the job.
I peeked around the corner of the door.
A man sat behind the desk.
I froze. I’d expected a grumpy old sheriff, like something out of a television show. I’d expected him to have gray hair and a grizzled face.
He was not old. And he was definitely not grizzled.
This man was a gorgeous hunk. He didn’t look up as I stood there, gaping at him. He kept his eyes focused on his computer, reading with the same kind of intensity I felt when I worked on a story.
I didn’t want to interrupt him. I just kept staring at him, taking in his broad shoulders and his sandy blonde hair and his strong jawline. Under his bland sheriff’s uniform, his muscles were clearly defined. He had to be in his early thirties, at the most.
I was surprised at myself. I wouldn't have expected to notice a man while I was running for my life, but this guy’s looks overpowered even my strong survival instincts.
He looked up at me but didn’t smile. “Are you here to interview for the job?” he asked.
Even his deep voice was sexy.
I nodded. I hadn’t set up an interview. But it was 4:10, so maybe whoever was supposed to come had scheduled a 4:00 appointment. I hoped he or she was a no-show.
I’d gotten in the habit of lying lately. It still didn’t come easily, thank God.
He didn’t offer me a seat, but instead he stood up, showing off the rest of his body, which looked just as good. His waist was narrow, and he was tall, at least 6’2”.
“So how much experience do you have? Have you cleaned houses before?” he asked.
Cleaned houses? What the hell? I was sitting in a law enforcement office.
Then it dawned on me that he wasn’t looking for an administrative assistant. He already had one. He wanted a maid.
And while I was probably somewhat qualified to work as a secretary, I had never cleaned a house in my life. I hadn’t even cleaned my own room. It sounded pathetic, but anytime I’d even tried, one of my parents’ staff had brushed me aside and insisted that it would be better if I didn’t try to clean and mess something up.
Apparently my mother had once tried to clean the crystal with wood polish while she was drunk, and the staff banned all of us from the cleaning supplies after that incident.
This was my chance to stay here in this small town, working for a sheriff. A young, really gorgeous sheriff. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best one I had.
“A year,” I said. Which was how long I’d been working as a journalist.
He looked at me for a minute and then stood. “I’ll show you the house.”
Was that it? No paperwork? No questions? I’d expected to be interrogated before a sheriff let me into his house.
He gestured for me to go through the door ahead of him into the hallway, and when we got to the outside door, he pulled it open for me, waiting for me to step through.
“Where’s your car?” he asked in a gruff voice.
I swallowed hard. “At the library.”
He nodded. “Follow me.”
Lovely. He wasn’t old and grouchy. He was young and grouchy.
I walked quickly to my car. By the time I was in the driver’s seat, a sheriff’s car pulled up next to me. He didn’t say a word.
I followed him for a few miles to the outskirts of town. Eventually we turned onto a gravel driveway and pulled up to a rambling farmhouse. It looked like something out of a movie set to me. It was large and white with a wrap-around front porch. There was even a set of rocking chairs on the porch near the stairs. On the other side of the stairs there was a wooden swing.
I looked around warily. The house was huge.
I parked my car on the other side of his. He stepped out of his car. He took one look at mine and raised his eyebrows. “Nice car.”
Shit. I'd known better than to drive my BMW in inner-city Chicago. But I hadn't thought about how much it would stand out in rural Missouri. That was clearly a big mistake. I was going to have to get a little bit more savvy about small-town rural life.
“I recently had a change in my circumstances,” I said, hoping to explain why I was desperate for a job as a maid.
He didn't say anything. He just turned and walked up the porch steps