Maid for the Billionaire Page 2

  “Excuse me?” I say, taken aback. Did he say he was made for me? Yes, yes you certainly are, big fella.

  He stammers, “The…the house cleaning agency?” I watch his pronounced Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Embarrassment flashes across his face in a pink flush. It’s adorable. He’s flustered. My skin heats beneath my bra, making me think about the sexy red push-up bra and matching panties I chose to wear today to give myself a boost.

  Careful, Stella.

  I have to stop myself before I say something incredibly dumb. Like, how I was not expecting a man. Because, why couldn’t I have a male housekeeper? More to the point, why couldn’t I have a stone cold fox of a most-likely struggling actor as a housekeeper?

  Part of me is relieved he clarified the “made for you” statement, but another lonelier part of me is a little sad that’s not what he meant. Although I’m not looking for a relationship, I can’t deny someone as hot as him could really take the edge off my horniness.

  My mouth begins to form an apology for the mix-up, but no sound comes. I suddenly find myself in dire need of water. I power through anyway.

  “I’m so sorry. You must think I’m completely bonkers. I thought you were a personal trainer who found me because of my internet searches. Of course! Oh, I’m such a scatterbrain, I forgot you were coming today. Never mind me, I’m Stella Monroe.”

  Luke Jeffries takes my offered hand and sandwiches it between both of his. He chuckles, and at first I don’t understand why. Then I realize my blunder. We’ve already shaken hands. What is wrong with me? But he doesn’t let go, and even his little laugh doesn’t seem to be mocking at all.

  Everything I’ve seen so far about this man threatens to chip away at the stone walls I’ve built around my heart. Dudes this hot are not supposed to be likable. Just when I’m tossing that thought around in my head to see if it sticks, he lets out a funny, wheezy laugh that’s so genuine I want to hug him.

  My own defenses are shaken a bit more when he says my name back to me. “Stella Monroe.” He blinks softly as he says it. I could be mistaken, but I think his deep voice also turned a little softer, saying my name.

  His full lips form a kind, patient smile while he waits on me for something. My body wants to lean in.

  But wait, that’s not what we’re doing here.

  He’s here to clean your house, dummy. Not make out with you.

  And he’s going to want to make out with you even less when he sees the state of your home. Talk about scatterbrained. This guy is about to see the real me, and it ain’t nearly as pretty as I look in this Dior suit.

  I take a deep breath, gird up my courage and say, “Good. OK. Let me show you where everything is.”

  First stop is the pantry, where I keep all the cleaning supplies. “Since my days are often long, I don’t keep food in there. I usually end up eating takeout at the office, which allows me to be a bit of a cleaning supply hoarder,” I admit.

  I show him where he can find all the sponges, mops, rubber gloves, and basically anything needed to clean a house.

  I look over at him while his eyes scan the room. He seems a bit overwhelmed.

  “Don’t worry, I am not expecting you to use all of it; just use what you prefer. I like to keep it well stocked.”

  Luke is still staring at my stockpile as I leave the pantry to show him the bathrooms, main dining room, living room, and, upstairs, the guest bedrooms and attached bathrooms.

  “Now, you don’t have to clean my room or my office or this bedroom,” I say, pointing to the only door that’s closed upstairs. “Obviously, it’s a mess that I have to deal with at some point.”

  As we stand in the hall, I watch Luke’s eyes travel from floor to ceiling of my nearby bedroom, eyeing the stacks of clothes, piles of books, shelves full of paper. Now, it’s my turn to get flustered, though I don’t feel any judgment from him. Instead my face feels hot because my messes are a source of shame for me.

  “I’d really like to clean it, if you would let me. No extra charge.”

  His voice is tender, almost affectionate. What is going on here?

  I shake my head and cross my arms. Due to their size, my breasts almost always rest on my forearms when I try to look bossy like this. This physical contact, combined with his intense, concerned stare, causes my nipples to feel tight, aroused under the lace that barely separates them from my silk blouse.

  “Why would you do that?”

  Luke makes a noise like an uncertain grizzly bear nudging at a beehive—eager for the honey but scared to wake the bees.

  “Well, this isn’t actually my calling. I’m an out-of-luck actor with plenty of time on my hands and I like to help people.”

  I nod my head. I bite back the urge to say, Of course you’re an actor. I mean, look at you.

  He continues, “And anyway, it looks like you could use some help. I mean, how do you sleep in here? Or do anything else for that matter.”

  My eyes pop at him in surprise. “I don’t know what you mean by that. I sleep fine.”

  Luke puts up his hands, semi-defensively. “It seems like a difficult place to unwind, to shake off the stress of the day with your…significant other.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m not married.”

  He shrugs. “Boyfriend, then, or casual hookup.”

  Suddenly my hands feel warm and sweaty. “Feels like you’re asking me how I can have sex in this room.”

  “Whoa. Not at all.”

  “Well, I don’t,” I say. “I haven’t had sex in this house at all, in fact. I only moved in about a year ago to care for my now-deceased mom and dad. Is that what you want to know?”

  I could fire him on the spot for implying anything about my sex life. On behalf of all women, I probably should.

  But the way he said it didn’t feel creepy. Oh, he was definitely trying to figure out if I had a boyfriend or not. But I could tell the “significant other” comment was not at all meant to be weird.

  I let my question hang in the air. I’m totally going to let him off the hook, but eh, maybe a part of me likes to watch men squirm a little bit.

  Chapter Three

  Luke

  How do I dig myself out of this?

  If I were a more quick-witted, extroverted man, I could try to finesse my way out of this awkward conversation with a one-liner. But Oscar Wilde I am not.

  “Well, I uh,” I start. Oh great. Now I’m flustered. But then, I think back to the pile of coffee mugs in the sink, the laundry room door with mounds of laundry in baskets on the floor plus a dozen delicate bras hanging on drying racks, and the dust on the kitchen light fixture. I relax and try to save myself. “Once I get done with this place, you’re gonna be entertaining people in every room in the house.”

  And I can only pray that sentence was not laden with all of the hot-blooded feelings I’m having about this woman.

  Thankfully, she lets me off the hook with a mischievous smile.

  “I gotta get to work. I don’t normally dress like this but I have to give a big speech. Have to really sell it so I’d better look sharp.” I glance down and gesture in the air to indicate my fancy suit and pumps.

  “Well,” I say, “I’ll buy anything your selling.” I can’t believe I blurt this out before getting ahold of myself.

  Stella smirks at me, and I blush again. “I mean, you look amazing. I’d pay way more than a billion for you.”

  She throws her head back in laughter before I realize what I’ve said.

  “Oh god. I meant, for whatever you’re trying to sell.”

  “No, no, I needed that,” she says, dabbing a tear from the corner of her eye as she recovers her composure.

  “I just meant…”

  “I know what you meant.”

  Another wave of verbal chaos takes over and I keep talking as if I’ve had a double dose of truth serum. “Let me finish. I just meant you look like a force to be reckoned with. And anybody who doesn’t give you exactly what you want is a complet
e fool.”

  This time, I don’t blush. I’m not ashamed at all of paying her the compliment she deserves. It’s the truth. She’s damn beautiful, and smart, and funny, and—OK, maybe a little bit all over the place in a charming kind of way—god, I want nothing else than to make it my goal to make someone like her happy.

  I thank my lucky stars she doesn’t fire me for crossing a line with that compliment. She takes it in. I can see on her face that she takes it to heart because for the first time in the short time we’ve known each other, she gives me a sweet smile.

  It’s so genuine I can see the wild girl inside, asking to come out and play.

  Maybe there’s a chance. Do I have a crumb of a chance with a woman like her?

  Me, an out-of-work actor being hounded by debt collectors? Her, a workaholic worth ten figures?

  Not likely, buddy.

  I dial back my sudden burst of overconfidence while Stella explains the security system before she leaves, and I watch her go. My eyes linger a little too long on her back, her hair, the swing of her hips as she walks out the door. I notice the breeze playing with a loose wisp of hair at her temple, the way the sun makes a halo on the crown of her head. I see the way she walks in those heels, making it look easy.

  Some strange sensation floods me at the idea of her leaving me alone now, which is weird because of course she’s supposed to leave me alone. It would feel mighty nerve-wracking to clean someone’s house while they’re hanging around. Of course she can’t be here.

  She seems to float out the door like a spirit, and I watch her go, my eyes brazenly admiring that round, squeezable ass.

  I’ll miss her.

  How can that be? We spoke for all of fifteen minutes.

  And she smiled at you, and you were a goner.

  That’s when I realize I…genuinely like her. Not just the look of her, which, don’t get me wrong—she’s got Jessica Rabbit curves wrapped in a power suit. That tiny cinched waist and the booty is going to haunt my dreams in the best way for days to come.

  But I also enjoy the sound of her voice, like a comforting woodwind instrument coming in after a long brassy movement.

  She has a smile that reaches her eyes, and behind them, a desperation to play hooky. I’d like to be the one to give her a reason to ditch work.

  Dude, what is wrong with you? She’s your boss!

  No, she’s not, I tell the voice in my head. She’s a client of my boss. There’s no rules about that, right?

  I watch her drive away silently in her white Tesla.

  Eh, maybe there is a rule about dating the client of your boss. But do I care?

  She’s clearly a woman who has known what she wanted and has gone after it with gusto. She knows who she is.

  Maybe I’m only attracted to her because I need some of that energy in my life. Some direction. I envy how much she’s accomplished and would love to hear everything she has to tell me about pursuing a career, since it’s clear this acting dream isn’t going to pan out.

  Pull yourself together and get to work, man.

  And off I go to the pantry to gather supplies and tackle this—not filthy, but definitely cluttered—mess of a house.

  It doesn’t take me long to get through most of the deep cleaning. Clearly, she’s had housekeepers in here on the regular; they just weren’t that thorough. I start at the top—chandeliers, ceiling fans, light fixtures—and work my way down to windows, art, shelves, countertops. when I get to the floors, I’m a little bit stymied.

  Stacks of books are piled up high next to the bed and next to almost every chair and side table. The bookshelves are jammed and disorganized. The guest room has a tower of notebooks and journals that look old. Old newspapers line one wall of one of the bedrooms like an extra layer of insulation.

  And that’s not even addressing the mounds of clothes. I can’t tell what’s clean and what’s dirty.

  The filthy fellow that lives in the dark corner of my brain tells me there’s one surefire way to determine if those undies need washing, and it would not be an unpleasant task at all.

  Shut up.

  I’ve never behaved like that before and I’m not going to start now. Don’t want her to come home to me rolling around in her dirty clothes, with her panties on my head; I will be out of a job, and she could probably find a reason to have me locked up.

  But that’s not to say I don’t enjoy the fantasy of basking in her scent. The possible scenarios play out in my imagination while I do my best to vacuum around her clutter.

  The carnal thoughts begin to fade the more I work and the more I see how cluttered and chaotic her house is. Not because I feel sorry for her, or that I’m disgusted. She’s clearly overwhelmed. And I want to help her.

  Slow down, man. She didn’t ask for you to organize her shit. Just to clean it.

  But before I can stop myself, I’m alphabetizing her books, throwing away expired food from the fridge, and clearing out entire cabinets full of mismatched plastic containers.

  I am most definitely crossing the line. Hell, I know I’m crossing a lot of lines. But I’m having fun. Something has been triggered. I’m not just enjoying organizing her drawers, cabinets, and closets; I am loving it.

  I’m in the zone.

  I enjoy it so much that I text the office of Maid for You to “clock out”—because I’m not supposed to be here longer than five hours—but I keep working.

  I just have to keep working.

  Stella Monroe doesn’t even have to pay me in banana bread.

  Chapter Four

  Stella

  “What are you doing?”

  I come home late that evening to find the house completely spotless and Luke standing by the door to the back patio, shirtless.

  My brain has to work extra hard to focus on the present moment, and not on the fact that I spent the better part of the meeting today daydreaming about Luke. About his smile, about his eyebrows, about the way his voice changed when he said my name.

  And darker things. Like the way my pussy clenched every time I thought about the way he said, “Let me finish.” Honestly, I barely remember the nice compliment that came after that. The assertiveness in his demeanor, bordering on sternness with me, flipped a switch.

  All day long at the office, I found myself chugging water and excusing myself to refill my glass. Could feeling this bothered all day really dehydrate me that badly, or was it psychosomatic? Maybe it is the latter, but tell that to my damp, flimsy undies.

  Now, looking around my home, it appears so spotless that it looks like things are missing.

  Luke standing there shirtless might not be a problem for a normal person, but for me, a woman who’s been entertaining wicked thoughts all day, it’s a big problem. A big, rugged, sweet and ridiculously sexy problem. And then there’s the fact that his sweatpants have fallen slightly lower than what might be considered decent. I can see the shadow right above where his ass crack begins.

  Dammit this man is going to make my knees buckle if he gets any hotter.

  As I approach, I see Luke is at the linen closet next to the doors that lead to the backyard. He’s reorganizing my beach towels.

  He turns when he hears my heels on the tile.

  “Hi! Welcome home. I know I’m not supposed to still be here, but I just got in the zone and, well, I just thought I’d help you streamline a few things.”

  “It’s ten o’clock at night,” I say breathlessly.

  My eyes pop wide when I see the inside of the linen closet. Gone is my backup stash of unopened makeup. All I see are beach towels, sunscreens and all things pool related.

  “Where’s my makeup? And where did you get that basket?” I ask, pointing to a reed basket that looks like the one I keep next to my bed.

  “Oh,” he says, smiling, not yet picking up on the annoyance in my voice. “I put away those shoes in your upstairs closet and I put the basket down here.”

  I nod, not smiling. “To streamline it,” I say.

 
“Yes.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re not happy with me, are you?”

  I bite my lip, worrying what other damage he may have done to my methodical madness. “I’m not unhappy. I’m cautiously optimistic and curious.”

  He closes the linen closet door and says, “Why don’t you take off those shoes, and I’ll make you some tea. Then I’ll show you what else I did.”

  Again, he’s being assertive with me. Once again, I do not hate it.

  Moments later, we’re sitting down for tea and he explains. “I know you’re not going to like this, but the truth is, I got tired of moving all your stuff around to clean, so I decided you need a system.”

  I gape at him. He moved my things. “I have a system. Books are the system.”

  “A lot of books. But also a lot of clothes, shoes, paper. So much paper.”

  I shift uneasily in my chair. “Like I said, I have a system, and I don’t need an organizer. I just need someone to clean my house.”

  Luke shakes his head and removes his ball cap. He has a line in his dark curly hair, giving me the urge to reach over and run my fingers through it until he doesn’t have hat head anymore. “You do need an organizer.”

  I grin as I lift my teacup to my lips. “That’s not what I'm paying you to do. I’m paying you to clean.”

  “I will do it for free. And all I ask from you is a good reference.”

  This makes zero sense. “Why would you want to reorganize my entire house for free? That would take days.”

  “Weeks.”

  “Very funny.”

  Luke arches an eyebrow at me and I can’t tell if he’s serious or if he’s joking.

  I draw myself up to my fullest height. “I couldn’t possibly allow someone to work for me for free. It’s immoral and also makes for really bad optics. I didn’t get to where I am by mistreating my workers.”

  He laughs. And now I’m annoyed. “Fine,” he says. “Then look at it as a housekeeper who comes every day. I could do a better job of that if this place were organized. And frankly I think you’d be a lot happier and at peace—”