Hotel policy requires every room to be cleaned daily, and while he insisted that he never comes home during lunch—the time that my shift overlaps with when I work on Wednesday’s—I couldn’t shake my nerves at the possibility of seeing him again.
And why am I nervous? I have no idea.
Maybe because it’s been years since a man sat at my kitchen table and shared a meal with my siblings. Easily since before my parents passed away. And sitting there with Cain had felt way too natural.
So, instead, I cleaned every other room on my assigned list first, which pushed his penthouse closer to three in the afternoon. A terrible time, really. The odds of running into him now are even higher, all because I procrastinated.
He’s probably still in court.
I briefly consider asking one of my coworkers to cover his place for me, but when I check the schedule before heading up to the top floor, I see she’s already clocked out for the day, probably on her way back to her home across town.
I groan.
Running into Cain wouldn’t be the end of the world, but after he went out of his way to drive all the way to Brookhaven to return my lost wallet—and ended up having dinner with my family—it feels like the dynamic between us has naturally shifted. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something’s changed in the way that I see him.
It’s been gnawing at the edges of my thoughts, no matter how much I try to shake it off. Which is ridiculous. He’s just some guy I keep insisting I’m not supposed to see again. Yet, somehow, we keep crossing paths in the strangest, most unexpected ways. And it isn’t like he had to make that long drive. He knows I work where he lives.
He did it for me.
Butterflies stir in my stomach as I replay the image of him sitting at our broken, rickety table, joking with my siblings like he’d been a part of the family for years. He didn’t seem to notice the way the leg wobbled or the mismatched chair cushions. He’d seemed much more carefree that night, like the guy I’d run into in the darkness at Bryant Park and not the stuck up one he’d been after we’d ran into each other in court.
I know it’s ridiculous, but for just a moment, I couldn’t help imagining what it might be like if dinners with my family happened on a regular basis. Ifhewas a consistent part of our lives.
Stupid girl,I chide myself.
Because when would I even have time to date? And why would Cain ever want to see someone like me? If he did, he would have made a move already. No, Cain has a reputation to maintain. A reputation of being a lawyer to the stars. And that doesn’t include dating a woman from Brookhaven who works as his maid.
I lift my chin as the gilded elevator doors slide open with a quiet chime, snapping me out of my thoughts. I step forward hesitantly, peeking into the foyer of his expansive, luxury apartment.
It all makes more sense now that I know he lives here. The lack of personal effects, the clinical nature of the place. It’s so freaking impersonal I’m tempted to buy him a plant just to bring some life to the space.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
Hearing no response, I feel a bit more at ease and wheel my cleaning cart inside. I start in the foyer, tidying up which goes much faster than the times before since that horrendous vase broke.
I then move on to the living room. I vacuum and straighten things out, but once again, it strikes me how Cain’s penthouse barely feels lived in. It’s pristine, almost sterile, like a showpiece rather than a home. For a place this size it should take me much longer to clean than it does.
I missed my last shift because of three back-to-back therapy sessions, so another cleaner had covered for me. Even so, his lack of personal belongings doesn’t add up. What does he do when he gets home at night? Go straight to bed? Does he ever have friends over? Women?
I make my way to the kitchen, wiping down appliances that look like they’ve never been used and cleaning off countertops thatdon’t have a crumb insight. I’ve been cleaning his penthouse for two months now not realizing it was his but now that I know, my view of the place is much more critical and the longer I clean, the sadder that I feel.
I move towards the bedroom next, which is just as tidy and impersonal as the rest of the place. It looks more like a luxury hotel room than a space someone calls home. A place for someone just passing by to come to before heading back out of town. Though I guess that explains his comments about it never feeling like home.
I dust the surfaces, strip the sheets, and replace them with the penthouse-dedicated set from the linen closet before grabbing the vacuum. Halfway through, I stop for a sip of water and realize my bladder is uncomfortably full, having not taken a single bathroom break since I started my shift six hours ago.
I try to avoid using the bathrooms while cleaning because it only means I’ll have to clean them all over again. But since I haven’t gotten to Cain’s yet, I figure there’s no harm in using it.
Stepping inside, I take in the space. It’s just as empty as the rest of the penthouse and in the exact same set up that it’s been for months. Facial trimmers, a toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste sit neatly on the counter.
In the shower, there’s a bar of soap, a single bottle of shampoo and conditioner. And judging by the minimal supplies he keeps in here, it doesn’t seem like he’d be prepared for any overnight guests. If a woman were to stay over, he wouldn’t have much to offer her.
I resist the temptation to snoop in his medicine cabinet and resign myself to using the restroom and getting out of here.
I hover awkwardly over the toilet, trying not to touch the seat as I pee even though I know I still need to clean it. Once I finishand wipe, I move to stand up, but my phone vibrates with a notification. Sliding it open, I see a text from Leo.
Leo: Hey! What are you doing for Halloween tonight?
Rhiannon: Nothing. Sadly. What about you?
