Chapter 8
Layla
It’s been months since I came across the video online that could earn me life-changing money. It was painful dipping into my savings to invest in more professional cleaning supplies and ordering mockup business cards, not to mention the wholly unprofessional clothes needed to perform the job…but I’ve been too nervous to go through with it.
Every time I see Russell—which is every single day, except when he’s visiting his son—he asks to hire me. Sometimes even multiple times a day. He’s like a dog with a bone, and I wish he’d never found that stupid business card. It’s hard to keep telling the man I’m falling in love with no .
I want to say yes . Badly. I want to make him happy instead of testing his patience and consistently disappointing him. I also need to because it feels like I’m stuck on a hamster wheel—no matter how far ahead I get, I always end up right back where I started with a new emergency. Namely, my car, which has been in and out of the shop more often than not.
What stops me is what Russell would think of me if I gave in. Of what my dad would think if he was still alive. Of how Russell might treat me differently afterward, keeping his distance, or worse—want me back, but not for the right reason.
Of course, the moment I have that thought is when my car drops to one side as I’m taking a curve in the road, halfway to the diner at five in the morning. I slam on the brakes, metal grinding on asphalt, after one of my back tires speeds down the road ahead of me in my headlights.
I rub my eyes, then look again to make sure I’m not seeing things that aren’t real. The tire rolls into the treeline, bounces off a thick trunk with a bang, and finally topples over in the grass. I’m breathing hard, body shaking as I wonder how on earth this could have happened. A flat tire is one thing, but one coming off is a whole ‘nother, and the only way that could happen is if the lug nuts came loose…if someone intentionally loosened them.
I reach for my phone in my tote bag, which had flown forward into the footwell. Headlights blind me in the rearview mirror when I sit up. My driver’s side door is wrenched open, and I’m pulled out of the car into a man’s solid chest, his hand cupping the back of my head.
“Are you ok, darlin’?”
Russell . Somehow, I knew it would be him.
“Yes. Shaken up, but…I’m ok.”
“Scared me something awful, seeing your tire fly off like that.”
I push my arms up over his shoulders, hugging him extra tight as the reality of what just happened becomes overwhelming, imagining what would have happened if the tire had flown off while going seventy-five miles per hour on the interstate.
“Oh, darlin’…” Russell kisses my temple, then bends and scoops me up, carrying me to his truck, setting me in the front pa ssenger side, where I have to rest my feet on top of a large blue cooler left in the footwell. “Do you have a spare tire?” When I shake my head, he says, “I’ll grab your things and call a tow truck.”
Russell locks the doors after closing mine, then goes to my car, returning with my tote bag. I roll down the window to accept it, then make the split decision to tell him about the cleaning supplies I have stored in my trunk since I don’t know how long it’ll be before I get my car back.
His jaw ticks, but he collects it all as well, everything still in its packaging, and stows them in the backseat. It still gets cold in the early spring mornings, and Russell grabs a blanket from the back that he shakes out over my lap once he climbs into the driver’s side.
I’m silent as I scroll through the video footage from my doorbell camera to see if anyone tampered with my car while Russell is on the phone. I come up with nothing.
Russell talks to the tow truck driver, Jovan, when he pulls up fifteen minutes later. I was hired by the tow company but politely let go within a month after accidentally putting a gargantuan dent in a customer’s front bumper. I cringe a little when Jovan waves to me through the windshield while my car is loaded onto his flatbed, then again when he drives off.
Russell drives me to the diner, and once he’s parked and turned the truck off, I stare off into the distance. Hoping I’m not making a mistake, I blurt, “Ok.” I turn to face him, his big body already turned toward me in his seat. “I’ll let you hire me.”
He nods, a slight grin softening his serious expression.
“But you can never tell anyone who lives in this town or is associated with law enforcement. ”
His mouth parts, taken aback. “What does the law have to do with it?”
“That’s my only condition. Take it or leave it.”
“Well, I mean, yes, I will, but—”
I jump out of the truck and jog across the lot, though I know Russell will be right behind me. I place his order with the kitchen before I head to the employee area to stuff my bag in my locker, and I carry his breakfast to him on my return, ignoring him and his unspoken questions throughout his meal.
When I bring Russell his check, I tell him, “I’m free tomorrow morning at nine. Does that work for you?” It’s a Saturday, which hopefully means he’s not needed at the warehouse. If I have too much time to think about it, I’ll probably back out, so it needs to happen now.
“I’ll make it work,” he says, pulling cash from his wallet.
This time, I pocket his tip without argument to thank him for being there for me this morning. I’ve just turned to check on another one of my tables when I stop and stare at Russell. “Were you following me this morning?”
He must have been . It’s the only way to explain him being behind me, arriving to help before I even got the chance to call anyone, when he lives far outside of town in the opposite direction of the diner.
Russell stands. “I’ll drive you home after your shift.” Then, he simply walks out.
He might have ignored my question, but I have my answer all the same.
Russell was following me this morning.
Next question is: how often does he do it?
And why?
* * *
Russell had all new tires put on my vehicle and then had it inspected for any other signs of tampering. It was delivered shortly after he drove me home from the diner, so thankfully, I didn’t have to call him or anyone else for a ride to his house Saturday morning.
I whistle when I turn down the long paved driveway, driving about a quarter-mile through the trees before the clearing opens. Russell’s house, painted a surprisingly modern black, is centered behind a U-shaped driveway, though his dually is parked to the right of the house in front of the detached three-door garage before the driveway had split in two.
In all the years I’ve known Russell, I’ve never once been to his house. All the company-wide parties he’s had, which I always went to with Steven, were held at the warehouse or a rented venue since he has so many employees. At least, that’s what I thought. But his property is nearly as big as BT’s and can accommodate everyone, so I wonder why he keeps himself secluded way out here instead of letting people in.
I tighten the belt of my white silk robe—part of my new uniform—when I get out of my car, staring up at the two-story structure almost as large as my entire apartment complex. Above the glass double front doors is a massive dormer that reminds me of an old country church. Three stone steps as wide as my car lead up to the covered front porch, also made of stone, spanning the entire house. It’s like one of those expensive vacation homes you see on the lakes, and it takes my breath away.
All this time, I knew Russell must have been doing well as the owner of a successful national freight company that’s still growing, but I didn’t know he was this well off. Maybe the money he’s spent on me is just a drop in the bucket of what he’s amassed over the years, and I’m starting to feel a little foolish for thinking I’ve been taking advantage of him all this time.
No. No. I can’t think like that. It doesn’t matter how much money Russell has. He earned it by working hard and building his business from the ground up. None of it was given to him, and it’s certainly not mine for the taking just because he’s taken a strange interest in my well-being.
Russell swings open the right side of the front doors by the time I’ve made it onto the second step, waiting for me. He probably heard the belt squealing in my car the moment I turned onto his driveway. I wonder how long he’s been at the door, staring at me while I stared at his house. Watching me .
He’s dressed in his comfy, light-wash blue jeans and a loose, thin flannel, the sleeves rolled up his burly forearms, and bright white socks. Russell’s lips part when he sees the white cowgirl boots I’m wearing as soon as I finish stepping onto the porch.
I couldn’t decide between the cute farm girl look or wearing heels for a sexy seductress type, not sure which he would find more appealing. But I know I’ve made the right choice when he takes his time dragging his gaze up when I cross the distance, and he leans forward instead of away to let me inside before jerking back. He clears his throat but only sweeps his arm, motioning for me to enter, neither of us having said a word yet.
* * *
Russell
Words. I need to find them. Can’t. Layla. Tiny robe. Bare thighs.
It’s strange attire for a maid, but I won’t complain because my darlin’ is finally here, in our house, looking like a snack. No, a whole meal. Dessert, too. One I desperately want to lick and savor and swallow.
She stares up at the high ceilings and exposed wood beams that cross the length of the house, ending at the back wall of glass bi-fold doors in black frames, all of which slide open to allow free movement out onto the covered stone patio and the long rectangular pool. To the right of the doors is the opening that leads to the primary bedroom with another gorgeous view of the pool and more of the property.
“Wow, Russell. You’re living in my dream home,” she says, turning in a circle.
“I know,” I croak.
The bottom of Layla’s short robe bounces with each step, the backs of her thighs luring me closer as she walks out of the foyer, slowing when the space opens up to the kitchen on the left. She goes to the island topped with butcher block, wide enough to seat six people at the overhang on the swiveling, brown leather and wrought iron bar stools, though the matching table in the dining area seats a dozen to fit all our friends. Wandering the kitchen, she skims her hands along the surfaces in awe, opening random cabinets and drawers .
“I’ve never seen an all-black kitchen in person, though I’ve always wanted one. It’s so much brighter in here than I expected. And this copper sink!” She turns the tap on and off. “It’s gorgeous. I think I have a picture of one pinned online for my future house if I’m ever lucky enough to afford one.”
I trail behind her. “I know.” Wow. Brilliant, Russell. A real conversationalist.
She gives me a curious look, her brows briefly creasing, then opens another cabinet. “Why are so many of them empty? Did you just move in?”
“No.”
She waits for more. Finding none, she says, “The house looks new. When was it built?”
“I started construction three years ago.” Less than a month after meeting you , I add silently. “Finished it and moved in almost a year later.”
“A minimalist, then. Who knew?” She smiles, poking fun at my mess at BT.
I’m different at home, which is my sanctuary, taking better care of it than I do the warehouse. It’s easy since I don’t have fifty men walking through here every day. Only two, actually—Elliott and Paul—have been allowed in, but that’s only because they’re family. No one else has stepped foot in here since the last piece of furniture was delivered after moving in. I wanted Layla to be the first one to see it.
She leaves the kitchen, glancing toward the curved staircase leading to the four bedrooms upstairs, then steadily moves across the living room opposite the kitchen, the furniture a blend of traditional wood and modern metals, arranged around the stone fireplace.
Her smile fades. “What am I doing here, Russell? The place is spotless.”
You’re touring the house I built for you, darlin’ . ‘Course, I can’t say that without scaring her off, seeing as she keeps comparing me to her father and wouldn’t look twice at me like a lover.
With my throat closing in on me when she moves back toward the entrance, I have to force my words out. “I don’t spend a lot of time here, so it’s pretty dusty and could use a deep clean. Windows, too.” I wave to the glass doors, the outside coated with the kind of pollen that paints the air yellow and clings to your sinuses this time of year.
“Ok,” she finally says with suddenly shallow breaths, strangely nervous. “Ok. Ok.”
She sets her bag on the kitchen table, where I’ve laid out the cleaning supplies we left in my truck, having unboxed the vacuum and portable carpet cleaner in preparation. Taking a deep breath, she turns to face me, color high on her cheeks.
“So, price,” she starts. “It’s four hundred for the first hour. Three-fifty for the second. Three hundred for every hour after that.”
I raise my brows.
“That’s too much, isn’t it? Crap. Maybe I need to start lower and work my way up,” she says to herself.
I’ve hired cleaning companies before at my old homes, and I know deep cleaning can cost a pretty penny, but it’s never cost that much. I’m more than happy to pay her rates all the same, pleased by how much she’ll be able to put into savings. “No. Double it.”
Her shoulders drop. “Russell.” She toys with the belt of her robe, pulling it tighter, seeing something on my face. “Why do you look so confused?”
“I’m not.” I am . I scratch my temple at the wary expression she gives me.
“You saw my business card.”
“Yeah.” Weirdest business card I’ve ever seen.
She nods. “So you understand that…” She waves to her lithe body.
I give her a blank look. “You started a maid service.”
She hesitates before finally revealing, “A topless maid service. That’s why my fee is so high.”
“A what? How many other men have you cleaned for?” I bark the questions, going mental at the thought of other men seeing her gorgeous half-naked body, watching her like perverts while she cleans. It doesn’t even cross my mind that none of her cleaning products had been used.
“See. This is why I kept telling you no.” She digs her car keys out of her tote bag. “I knew you would think less of me.”
“Layla, please.” I take her keys from her hand and drop them in the bag. “You don’t have to leave.”
“Yes, I do.” She grabs her keys again. “If you don’t want to hire me anymore, then I need to call around. See if I can pick up a shift somewhere, or maybe…maybe find someone else to clean for.”
“No,” I snap, making her flinch. “I’m sorry,” I say, lowering my voice. Trying to lighten the tension, praying she won’t walk out on me, I impulsively invoke the rules we learned Davis has for Goldie and the role-playing they engage in—which surprised the heck out of me and piqued my curiosity. “Rule number two.”
Layla’s deep, dark brown doe eyes flare, her lashes fluttering.
Dagnabbit . I’ve gone and reminded her of her dad again since rule number two is Do not give Daddy attitude. I hang my head and pinch the bridge of my nose, swimming through a pool of regret.
She drops her keys on the table. “Ok, Daddy,” she says with a hint of sarcasm, though her voice is slightly higher in pitch. “You still want to hire me?”
I whip my head up. My cock was already swollen and pressing against my zipper from the moment I heard her turn onto my driveway, and now it spits precum in my boxer briefs. Daddy . No, I don’t want to be her dad, but Daddy ? That’s a whole lot different, and if she ever wanted it, I’d be that for her and more. God , how I want more.
I pull an envelope of cash from my back pocket and hold it up. “That’s three hours’ worth of your time.”
After a beat, she finally takes the envelope, silently counting the bills, and drops it next to her keys. Then, oh lordy , she takes a steadying breath and unbelts her robe, slipping it off her slim shoulders to toss it on the table.
My knees buckle when I see she’s wearing frayed jean shorts that barely cover more than a bathing suit would. She unties her top, which is nothing more than a large red bandana knotted between her breasts, releasing her plump tits that would fit nicely within my palms, and she tosses the fabric on the table as well.
When her loose curls fall forward, brushing the tips of her hard, tiny pink nipples, I go down like timber.