Page 4 of Hot for the Boss

“I don’t have the patience to deal with government bureaucracy and paperwork. I want someone already in the country legally.”

She sighs. “I was kidding, and the fact you thought I was serious is scary. I’ll do what I can, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Put the glasses on the top rack of the dishwasher.”

I do as she instructs with a frown. “I can’t possibly be the only wealthy man with this problem.”

“Evan, seriously? Most already have wives and are looking for a lay on the side.”

She has a point. “Maybe I should call Harlow, Keeley, and Britta.”

“You know I applaud you for getting to know your newfound family, but you met your sister and your brothers’ wives six months ago. Do they know you well enough to help you find a woman who can make you happy?”

I tracked my long-lost siblings down during a relocation scouting trip to Hawaii. Despite the fact my siblings and I share a biological father, they’re still somewhat like strangers, but… “They already live in Maui and probably have single friends.”

“They don’t know who you are, what you want, or what you’ve been through.” She shuts off the water to face me. My face must tell her I don’t care about any of that because she sighs. “Besides, if you wait until you move to Maui to meet someone, you won’t be married by Christmas.”

“I’m going for Thanksgiving in a few weeks. I’ll ask them to introduce me then.”

“You’re really serious about finding someone right now?”

“I’m serious about filling the position of wife as soon as possible.”

Exasperation fills her face. “Then let me handle it. I’ll figure something out quickly.”

I shake my head. “If you’ll simply screen the candidates, I’ll take it from there.”

“I’m worried what—or who—you’ll come up with if I leave you to your own devices.”

Nia might have a point. My interpersonal skills suck. I was lucky Becca understood me and didn’t have romantic expectations.

“All right. I’ll give you until Thanksgiving to find me someone. But I still want that ad placed as backup.”

“Fine.” She doesn’t sound fine with it at all, but focuses instead on showing me how to scrape off the crusted food from my dirty dishes, then place them in the dishwasher. “How is it you never figured out how to clean your own kitchen? Didn’t you ever live alone?”

I laugh. “For eight disastrous months before I got married. After that, Becca did everything.”

“None of your foster families made you load a dishwasher?” She sounds shocked.

“Nope. I did other chores, but I blocked out a lot of my life before I went to live with Diana. As long as I kept her old cottage in working order, she took care of what little cleaning got done.”

The day I turned eighteen, I packed my bags and left my foster mother’s house. Diana was great, the closest thing to a mom I have left, but once the state stopped paying her to look after me, she didn’t need a financial burden under her roof. There aren’t many jobs in rural Washington State, especially for a starving artist who’s never held a job longer than six months. Besides, she swears that she and the wind are conjoined twins, so she goes wherever her sister takes her. Since she gave me a much-needed, if off-beat, home for six years, I now give her financial security so she can breeze across the world.

“Growing up, Mom and I took turns with the chores. Her motto was that doing everything for me wouldn’t teach me how to fend for myself. That’s why I can both cook and do some home repair. Now, I’m going to help you.” She holds up a casserole dish. “What did you make in here?”

“Nothing. One of my neighbors brought me lasagna shortly after Becca’s funeral.” I probably should have washed and returned it, but I didn’t want to spend any more time in Becca’s kitchen than I had to. Her absence simply reminds me too much of the fact I’m alone.

“You know, if doing dishes were more like rocket science, you’d probably understand it better.”

“No doubt you’re right,” I admit wryly.

“Put some dish soap and hot water in this, then set it on the counter to soak.” Nia shoves the dish in my hand.

A thick layer of black and green crusts the bottom. “It looks like something that belongs in a Petri dish.”

“It totally does.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile hovering at the corners of her lips.

I smile back, then finally remember that I have a few manners. “Wine?”

Nia turns to me with raised brows. “You have some?”