Chapter One
SAVANNAH
“Your schedule is brutal. Aren’t you exhausted?” Mila hands me a cookie from the batch she’s just baked. She bags up a few to take with me and I blow her a kiss as I put the mop away. Since she started as the firehouse chef, my job has beenwayeasier. She’ll always save me a lunch plate or some sweet treats to bring home.
“All the time! Being overly caffeinated helps. And listening to high-energy tunes. I have a playlist calledNo Sleep til Breakfastfor those super intense back-to-back shifts.” Grabbing my coat from the cupboard next to the kitchen, I slot my phone in my jeans pocket. I don’t want to be late.
“Well, one day you won’t have to work all these shifts, Savannah. Your soaps are amazing…Brock said I smelt like a sexy flower garden today.”
I laugh. “You keep baking me these cookies, and I’ll keep supplying you with my sexy flower soap, okay?”
Waving goodbye, I scoot out the door of the firehouse. My elderly car gave up the ghost two months ago, so I’m relying on Grandma’s even more ancient bicycle to get around town. Hoisting the pack with my supplies onto my back, I jam myheadphones over my ears and tie back my unruly hair before setting out.
The streets of Snowflake Falls are covered in a thin layer of gold and crimson fallen leaves. The sun is shining, the sky free of clouds, but the scent of burning wood lingers in the air. Fall is on the way. I’m much more of a summer person, even though I didn’t get the opportunity to enjoy much of it this year. Grandma sometimes playfully calls me Cinderella, but right now it doesn’t feel like a joke.
Huffing and puffing, I pedal up the steep hill. My newest client lives at One Geraldine Place, commonly known to Snowflake residents as Millionaire Mile. For some inexplicable reason, obscenely wealthy guys keep falling in love with this small town and moving here. Not that I don’t love my hometown, it’s just that I’d imagine they’d be more at home in glamorous places like Monaco and Beverly Hills.
I check the address. The agency hasn’t sent me many details, apart from the entry code and a long list of what needs to be done before the owner returns from his business trip. A long straight driveway lined with immaculately landscaped bushes and apple trees leads to the front door. The house is huge and freshly painted. A couple of rebellious fallen leaves sully the otherwise perfectly trimmed lawn.
Slowly pedaling around the side of the enormous house, I hunt around for the back door. I’ve cleaned enough ritzy places by now to know to never go in through the front door. Most rich folks like to pretend their houses are cleaned by teams of magical elves, who appear and disappear without a trace.
I lean my bike against the side of the house, then walk up the path to key in the code. Inside, the house is deserted. That’s fine with me, I can keep my headphones on and blast through all the tasks on the list. I’m meant to clean the first and second floors,and the second kitchen in the basement. Who even has a second kitchen, anyway?
Four hours later, it’s starting to get dark. My feet hurt. I stuff the bag of cookies Mila gave me into my back pocket and put my backpack down in the hallway. I’ve been carrying it up and down the stairs as I work on the different floors, and it’s heavy.
There’s something eerie about being in this huge place with nobody around. I can’t get much sense of who owns it. All the furnishings are luxurious and sparklingly new, as if they’ve just been purchased and never used. The refrigerator is fully stocked, but every packet and bottle is unopened. Expensive-looking paintings hang on the walls. A big sculpture taking up space in the enormous hallway reminds me of Pooh Bear at a rave.
One more hour to go. Turning up the music, I find some disco to spur me forward. I sing along toDisco Inferno; that’s Grandma’s favorite karaoke song. That segues intoSaturday Night Feverand I take the stairs to the basement as if I’m John Travolta on his light-up dancefloor. Placing my phone on the kitchen counter, I start hunting for supplies.
There’s nothing under the sink, so I open and close a whole bunch of cupboards.Nada. I don’t want to trek upstairs, so I head back into the hallway and start to randomly open doors. A gym is next to the kitchen and then a cupboard full of towels, but no cleaning stuff. I carry on to the end of the hallway, where a bookcase covers the wall.
Pausing to stuff a cookie in my mouth, I consider my next move. The bookcase looks like it’s covering something, so I curl my fingers around the top edge of the shelf. It swings open, like something from an old movie. There’s a door behind it.Of course. They’ve hidden all the lowly cleaning supplies behind a bookcase. Sighing, I tug the door open. It’s surprisingly heavy.
I root around for a light switch as I walk inside. It’s pitch black. I feel my way forward, arms outstretched.I Will Survivestarts playing at top volume, just as I tumble over something on the floor.
The timing is so ridiculous that I can’t help giggling, trying to swallow down the rest of the cookie. The smile snaps off my face when an ear-splitting alarm blares out. My foot is trapped in a box as a cold white light flashes in time with the alarm.
I’m in a small room with a sofa against one wall, what looks like a mini refrigerator, and some cases of water stacked up in the corner. As I attempt to remove the box from my foot, the door starts to swing shut. My eyes widen as a tall, broad-shouldered, stupidly handsome man squeezes inside, just before it closes. His chiseled face is familiar. Have I met him before?
Handsome guy stares at me in disbelief, running a hand over his dark hair. He presses a button by the door and the alarm stops, along with the flashing. A dim light fills the space.
“What the hell are you doing here? And who are you?” He has the kind of deep, confident voice that makes people sit up and start paying attention.
Breathing in, the leftover cookie crumbs tickle my throat and I start coughing. Gasping for air, I point at the door. He cranes his neck around to look behind him, and a line appears between his eyebrows as he frowns. I start giggling again, mostly out of embarrassment.
“I’m Savannah. The cleaning lady. And who areyou?”
He crosses his arms. He’s wearing black suit pants and an unbuttoned white shirt that gives a hint of muscular chest beneath.
“I’m Weston Bennett. Your employer.” His voice is like a growl.
Oh no.I suck in my breath. That’s why I thought I knew him. His face is on the cover of magazines I’ve flipped through at the supermarket, usually alongside a famous model or actress.
“Am I fired?” Tears spring to my eyes. I need this job. “I promise I’m not usually such a klutz. I’ll replace the box. And what is this room? I was looking for cleaning supplies.”
Weston walks over and holds out his right hand. I grip it and he pulls me to my feet, so I’m standing a few inches from him. I’m tall, but he must be at least six inches taller than me. He smells incredible, spicy cologne mixed with something else I can’t put my finger on. It’s so intensely masculine that my heart skitters in my chest.
He’s still holding my hand. Little electric pulses run from my fingertips across my body. He gazes down at me as I shake the box off my foot.
