Cuddle Muffin
. . .
Ellie
Samuel proved to be great company on the elevator ride up to the top floor of the very, very tall building.
It was a bit of a one-sided conversation about a hat I’d been crocheting for my cat, but Samuel kept smiling politely and even offered me a little strawberry candy just like the ones my grandma kept in her purse.
But I put my game face on the moment the elevator doors opened at our destination.
Well… I tried to, at least.
“Holy macaroni.” My jaw dropped to the floor. The elevator had opened straight into a gorgeous modern foyer right off a huge sunken living room. The foyer alone was easily three times the size of my entire apartment. “Oh wow.”
Samuel swept his arm toward the open doors with a smile. “Welcome to the penthouse, miss. Enjoy your time here.”
Right. This was my stop.
Still gaping in awe, I hesitated before stepping out of the lift, then turned to wave at the elevator guy. “Thanks for the ride, Samuel. And the candy!”
He waved back. “Of course, Miss Darling.”
“Oh, please call me—”
The doors glided shut, and my reflection blinked back at me in the polished brass.
“Ellie,” I finished softly.
With a shrug, I tucked the strawberry treat into my duffle bag to save for later and peered around the space.
Nothing about Mr. Westbrook’s profile indicated he was filthy rich, but the penthouse screamed eligible bachelor with the net worth of a small country.
The high ceilings alone must make heating and cooling cost a fortune. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the far wall, framing the sunken living room and giving the most gorgeous view of downtown Westport. From this height, I could even make out the coast.
It smelled like the ocean, too—a subtle, salty breeze—but I chalked that up to air fresheners.
I swallowed and took another step inside the gorgeous penthouse. Warm lighting gave the space a soft, welcoming glow. The view from the balcony must be absolutely breathtaking at sunset. Even the air felt cleaner, like it’d been purified by the gods.
I did a little twirl on the shiny floor. Was this how royalty lived?
I was so busy soaking in the glamor that I completely missed the large man lounging on a black leather couch until he cleared his throat and made me jump out of my skin with a yelp.
Barely stopping myself from tripping midtwirl, I pressed a hand to my chest and willed my heart to calm down.
The man wore all black and blended right into the sofa, lurking silently like some sort of ninja assassin waiting for his prey.
Okay, let’s get that overactive imagination under control, Ellie.
He rose from the couch with the grace of a panther, crossing his arms and revealing a black gun resting on his belt.
I gulped before giving him my best smile.
“Hi. I’m Ellie Darling with Steve’s Cleaning Services.” I winked to show him I understood the little game he’d started. Our app didn’t make clients upload photos of themselves to their profiles—discretion, remember?—so step one was confirming his identity. “Mr. Westbrook?”
“No. Mac Lawson. Head of Mr. Westbrook’s security.” A deep crease formed in the man’s brow with a matching frown. “You’re the one who caused a scene and tried to attack my boss outside.”
Oh, great. That must make him the ruffian who’d manhandled me.
My laugh came out a tad strangled. “That was just a tiny misunderstanding. It was cleared up, and Preston let me up for my appointment.”
Mac looked me over, and if it was possible, his frown lines deepened. “You’re not wearing the proper attire. And where are your supplies?”
Well, he must be fun at parties.
“Don’t worry. Everything I need is in here.” I patted my duffle bag and tossed in another wink to lighten the mood.
It didn’t work. If anything, Mac just looked more disturbed as his nostrils flared.
Note to self: Stop winking at men who look like they could kill you with their pinky finger.
“Cade is sleeping in his room, so don’t wake him,” he warned, glancing down one of the hallways, which I assumed led to Mr. Westbrook’s bedroom.
I took the order in stride, since this wasn’t my first client who preferred to sleep during a cuddling session.
I looked around the huge open space, not spotting any doors. Just a few arched doorways that branched off the living room. “Is there somewhere I can change?”
He pointed toward the nearest archway. “Second door on the right. I’ll be in the office down this way if you need something.”
When he pointed in the opposite direction, I nodded. “Thanks, Mac.”
The door he’d directed me to turned out to be a guest room decorated in muted blues and greys. A queen bed in the center of the room was topped by a grey comforter without a single crease.
This place was the polar opposite of my tiny attic apartment. Everything was so perfectly put together, while I couldn’t recall the last time I’d even made my bed.
Not wanting to risk wrinkling the bedding, I set my duffle on the hardwood floor and pulled out my phone to refresh my memory on the client’s requests for the appointment.
Cade Westbrook’s profile on the Sunshine Cuddle Services app was nothing like his penthouse’s vibe. It listed Cade as shy, cuddly, and obsessed with all things unicorn. His preferred nickname was Cuddle Muffin, and he’d even personally requested I wear unicorn onesie pajamas during our appointment.
Considering my closet was filled with different animal options, I was more than happy to oblige.
Nothing about the penthouse’s interior design screamed shy unicorn-lover, but that wasn’t unusual for people of Mr. Westbrook’s standing. Several of my clients hid a secret love for whimsy under stereotypically masculine personas. Cuddle sessions were an escape for them. A safe haven.
After slipping out of my dress, I stepped into the fluffy unicorn onesie and zipped it all the way up. It was impossible not to give the rainbow tail a little test shake before lifting my hood and shuffling out of the room.
Peeking into each room in the hallway, it took me a couple minutes to find Mr. Westbrook’s bedroom. How many rooms could a penthouse even fit? I passed a state-of-the-art gym, a small art gallery, another room dedicated entirely to one of those fancy Endless Pools, and a bathroom.
But when I reached the primary bedroom, it didn’t disappoint. I carefully cracked the door open before slipping inside, grateful he’d left the blinds open so I could see.
The room used the same greyscale as the one I’d changed in, but it was six times the size. All the furniture in the bedroom matched—cool, neutral modern pieces—which I didn’t even know was possible. All my furniture had come from flea markets and street curbs.
An impossibly wide bed dominated his space, all sharp edges and crisp white linens.
Sprawled out on top of the covers, a toned arm slung over his eyes, was my client.
I swallowed before padding closer to the bed and peering down at the sleeping beauty.
His broad chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. He was totally out.
Mr. Westbrook’s head of thick dark hair looked like he’d run his fingers through it a dozen times before he’d crashed, and the sharp lines of his jaw hadn’t relaxed even in sleep.
The tiny dimple in his chin could run for president, but the hint of scruff, like he’d missed a shave, made my fingers itch to rub his jaw like I did Whiskey’s chin.
It really wasn’t fair that someone so absurdly rich could also be this handsome.
He didn’t look like a guy who’d have trouble finding a nap buddy on his own, but our service streamlined the process and provided the extra benefit of NDAs. With the tap of a button, he could order me for a few hours of cuddling. No questions asked.
I’d met all different kinds of men—and a few women—in my line of work. Some just wanted to talk. Others needed to feel appreciated. Naturally, most clients loved cuddling—in bed, on couches, sometimes in a hammock or on the floaties in their pool.
It really was the best job I could ask for. I brought smiles to people’s faces, provided companionship, and infused just a little more happiness into the world.
Remembering I was on the clock, I carefully climbed onto the giant bed and crawled closer to where my client lay.
The foam mattress dipped underneath my knees, and Mr. Westbrook stirred as I settled in next to him.
“Hey, cuddle muffin,” I whispered, sliding my hand onto his chest to calm him back down.
My fingers had barely touched the firm muscle there when his arm flung out faster than I could react—jabbing his elbow straight into my eyeball.
“Ow!” I jerked back, clapping a hand over my throbbing eye. “Oh my god, you blinded me!”
A grunt escaped him before a strong grip wrapped around my wrist and flipped my world upside down. I went airborne—heart lodging in my throat—and then he slammed me face-first into the mattress, knocking all the air out of my lungs.
My client made quick work of yanking both arms behind my back and squeezing my wrists together.
Eyes wide, I wheezed out a weak “Hey—”
His free hand pushed down on the back of my head, and I caught a mouthful of comforter.
“Who are you?” he demanded, and his deep voice promised violence if I didn’t give him the right answer.
Not that I could even speak with my face smooshed into the mattress.
My heart fought to explode out of my chest, and I wiggled against his iron hold with everything I had.
He didn’t budge.
What the heck was happening?
One moment I’d been gearing up for a comfy cuddle session, then the next he had pinned me facedown with both arms restrained behind my back and his hand mashing my face into the mattress.
I couldn’t breathe.
My client was going to smother me to death.
Struggling against the lack of oxygen, I had two realizations once it sank in that I was about to die.
One, this would be a mortifying cause of death for the true crime podcast that would inevitably cover my murder one day. And two, my landlord would probably end up with custody of my cat after my death.
And Whiskey couldn’t stand her chicken liver cat treats.