She fought to keep her shoulders from slumping. After all, she knew that tone of voice, so well in fact that she had these types of speeches memorized by heart.
Every human voice in existence sounded just this way when relaying bad news. The doctors had when her father was diagnosed with cancer and there was nothing they could do, so had her boyfriends who’d gotten bored; even past employers, when upset with her work, had this type of voice.
She should be used to it.
But coming from a man like him? A man that a few days ago had been like a dream, a dream she could rely on to take her away from the monotony of her life…well, it affected her more than it should.
He affected her more than a stranger should.
“Okay.” She managed to turn around and keep her face impassive.
His crystal blue eyes searched hers briefly before he crossed his arms over his bulky chest. “Three weeks.”
She frowned. “Yes…” Her head tilted just slightly as she tried to digest his meaning. “It’s going to be three weeks of cleaning?”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Telling.” She winced at her airy tone. “Is that what you wanted to discuss? The amount of time I’ll be here?”
His eyes stayed glued to her face and then, as if she’d scared him, he took a large step backward and shook his head. “You know what? I’m tired, too. We’ll talk in the morning. Just try to stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
“Don’t worry.” She held her head high. “I’m very good at being invisible.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it.
Nothing.
Her prince didn’t offer up any excuse for why he was being mean and she supposed he didn’t have to.
He was Brock Wellington, one of the most sought-after bachelors in the country.
And she was a maid.
Chapter Sixteen
What did a man do when he knew he was being a jackass? He drank, of course.
So that was what Brock did.
Until two a.m.
It didn’t help.
He even moved from the bedroom to the living room in hopes the couch wouldn’t trigger the memories he’d tried so hard to lock down.
It should have helped.
But the whiskey seemed to bring alive every single memory that he’d worked so hard to keep trapped inside this house. He hadn’t realized how messed up his head still was until he saw Jane leaning over the sink smiling.
His mom had loved that sink because it was so deep. She’d joked that she used to wash Brock in it when he was a baby because it was easier than the tub.
Seeing Jane there had been absolute hell.
And telling her that she reminded him of his mother seemed like the worst idea in history. So he’d done the only thing he knew how to do.
He’d pushed her away.
So he’d had a shitty start to what he was beginning to realize was a haunting vacation.
Too many ghosts.
Too many memories.
He managed to fall asleep around three in the morning, only to toss and turn with an ache in his groin that refused to go away. Finally in a moment of desperation he gripped himself and in a drugged sleep envisioned Jane’s sweet mouth.
It was over in seconds.
As he spilled into his hand, in a drunken stupor he imagined what the next three weeks might be like if he could live them for himself.
His sight blurred as the idea washed over him.
Three weeks where his grandfather wasn’t watching his every move.
Three weeks where he wasn’t Brock Wellington, millionaire, but Brock Wellington, ranch hand.
Three weeks…
*
Sunlight heated Brock’s chest and then a loud animalistic bellow sent him flying off the couch and onto the floor.
He rubbed his head and blinked his eyes as a giant donkey stared at him from the middle of the floor.
The donkey made another ear-splitting noise and glared.
It was too early.
Way too early for a donkey in the middle of the room.
How the hell had it gotten into the house?
“Coffee?” Brock asked aloud. “Can’t I at least have coffee first?”
“Are you talking to a donkey?” came Jane’s silky voice from behind him.
Brock’s headache gripped his head like a vise. “Well, it seemed the other option was to ignore him and I wasn’t sure if that would just piss the damn thing off more.”
“Fred’s harmless.” She breezed past him and moved into the kitchen while the donkey continued staring at Brock like he was the one who didn’t belong here.
“Wait. Did you call him Fred?” Brock stood slowly, eyeing the donkey for any sudden moves.
“Yup,” came her reply. “All the animals have names. The ranch hand said it makes them feel more like pets. He left a list on the fridge.”
“Donkeys aren’t pets.”
Jane’s eyes twinkled. “Oh?”
“No,” Brock argued.
Jane pointed. “He seems to think differently.”
The donkey was directly behind him; the damn thing had followed him into the kitchen.
“Out!” Brock clapped his hands, which of course made the donkey neigh or whatever the hell they did—louder, until the ear-splitting sound was deafening.
“You didn’t use his name,” Jane teased.