched. Of course, saying that was out of the question, so Shane reformulated his answer.
"Oh, you know how most people are when the boss isn't around. I came home a coupla times and found the place trashed. Once there was a party going on, even though I'd called earlier that day saying I'd be returning! The older housekeepers weren't any better. The place would look grimy, and for me to notice dirt, well, it's gotta be pretty bad! So, if you want to sit down and admire the view for a while, knock yourself out. It's why I have the place. It gives me inspiration," and Shane rolled out the word like an orator while Emily hazarded a smile. Then she looked away and spoke tentatively.
"I love it here. The kids love it here. That's probably why I’m so defensive. I don't—I don't want to be sent away. It's your inspiration, and it's our rehabilitation..." She paused, and Shane shook his head to interrupt.
"Quit worrying about being kicked to the curb, Emily. Remember our agreement last week? Yeah, I'm not used to kids, let alone five in my house, but I'm not an ogre. I think we're working out okay. If I'm in my office, that's when I don't want to be disturbed, and all of you have been pretty good about that. Besides, I usually try and write during the quiet times of the day or night. Actually, I'm pretty easy going, contrary to how I sound sometimes. So forget about losing your job or home. I'm happy, and you should be." He stood abruptly, thinking he might have spoken too freely.
Glancing about and attempting to break his serious tone, Shane zeroed in on the French doors. Pointing at a nonexistent spot he drawled, "Now, I think I see fingerprints on that glass door. Get back to work."
Shane winked through his glasses and headed toward the stairs, a sudden vision of a seduction scene starring him and Emily bombarding his brain. He knew he had to get the thoughts down, not questioning from where they came.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Shane entered his inner sanctum and immediately began typing as the images crowded his thoughts. Envisioning himself seducing Emily interested Shane, but his author self didn't stop at seduction. Shane wrote a whole scene, fantasizing the two of them edging closer; he reaching out to touch her hair hesitantly, her eyes drifting shut with full, plush lips parting on an exhaled sigh. He would lower his head slowly to capture those plump lips...Shane’s imagination painted such a vivid picture it seemed real to Shane, though he chastised himself for lusting after a widow with five kids who was in all likelihood still mourning her late husband. It didn't stop him from finishing the scene, however, or for getting turned on by what he wrote. Shane's power of description was extraordinary, and with his muse just two floors below, well, he resigned himself to a cold shower after a quick run on the beach.