He returns my greeting with a coarse, “Peters,” and steps back from the large wood double doors to let me in to his lavish summer home.
Two whole stories of sprawling, opulent abundance rest before me, ready to clean.
And I’m totally going to clean it all. Again. For the…fifteenthtime this year.
That is to say, it is no longersummer. It is September.
September, yet he’s still here, darkening the doorway.
Fixing my brightest smile on my face, I turn and lace my fingers together behind my back, right beneath the bow of my apron. “Mr. Anders, sir?”
He closes the door and glances at me, solemn, dark gray eyes simmering with their perma-glare. “Yes?”
I am not certain on the polite way to ask this question, so I do not attempt to make it polite. I simply keep my sweet little smile in place and hope my usual tactics work on big scary men about as well as they work on most everyone else. “When are you leaving?”
He blinks, echoing, “Leaving?”
I nod, sweetly and cutely, which are two things I am known for being. “You normally stay from June to August.” I pause, so he can enlighten me; he doesn’t, so I enlighten him. “It’s September.”
His hand lifts, covering his mouth as his eyes get all distant andponder-y. I think, anyway. He really isn’t ashows emotionkind of guy. “Ah,” he says, most intelligently. His hand drops, and he turns for his office, an offshoot of the foyer. “I bought the house this year.” He walks as my heart drops. “I like it here.” His heavy footsteps carry him to the archway while I begin the arduous task of processing the fact I will beherewithhimevery. single. week.
Indefinitely.
It’s a miracle I’m not hyperventilating when he stops short before the three steps that would carry him down into the belly of a room with a corner desk that takes up roughly a quarter of the space—and needs endless amounts of dusting—several leather chairs positioned around a coffee table, and, of course, the coffee table itself.
He cocks his head over his shoulder, back at me. “Speaking of, does your agency provide more permanent solutions?”
“Pardon?” I squeak.
“I’d like someone to live in the adjacent building and handle daily tasks. Laundry. Cooking. Upkeep. Does your agency do that sort of thing?”
My heart lightens, flutters. Becausethatis not my department.
Clapping my hands together, I beam, “Of course! Would you like me to message Mr. Lundberg for you today and get something coordinated? Also, congratulations on your new home. It’s…” Excessive. Probably a hundred thousand dollars in taxes alone each year. “…big!”
Air leaves his nostrils, and he turns his attention past me, toward the wooden staircase that leads to the second floor. “It’s actually pretty small, compared to what I’m used to.”
I’d beggeth thy pardon, if I cared.
But I don’t.
Amarella is a rich tourist area.
Of coursethe largest building in this neighborhood, settled an inhospitable distance away from anyone else yet a comfortable distance away from downtown, issmallto whoever can actually afford to be here, paying daily, for three months every year.
“Wow,” I chirp, “your usual home must be massive.”
“Yeah, it is. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”
I swallow, keeping my expression totallychipper. Because, I am so sorry. He’ll…what? Show me where he normally lives sometime? No, no, no. No, thank you. I’m very happy right here, outside of the body bags I really hope he hasn’t moved in yet.
After all, I’m almost one hundred percent certain he has accrued his wealth via the selling of organs. He just gives off thatvibe, you know? The “I’m the boss of a mafia” vibe.
Proving my point, he rolls up his sleeves to reveal more ink than skin as he leans back against the doorjamb to his office. “I should like to clarify. Peters.”
My heart thuds, so I twist my fingers. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m offering you a job. Can you cook?”
