“Four years what?” He shook his head, clearing the memories of his mother arranging and rearranging those vases. One for each of her sons.
“You asked how long I’d been cleaning.” She stood to her full height. She wasn’t very tall but she somehow still managed to make herself look menacing as she jutted out her finger. “Did you want to see my references, Mr. Wellington?”
Hell. He didn’t have the energy to fight with her and the longer he stayed inside the more he felt choked by the memories—the louder they screamed, begging to be dealt with.
“I’ll be outside,” he snapped, turning on his heel. “Try not to break anything else, or I’ll be forced to take it out of your paycheck.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath as the screen door slammed behind him. She was probably plotting his murder right now, and he’d deserve it. But she was the one moving things.
Cleaning out ghosts.
Even though she didn’t realize it.
And his reaction was instinctive—even if it was wrong.
A cool breeze picked up, and now, thanks to his grandfather, he had animals to find.
A cock, to be exact.
Chapter Fifteen
He smelled like pine soap.
Not Pine-Sol, but pine soap, the kind that reminds a person of cozy nights sipping wine by the fire.
Not that she’d ever really had any nights like that—at least not recently—but still, he reminded her of warmth.
Oh heck, it wasn’t even warmth; that word made him sound boring, like he was temperate—rather than hot, sizzling to the touch.
Jane shivered as the memory of his hands pounded through her body. It was as if he was touching her all over again, pulling her shirt from her body and gazing at her like she possessed something he wanted.
Too bad he’d turned into a complete tool.
“Are you okay?” Brock’s voice interrupted her scrubbing.
Jane stood too fast, nearly knocking over the bucket of soapy water, and pressed a wet hand and rag to her face, causing dirty water to run down her chin. “I was just…scrubbing.” Great, was he going to accuse her of doing that wrong, too? It was bad enough that she’d apparently broken a family heirloom.
“Scrubbing.” He wiped his face with his hands and let out a frustrated sigh. He might be beautiful to look at but tension rolled off him in waves. And when he opened that gorgeous mouth, at least since this morning, all he’d had to offer were angry biting words.
With a curse, he seemed to force a smile that looked more irritated than amused. It was a smile that reminded her yet again she didn’t really belong in his world, let alone his house.
He didn’t want her here anymore than she wanted to be here.
With him.
Trapped.
She took a few steps back and nodded. “I’m almost done cleaning the mud off these floors and then I’ll go back to my room—your room.” She frowned. “Well, my room now and…” She nodded again. Why? Why was she suddenly afflicted with one ability? Nodding in his direction and embarrassing herself.
“Why?” He barked out gruffly.
“Hmm?” She blinked up at his face, trying to keep herself from staring at the way his T-shirt molded to each and every one of his muscles.
“Why are you going to your room?” He said it more slowly this time, drawing out the sentence as if she was stupid, which grated on her nerves. It wasn’t like people had never talked down to her before; she just didn’t expect him to.
Not the man who’d bought her shoes.
And made her feel like a real life Cinderella.
Better that the dream got shattered before she started the hero worship, she decided. He was just like every other man out there.
Embarrassment washed over her as she croaked out, “It’s been a long night.”
“It has,” he agreed.
The staredown that followed had her suddenly wishing she was wearing a sweater she could pull across her body. Brock apparently wasn’t the type of man who stared; he looked through people with a laser-like intensity that had a way of making her feel naked and way too hot.
With a gulp, she bent down to retrieve the bucket of soapy water and begged her legs to move faster as she scurried past him and dumped the water into the sink.
Ignore him.
She could ignore him, right?
After all, it wasn’t like he was going to be following her around, offering his help or advice on how best to get stains out of the carpet.
That idea was laughable.
He probably didn’t even know how to iron a shirt.
“Something funny?” came a raspy voice behind her, causing her to jump a foot and let out a little squeak.
“Just…” She gulped. “Nope. Nothing at all.”
A large masculine hand moved into her line of vision and turned off the faucet. “Just Jane, I think we should talk.”