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Unsuitable(11)
Author: Samantha Towle

It really does.

There’s something strangely compelling about him.

Compelling enough to have me staring.

I’m staring.

Flushing, I push a few loose strands of hair behind my ear as my eyes sweep the floor.

“Hi.” I clear my throat as I lift my eyes back to him.

He’s staring at me blankly. No smile or friendly look. His brows are still drawn together, and that’s when I finally notice his eyes.

They’re black. Hard and cold.

I force a smile onto my face. “My name is Daisy Smith. I’m starting work here today as a maid.”

The frown deepens. “You said that already.” His voice is as hard as his eyes. It sounded much sexier on the intercom. Maybe he’s not the guy I spoke to.

“I did?”

“At the gate. On the intercom.”

He’s the guy.

“Oh, right. Of course.”

And I feel like a prize idiot.

Great first impression I’m making here.

Come on, Daisy, you can do better than this.

I hook my thumb under the strap of my bag and meet his eyes again, forcing another smile. “I was told to ask for Mr. Matis—”

“I’m Kastor Matis.”

Kastor.

Unusual name. Suits him.

“My friends call me Kas. My employees call me Mr. Matis.”

Guess I know which category I fall into.

He’s still staring right at me with those cold eyes of his. I decide that they remind me of coal. Hard and unyielding.

“Okay, Mr. Matis, it is. Matis…is that Greek?” I tip my head to the side in question.

A flash of surprise enters his eyes.

Yes, I’ve been in prison, and I might be a glorified cleaner, but I’m not completely thick.

He moistens his lips, and that’s when I notice his upper lip is fuller than his lower. The kind of lip you suck on. Not that I’m going to be sucking on his lips anytime ever.

“It is,” is his brittle answer.

And then an awkward silence envelops us.

I hate silences.

I’m scrambling for something to say but come up with nothing, wondering if he’s ever going to let me in the house.

As if reading my mind, he abruptly steps back and holds the door. I take that as my cue to go inside.

I step gingerly inside the huge entryway.

It’s ginormous. The whole of Cece’s and my apartment could probably fit in here.

It’s beautiful though. The floor beneath my feet is marble. The staircase is sweeping and goes off to both sides.

He shuts the heavy door behind me. The bang echoes memories of the sound of my cell door banging shut behind me.

My heart sets off like a racehorse in my chest.

I feel trapped. Beads of sweat break out on my skin.

You’re okay, Daisy. You’re just in a house.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force a deep breath.

When I open my eyes, Kastor Matis is standing right in front of me, watching me with curiosity…and something else.

Anger.

He’s staring at me like the crazy bitches in prison used to stare at me. Like they wanted to stab me with a blunt instrument at any given moment.

My insides tighten, my Spidey sense going on full alert.

If it weren’t for the terms of my release forcing me to be here, then I’d be turning around and hightailing it back out of the door.

But I have to be here. And I need this job. So, I suppress the feelings and suck it up.

“So, where should I start? Do you have a schedule that you’d like me to follow?” I’m making this shit up on the fly because, honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. I just need to fill this horrific silence between the good-looking bastard and myself.

“Do you have cleaning experience?” he bites out.

I swear, it’s like he’s spitting at me every time he speaks.

I’m taking that it’s because I’ve been in prison. But if he has a problem with ex-cons, then why the hell did he hire one?

And I’m assuming he should already know my level of cleaning experience. Wouldn’t Toby have filled him in?

“Some. I had a cleaning job in, um…prison.” The shame prickles my skin, like it always does when I say that word. “My duties were to clean the library and rec area—recreational area,” I correct. “Also, I mopped hallways and—”

“I don’t need a rundown of your time in prison,” he cuts me off.

Okay…

My cheeks sting with embarrassment—and, if I’m honest, anger.

This guy is a bit of an arsehole.

Biting my lip, I bind my hands together to stop myself from…I dunno…punching him in his handsome face.

Wanker.

“Sorry. I guess I misunderstood. I thought you wanted to know my cleaning experience.”

Again, he says nothing, just does that unnerving staring thing.

I fidget.

Clear my throat.

Avert my eyes.

Then, I try to change tack. “You have a beautiful home.” I cast my eyes around the spacious hallway.

“It’s not mine.”

That brings my eyes back to him, and…yep, he’s still staring. Well, staring is being kind. He’s glaring.

“Who’s—”

“It’s my parents’ house. I live here and run the estate for them.”

“Where—”

“Away,” he cuts me off again. “I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

   
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