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Nana and my mom were both maids like me. Both worked their fingers to the bone cleaning other people’s houses. When my mom was diagnosed with an aggressive form of lung cancer at the age of forty-two, I knew I had to find something different — something better than ten-hour workdays scrubbing toilets and mopping floors.
“Don’t think I didn’t see you walk in here with all those grocery bags,” says Nana, changing the topic with a reproachful look. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Yes, it is,” she says, her voice cracking with the force of her passion. “You spoil me. You should save your money.” She nods grudgingly at my van. “For your business.”
“I’m fine, Nana,” I say, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “And besides, you deserve to be spoiled.”
“Back at ya, honey.”
Chapter Three
Jules
Two weeks later . . .
My jaw about hits my lap as I pull through the tall wrought-iron gates. A gigantic stone chalet looms through the towering spruce trees, looking like a castle ripped straight out of a fairy tale with a foot of snow blanketing the roof.
I drive through a little stone tunnel attached to the structure and enter a large enclosed courtyard. My heart races as I pull into a spot marked “Guest” and climb out of the van.
It’s only been a week since a friend of mine managed to get my website up and running, and I was stunned when this guy’s head of security reached out to book a consultation only a few days later.
The house is a whopping thirteen thousand square feet. With six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, and a detached mother-in-law cabin, it’s the kind of place that must have set the owner back at least fifty or sixty million. Every detail of the exterior is absolute perfection, but my eyes go to the sleek black cameras mounted along every corner of the house.
I straighten up and discreetly check my lipstick in the side mirror. Though I don’t officially have any employees, I will by the time we book our first clean.
Today, I’m dressed as the company owner in a simple pair of gray slacks, white button-down, and a tailored black suit jacket. I managed to tame my unruly onyx waves into a professional style, and my boobs are safely contained in the most expensive bra I own.
My stilettos clack against the fancy cobblestone courtyard, and I stumble more than a few times when a heel sinks into the crack between two stones.
Hopefully, no one is watching on the cameras.
Feeling nervous, I clasp my clipboard tighter to my chest and lift the heavy iron knocker in my hand.
Since I don’t personally know anyone with a huge antique knocker in the shape of a wolf’s head, I don’t know the correct etiquette for announcing my arrival. I settle with rapping three times in quick succession before standing back and taking a deep breath, trying to appear more confident than I feel.
There’s no reason this Beckett guy needs to know that this is my company’s very first job. I came prepared with glowing references from every cleaning service I’ve ever worked for, as well as a few private clients.
A long minute passes, and I start to shiver. I left my heavy winter coat in the van, and it’s starting to snow.
Feeling slightly panicky, I look down to double-check the address that Beckett gave me and cross-reference the pin on my navigation app.
Yep, this is the place.
Swallowing down my nerves, I lift the heavy iron knocker again and let it fall with a resounding thud — two, three, four more times.
Still nothing.
Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I let my finger hover over Beckett’s number. I don’t want to have to call to see what’s going on, but I know I’m in the right place. Maybe I got the date wrong?
I’m about to run back to the van and crank the heat for a few minutes while I check when the heavy wooden door flies open.
I’m staring up at a gigantic man whose frame fills the entire doorway. He towers several inches over six feet tall, and he’s got a pair of shoulders that would put a linebacker to shame.
The man is dressed in slacks and a rumpled Oxford shirt, which he’s rolled up to the elbows. Curly dark hair covers his massive forearms, and he’s left the top four buttons of his shirt undone, offering a glimpse of a hard muscular chest that I have the inexplicable urge to run my fingers down.
Clearly, it’s been way too long since I’ve seen any action if I’m thinking of rubbing my hands all over this unkempt stranger.
