Mr. Shirtless leads me back to his mansion in silence which, is just as well because I need to organize my thoughts before I try to get any more information from him. Somehow I know asking the right amount of questions is crucial if I want to make the right impression- the right second impression. Too few questions, and I'll seem like a pushover who will take anything he dishes out. Too many questions and I will seem like exactly what I am: an underaged girl who knows very little about how the world works. Some semblance of pride in me is resolutely opposed to either of those outcomes.
In other more ironic news, I am grateful for the rain now because it means that if I want to keep water from my eyes, then as I walk I have to look down and not at Mr. Grumpy's incredibly muscled back. What I can glimpse is my bare feet and his bare feet walking determinedly across the wet grass. Both of us together probably look like a modern Tarzan and Jane, you know, if Tarzan was in need of a serious attitude adjustment.
By the time I notice we are not reentering the mansion where we- very dramatically- exited it, I am wincing my way over beige gravel while he walks over them with ease. He stops at a door that is well concealed by a fence covered in climbing vines. Plain, flat and white, it is a far cry from the elegant front door.
A few moments pass while we both stand there, rain continuing to drench us in its steady rhythm.
Mr. Grumpy Face sighs in exasperation.
I cup my hands against my eyebrows so that no rain will get past them when I look up. Just as I do he turns around, and I get a full frontal of his gorgeously well defined pecs.
Holy marshmallows, my mind has never gone blank so fast. Rain streams over his smooth chest, and I find myself suddenly sure of what he would look like in the shower. Involuntarily of course. The thought leaves me feeling so inappropriate that I'm not even annoyed when he completely ruins the visual.
"I'm sorry," he stares up as if he is trying to recall something important. When he brings his hazel eyes back down to mine he says, "I must have missed the part of our agreement where I'm supposed to open doors for you."
My face tingles with fresh embarrassment. Stunned into compliance, I step around him and reach for the door knob. Geez does anyone around here know how to lock a door?
Swinging the door open I can see a hallway of exposed brick disappearing into darkness. I hold the door open with my body as he walks inside without bothering to put much space between us. I flinch as his huge bicep almost brushes my breast, however, he doesn't seem to notice.
"Close the door behind you, and come on."
I do as I'm told but there is one problem.
"Um, can you turn on the light? I can't see."
"That sounds like a personal problem."
"No, it's a professional one actually. If I can't see to do my job, then I can't do my job."
Wow, I'm so bold in pitch blackness. It doesn't last long. I collide right into what is unmistakably a bare back, my lips momentarily brushing against wet skin. His wet skin.
Of all.
The things.
That could.
Have happened.
Maybe he hasn't noticed...
I take another step back when I sense him turning around and am ashamed to admit that I can barely hear his breaths while mine seem to be roaring in the blackness around us. The moment stretches for too long, and I can practically hear his smirk when he finally speaks.
"For the record that was not me touching you."
"Yes, um, I won't follow so close behind. Sir."
"I'm turning around now. Put your finger through my belt loop. Something tells me you'd get lost trying to walk a straight line."
Well if there is anything that makes me less inclined to put my finger through the belt loop of a hot guy- besides his earlier physical abuse- it is definitely that.
Still he has the upper hand here. Do I put it past him that he would leave me to wander alone in a dark, dank hallway? Um, that would be a no.
"Come on already, I don't have all day," he snaps.
Screw it. My hand shoots out, and I don't hesitate when it brushes the bare skin of his lower back until it meets the fabric of his wet denim and locates a loop. He begins walking with me trailing behind him, his quick pace not the only reason my breathing grows shallow.
When at last he opens a door and light floods in, I let go of his jeans before he has to tell me to do so.
We are in another hallway, this one I can see in.
Waving a hand to indicate a row of five doors on either side, my new boss tells me, "These are servant's quarters. You may choose any of these."
"For what?" I ask before taking the time to utilize context clues. Too late.
"For sleeping, what else?"
Choose your battles, Raya...
I let the tone of the comment slide even though his drawing out the word 'sleeping' makes me feel as if he thinks I am stupid, which had been his point.
I lay a hand on the handle of the door I am closest to and with as much dignity as I can muster, I say, "This one seems fine." I open it and find a light switch quickly, so as not to seem like a complete idiot. Then I try not to seem impressed because holy smokes this 'servant's room' is about a hundred times nicer than the hotels I stayed in. Nonchalantly I say, "Just as good as any I guess."
He looks at me like he isn't buying the act while I struggle to maintain eye contact. Eventually he says, "Good. Stay here, I'll be back in a moment," then shuts me in without giving me a chance to respond.
I turn to look at the room. There's a full sized bed to my right with four very comfortable looking pillows and a beige duvet folded down at the foot of the bed. The headboard is plain but solid wood. There is a nightstand and matching armoire, and a flatscreen tv that seems out of place mounted on one of the off white walls.
Behind another door in the room,I am surprised to find a small bathroom.
It seems that I will have all I needed right here.
Hearing the bedroom door open, I jump, but it's only him carrying what I realize to be my messenger bag, boots, and dress, the last of which he balls up a throws at me.
"You might want to bring that where we're going. And don't expect me to do favors for you. This," he nudes my messenger bag with his foot,"is only because you are not allowed in that study. Got it?"
Pride is a lump in my throat that I have to force myself to choke it down. "Yeah, got it." What an a-hole.
"When you are not doing chores please see that you confine yourself to these quarters, as I will not wish to see you. Understand?"
I feel both taken aback by his harsh words and lucky that I am getting such nice accommodations. I loath the conflicting emotions because they remind me of my foster family. I never liked Richard started giving me extra attention, but I'd felt so lucky they'd chosen to foster me in the first place...
As for the man in front of me, I tried imagining what all I might have received had I not broken that urn if this was what people that owed him got.
"Come. I'll show you the laundry."
He leads me down into what looks to be a finished basement with several machines for washing and drying. There are flat screens hanging from the ceiling in two corners of the room, and I take a moment to fantasize about watching reality tv while I do laundry in peace. Ah, there are the remotes.
When I turn back, he is in the process of stripping off his pants.
"Oh my-" I cover my face, ready to flee. I don't care what I owed him, physical intimacy would never be part of any deal I would agree to. "What are you doing?!"
He looks incredulous, like I'd just asked him where he kept his unicorns thongs. "These are dirty. You're going to wash them."
I want to tell him that he doesn't have to speak slowly as if I'm an imbecile.
"Please, could you not undress in front of me? You being my employer now, it just isn't professional for me to see you like that."
"You're kidding, right? Your dress is practically see through."
I look down, throwing my arms across my chest, mortified that the rain has in fact made me look like a wet T-shirt contestant.
How long has he been able to see...?
He throws his soiled clothing into one of the overflowing hampers positioned under a shoot and begins to ascend the basement stairs.
"Sir," I call.
Again he stops but doesn't bother to turn around. Fine then.
"I don't know your name. What should I call you?"
"This is Thorne Estate. I'm Mr. Thorne to you. Obviously."
When I hear his footsteps, I call out again. "Don't you need my name?"
"No."
"What if you need to call me for something."
He sighs as if I'm the one testing his patience with my simple questions.
"Fine. What is your name?"
"Raya."
"Well, Raya, I expect breakfast to be prepared at 7:30 sharp."
I let out a sigh of relief, and feeling rather odd about my current predicament, began to start a few loads of laundry. I grab the remote and clicked the tv on, because no matter how surreal life is at the moment, I just want to watch the Kardashian's.