by S. Ann Cole
“Okay, okay,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “I’ll shut up. Sorry. I’ll shut up. I can’t help it sometimes. I grew up kinda like a brat. Always got my own way. Things went south, forcing me to adjust to a new lifestyle. For the most part, I’m not the person I used to be, but sometimes I get like this. Sorry. I apologize.” Pressing my thumb and index finger together, I draw it across my lip in the universal expression for “my lips are sealed.”
Apology accepted, he nods his understanding. “Your uniform is like an identification card. It saves you the time of having to explain your presence to every visitor, friend, or family member who comes over. What days did you tick for your day off?”
Nonplussed, I blink.
Noah sighs. “Listen, I’m going to need you to read through that contract again. All of it. Incidentally, don’t ever put your signature on anything without reading and understanding every single word of it.”
Shrugging, I mumble out, “Doesn’t matter what’s in it. I would’ve signed it anyway. I told you, I need this job.”
He shakes his head at me as if I am some harebrained child who has a lot to learn. And maybe I am. Who knows how many screws I lost from all those thumps to the head? Or maybe it’s from that one time Andrew head-butted me. Senses scrambled, scattered, lost into the ether, never to be regained.
Continues Mr. Beautiful, “You have the option to choose any two days as your off days. It’s just me here, and I don’t host parties or dinners. All you need to do is keep the apartment clean. Do the laundry. Iron—”
“Ohhh, I read that part of the contract!” I smile big, proud of myself.
“So you just read the “Duties” and “Salary” sections and ignored everything else?” He holds up a hand. “Don’t bother answering. There’s a magnetic pad on the fridge in the kitchen listing all the foods I’m allergic to. I’m up by six for my runs in the mornings. When I get back I usually blend up a protein smoothie—you will be doing this from now on—and I have breakfast at eight before leaving for work. On Saturdays, I work from home. I get back from work anywhere between six and seven, and I prefer to eat before I do anything at all—like exchange words. So be sure to have a hot meal prepared in the evenings before I’m home. If I’m staying late or eating out, I’ll let you know in advance.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a platinum keycard, handing it to me. “Contractually, this penthouse is now yours as much as it is mine. Take care of it.” Using two long fingers to shift his cuff in order to check the screen of his Patek Phillipe, he tells me, “I’ve got to run. I won’t be back until late. For tonight, take a warm bath. Relax. And re-read the contract.”
His back is to me and then out the door before I can get a word out. Guess he’s had enough of my insubordinate yapping.
Like a dummy, I stand in the middle of the room and listen to his footfalls echoing through the apartment. Seconds later, I hear the ding of the elevator. Gone. Yet his presence, his essence of midnight storms, lingers in the space where he’d been. It’s as if his body is gone, but his soul remains, staring at me, ogling me, knowing my naked eyes can’t see him.
‘Rein it in,’ Rational Lotty advises. ‘No more hot men. They’re dangerous. They’re demons. They’re all bad and bossy and abusive a-holes. Play it safe. Choose wisely this time around. Though, in my opinion, the better option is to swear off men completely. At least, for a year or two.’
I nod, as if Rational Lotty is in actual human form, pressing her palm of wisdom on my shoulder and whispering pragmatisms in my ear.
Taking Noah’s advice, I run myself a hot bath. Lord knows I haven’t had one in a while.
While the bath runs, I pad into the closet to unpack my scraps of clothing. Not surprisingly, it’s a spacious walk-in.
Hanging on a rack to the side are seven starch-pressed uniforms. I pout at the absence of cute French frills or a sweetheart neckline for cleavage. Just a boring black and white straight tunic with a hidden zipper down the middle, a stiff white collar, and double box pockets.
Boo!
There are also two pairs of tennis shoes, I assume to be worn as part of the uniform. Clearly, Noah’s aim is to make me as unattractive as possible, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s to protect me from him, or to protect himself from me.
After unpacking, I pad back to the bathroom, strip down, and climb into the scorching hot bath.
Perfect. Perfect place to start, get my head in the right place, and begin adapting. I lay my head back on the rim and close my eyes.
For the first time since becoming best friends with Andrew’s fist, I’m able to think, relax, without fear clinging to every nerve ending.
Safe. That’s what I feel. At least, for the time being.
Up by 5:35 the next morning. Not since high school have I woken up this early. But a job is a job.
So I roll out of my super comfortable bed—not a broken-back couch—and skip into the shower. Hot water. Yes. Scented shower gel instead of Irish Spring soap? Yes, please. Loofa, foot scrub, rain shower? Yes, yes, yes!
Goodness. My peaceful night’s sleep and this warm, soothing shower beating down on my head makes me feel like I can breathe again.
I don’t know how Noah knew my size, but my uniform fits to a fault. Even the shoes. I’ve never worn a uniform of any kind before so I feel a bit ridiculous, but I guess I’ll get used to it eventually.
The house is pin-drop quiet as I navigate to the kitchen.
I’m up by six for my runs in the mornings and I have breakfast at eight before leaving for work.
I haven’t an inkling what he does in the gap between, but I figure it’s safe to have breakfast prepared by 7:30 at the latest.
I spend some time acquainting myself with the gourmet kitchen, making mental note of where everything is located, in order to avoid having to ask a bunch of questions or dizzying around like a headless chicken.
Once I’m confidently comfortable, I breathe five tiny breaths and begin my first day on the job.
It’s nearly an hour later when I hear sounds of life in the apartment. The stainless steel clock on the column adjacent the refrigerator tells me it’s 6:55 AM.
Mumbling travels from upstairs, but it isn’t Noah’s deep, slightly scratchy voice. It’s a woman’s voice, drawling cajolingly.
As I raise my eyes to a set of stairs I’m yet to climb, seeing that Noah hadn’t bothered giving me a tour of the place, a tall, bodacious, outrageously beautiful blonde woman hastily breaks around a corner and hurries down the stairs.
A bejeweled clutch under her arm, her cellphone pressed between her shoulder and her ear, she tries slipping on her red-bottom heels, hopping on one foot and hurtling down the stairs all at once. Her hair all sexed-up and haphazardly finger-groomed, no doubt from her haste; her tight-fitting black dress unzipped at the back.
Sienna Sullivan. Ex-wife of Nate Van Der Wells. One of New York’s classiest, finest, most-wanted rich gals.
“I know, baby, and I’m sorry,” she sweet-talks into her phone. “Julia was just such a mess last night, I couldn’t…I just couldn’t leave her like that. I don’t think she’s ever going to be over what her husband did. You should have seen her. I just had to spend the night with her to make sure she was okay…I know, baby, I know…I didn’t mean to make you worry like that. I’m on my way home now…Of course, baby…I love you, too.”
As she reaches the bottom of the stairs with both her heels on, she ends her call and then proceeds typing across her phone screen, fingers a blur, while making her way toward the kitchen.
“Babe,” she croons without looking up from her phone. “Can you zip my dress for me? Derek is going cra—“
Her words cut off mid-sentence when she glances up and sees me in the kitchen instead of her “babe.” Lips set in a displeased moue, a slight pucker forming between her eyebrows, she gives me a once over. “When did you start working here?”
Ping! goes the elevator.
“Two hours ago.”
As if deciding I’m somehow a threat, she narrows her smoky eyes at me. “How old are you?”
“As old as I am.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” she snaps out. “I know you know who I am. And why do you look so familiar? Do I know you?”
Of course, she knows who I am. And of course, I know who she is. I remember her, she doesn’t remember me, and I won’t remind her.
I disliked her back then when she cheated on Nate Van Der Wells and gave him a heart-attack, but now I have a double-dose of dislike for her because she obviously hasn’t changed. She’s still a cheater and a liar. With her ex-husband’s own relative at that. May God help that poor fool she was coaxing on the phone just now.
“You probably do,” I say, nodding. “Maybe from when I used to star in teen porn? I did gain some transient fame for my excellent skills at triple penetration.”
At the horrified expression on her face, I suck in my bottom lip to fight back a laugh.
Noah walks in just then. Running shorts and sneakers, sweat and bare chest. Mmmm. Deliciousness.
Sienna turns, and she literally moans, her body preening like a cat. I’m half-expecting her to tackle him and have sex with him right there in front of me.
Wow. Who knew there was a man out there who could make the great Sienna shamelessly melt into a human puddle like this? It is, after all, common knowledge that she’s the one who makes men crawl.
“There you are,” she sultrily greets him. “Didn’t I ask you to wake up me before six? Or was it Q? I can’t remember. I was so out of it. Now Derek’s going off the rails.”
“I did wake you,” replies Noah, as strides up to her, frowning. “You told me you liked the blue dress better, then rolled over and went back to sleep.”
Sienna laughs, and even her laugh is irritatingly sexy. “What in the world?”
Giving her a shrug, Noah rests his hands on her shoulders. Eyes fluttering closed, she tips her face up, thinking he’s going to kiss her.
Instead, he spins her around and zips up her dress, then shifts her to the side and out of his way, before walking toward the kitchen island.
I’m standing on the other side of the island, arms crossed, hip leaning into the counter, taking in the show, amused.
He doesn’t even glance at me as he rounds the island and opens the refrigerator, getting out the protein smoothie I blended up for him.
“You never told me you hired a housemaid,” comes Sienna’s voice, her eyes chilling over as she watches me watch Noah.
Noah pops the lid off the cup and quaffs down half the smoothie, before replying with, “Do you live here?”
“No, but—”
“Then what happens here is none of your business.”
She bristles. “Of course, it is my business! We—”
“Screw around and then you go right back home to your fiancé. That’s it. You have no privileges. You gave up that right.”
“Things are the way they are right now because you won’t say the word!” Her expression softening, she rounds the counter, moving into Noah, scraping her French-tipped fingernails down his sweat-glistening bare chest. They are literally seven feet away from me now, yet it’s as if I’m not even there. “Babe, I told you, I want to be with you. Say the word and I’ll leave him. No questions asked.”
Setting the cup of protein smoothie down to the counter, Noah takes her hands by the wrists and removes them from his person, looking down at her. “Not gonna happen, Sienna.”
Dropping her hands, he picks up the smoothie again, then saunters out of the kitchen like he’s king of the world.
With a look of complete devastation, Sienna watches him climb the stairs, sipping from his smoothie.
Once he’s out of sight, she turns to me, eyes suddenly glacial. “You see that man,” she points in the direction Noah has gone, “he’s mine. He’s always been mine. You’re pretty. He likes pretty little things. I bet that’s why he took you in. You’re a pretty little thing to look at. But if you even think about spreading your legs for him, I swear I’ll make your life a living hell.”
I’m tempted to roll my eyes but figure it would be too fitting a reaction for my age. Instead, I toss her a secretive smile. “Who says I haven’t already? I mean, did you see that man’s body? That’s not the kind of body a young girl’s over-excited bits can resist.”
Sienna’s mean girl expression surprisingly smooths out rather than worsens, her arms folding. “What’s your name?” Her tone is no longer cold or threatening, just curious.
“Daenerys Stormborn.”
“Dinneris,” she echoes, smiling something genuine, the GOT reference going right over her head. Seriously? Anyone who doesn’t watch GOT should be hanged. With a lock of Lisa Bonet’s hair. Yes, that should be a law. I want to strip her down like Cersei and let her walk the streets while GOT fans chant ‘Shame! Shame! Shame!’
“You’re a smart-mouthed little bitch,” she comments, “but I think I like you. Because you’re a smart-mouthed little bitch.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but the feeling isn’t mutual.”
She throws her head back with a laugh. “Oh, you definitely won’t be screwing him.” She turns and starts to leave, tossing over her shoulder, “You’re pretty, but you’re no little thing.”
And with that, she’s gone.
Well, isn’t that an interesting start to the morning. If all morning interactions are this entertaining, I certainly look forward to working here.
Faint noises echo from upstairs. Noah’s probably getting ready for work.
My eyes sweep around, and only now am I noticing the signs of an overnight romp. Two empty wine glasses and a whiskey glass sit on the coffee table, half-eaten slices of chocolate cake on saucers, a lipstick, and a money clip holding a wad of cash. Noah’s jacket and tie from last evening are strewn over the back of the long sofa.
I heard nothing last night, so in love with my luxury room, I was dead to the world after that long bath. With my last couple of weeks being so stressful and anxiety-ridden, it’s no wonder I slept like a baby when given a big, comfortable bed with six pillows and the softest sheets ever.
I’m at the sink washing up the dishware and glasses I picked up from around the living area when Noah’s solid footfalls descend the stairs. Because I have no idea what version of Noah I’ll get today, I don’t bother turning around. Ever since I got here yesterday, he’s acted like one of those rigid rich asses I hated growing up.
Few words, commanding, brooding.
However, he did admit he had frequent mood shifts and couldn’t promise me he’d be tolerable all the time. Judging by his tiff with Sienna earlier, I assume today isn’t one of his good days. So the less I say and keep my nose out of his private life, the safer for me and my paycheck.
Although, I have to admit my tongue is itching to tease him. I’d been right when I said he was jealous of his relative Nate. I mean, sleeping with Nate’s ex-wife? God, I want to poke at him so bad. But I stow the tease away for a more suitable time, a time when he’s more amiable and in a talkative mood.
The rhythm of his footfalls comes to an end. His brooding presence fills the kitchen like a heat dispenser. On the other side of the island now.
Is it rude of me not to greet my boss with a cheery “good morning?” Probably. But earlier, when he was standing seven feet away from me, he acted as though I was invisible. So, I’m guessing, maybe that’s what he wants. A housemaid who remains invisible.
The dome lifts. Then comes a long pause in his breathing that I’m inexplicably aware of. And then, “What is this?”
Now I turn. He’s holding the dome midair in one hand and scowling down at the breakfast I prepared him.
Frowning, my eyes fall to the plate. What I prepared is a super healthy “sketchbook” breakfast of poached eggs, rare salmon, diced tofu, some beans, and some greens for balance. Under the second dome is a dish of fruit chunks in a bed of oatmeal.
Baffl
ed by his displeasure, because I know I’m an excellent cook, I answer, “Breakfast.”
His eyes lift to me, but his head remains dipped, effecting an under-the-brow stare. It’s so damn sexy my nipples harden, leaving me grateful for this roomy uniform. “No. It’s something my mother would cook and force me to eat. If I wanted this kind of insipidness, I wouldn’t have hired you. Would’ve just asked Mom to move in instead.”
I raise a defiant brow. “The ingredients were in your refrigerator. I used what I saw. Why do you have them if you don’t eat them? For show?”
His heads lifts now, eyes pinning me with a look that warns me to quit being mouthy. “My mother. She drops in every Saturday with groceries—or at least her version of it. I keep them at the front and hide what I really eat at the back. Every Friday I throw most of her stuff out so she thinks I’m eating it—as a matter of fact, she’s away on vacation for now, so you can just go ahead and throw those out.” He sighs. “It’s my fault. I should have told you that yesterday.”
“What do you ‘really’ eat?”
As if he can’t bear to look at a dish of healthy food, he slams the dome back down over the plate. He then lifts the second dome and, seemingly okay with the fruits and oatmeal, plucks up a slice of kiwi and pops it in his mouth. “Fat. Carbs. Sugar. Acid. Gluten. All that’s supposedly unhealthy and unholy and hazardous to your health.”
Now my eyebrows are kissing the ceiling. “Wha—b-but how do you…” Unable to formulate the words, I gesture my hand up and down his flawless, fat-free, model-type body, which is encased impeccably in a navy-blue suit. Platinum cufflinks. Expensive watch. Blood-red tie. Shadowed jaw. Groomed black hair.
He’s too perfect to be real.
“You mean how do I eat like Henry VIII and still look like a…” He pauses. Grins. “Abercrombie?”
I smile. He’s back. The man who dove into the back of my cab. The man I ran with at the park. Who swore he’d come looking for me if I didn’t show up. “Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells. That’s exactly what I mean.”