A man appears from behind one of the shrubs that’s definitely in need of trimming. His outfit looks casual, but I can just tell that it probably cost several hundred dollars. Lacoste polo, khakis and a pair of worn loafers that are definitely designer. I grab my gloves and get out of the car.
“Daisy?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s me!” I say, trying to pretend that I’m not on the verge of having an allergic reaction to a Wellington property.
“Let’s get started.” He doesn’t even smile or introduce himself; he just turns and walks away, obviously expecting me to follow. I do. Just as I’m rounding the hedge, I hear the sound of an engine roar behind me. I turn to see some kind of sports car, candy red, scream up the driveway and screech to a halt beside my car. The door opens, and Winter Wellington himself steps out.
It’s hard to describe the emotions that mix inside me. It’s like someone took the world’s most amazing champagne and dumped it in a bucket of rotten eggs.
Winter is amazing looking. It’s undeniable. I’d be a fool to pretend that I don’t notice his perfect chestnut hair, swept back over his head, or the model-esque cheekbones that catch the sun beneath his turtle shell sunglasses, or the jawline that looks like it could cut glass.
He’s wearing loose-fitting grey pants with loafers and a white tank top that clings to his perfect physique like he’s on his way to a photoshoot. Of course he’s blessed with perfect genetics! Is there anything this man doesn’t have?
“Son of a bitch!” he curses under his breath as he starts up the steps.
For some reason – some unknown reason that I’ll just chalk up to my biological urge to procreate – my stomach lurches as I wonder whether or not he’s going to see me. But of course Mr. Important just keeps on moving up the steps and vanishes into his manor.
I realize I’ve been holding my breath and sigh as the door shuts behind him.
Frick.
“Stop staring,” the man barks behind me. “You came to work, not act like paparazzi.”
I’m so shocked by his remark that I don’t even know how to reply, so I just follow him around to the side yard, where I find a garden in disarray. He motions to the tools and a line of potted plants – some flax, rhododendron, orchids, roses, and hydrangeas.
I listen as the man explains what my job will be for the day, but to be honest, I’m only half-listening. I just can’t shake the feeling that came over me when I saw Winte
r in the flesh.
I’ve seen him before of course – on the cover of those finance magazines that men read, on the internet, on YouTube rumor-mill videos, and of course his infamous Instagram filled with photos of him in yachts, surrounded by countless models. I always hated those photos for some reason.
Now, seeing him in person…it’s like seeing the yeti or the abominable snowman. As I work, I keep catching glimpses of him through the windows. I try not to stare or be a creeper and spy on him, but it’s hard not to. Around lunch, as I’m tamping down the soil on a freshly planted rose bush, I see him stride through one of the larger rooms of the house with a cell phone at his ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he’s definitely yelling at someone.
I’m pretty sure I hear the front door open, and quickly glance around for my boss for the day but don’t see him. So I decide to do something kind of crazy. Holding a trowel in my hand, I slowly creep around the front of the house to get a better look at the world-famous billionaire.
“You’re kidding, right? After all I did for you, you won’t do this for me?” he barks into his phone. “So what if your mom will get mad? She’ll get over it! Fine. You know what? Don’t call me for anything again.”
Angrily, Winter hangs up the call and puts his hands on his hips. I hate the fact that I’m attracted to him but remind myself that it’s my subconscious—my DNA—not my rational mind.
I need to get back to work. I start to turn, but before I can, Winter turns to face me. My stomach lurches as our eyes meet. His gaze, strong and demanding, almost levels me. I’ve never felt so small in my entire life.
“Who are you?” he asks me. He sounds angry.
“Sorry!” I blurt out. “I—I’m just doing some grounds work…”
This time I force myself to turn around and walk away as quickly as I can. Winter calls out after me, but I just keep moving.
One foot in front of the other…
But something stops me – Winter’s hand on my wrist. “Whoa, where do you think you’re going?”
Deep breaths. Don’t look at him. Ignore the butterflies. Don’t think about where else his hand could go…
“I have to work—”
“Turn around,” he tells me. It’s not even a request; he simply spins me like we’re ballroom dancing. I whirl on my heels and come face to face with him and am simultaneously greeted with a face full of his scent.
I can smell some kind of product – hair gel, cologne, shampoo or soap, but beneath it I can smell him. He’s slightly glistening like he’s been sweating. Whatever was going on inside has him really worked up.