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 complete 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.