Chapter 6
I DISLIKE HOW LIKABLE SHE IS
Rhys
Margot fucking Merriweather-Brown.
The woman who behaved like a low-key assistant in a fancy dress on my last assignment for Technique Group is Margot fucking Merriweather-Brown.
Billionaire heiress to the Aurora Gardens hotel chain conglomerate.
Rumored to eat sharks in her sleep.
And my buddy’s secret half sister, who brought me a jar of honey and a box of lemon scones from Bee & Nugget on Monday.
To thank you for dinner and fixing my car, she said.
The woman who’s kept the bathroom we’re sharing meticulously clean and free of the face creams and hair products I’d expect to have scattered all over the limited counter space, and who stood at the kitchen window staring in awe at a small herd of elk who passed through the yard shortly before we both left the cabin for work yesterday.
She’s good at pretending she’s not Margot Merriweather-Brown.
I’ll give her that.
It’s been five days since she caught me off guard and left me marked with the results of her makeshift intruder deterrent system, and we’ve spent the past three days getting up to speed in our respective jobs at Spruce Creek, the retreat center in a valley beneath what used to be private ski runs for some billionaire who bought himself a mountain, and one day since I became absolutely certain she really is Margot Merriweather-Brown operating with a fake identity at work.
If it weren’t for the hundreds of pictures I’ve stared at of her since I started digging up photos from that association dinner where she caught my eye, and then finally spotting the security agent that I knew she had to have somewhere around here, I’d still think it was a coincidence that Margie Johnson, the triplets’ unexpected half sister, looked just like a billionaire heiress and businesswoman that I crossed paths with once at a gala where I wasn’t supposed to be working.
Where I had no idea who she was, just that she seemed kind in a place where I didn’t expect kindness, in a time when kindness would rapidly become in short supply in my life.
But now—now, after my research and spotting the agent and finding her real driver’s license in a box under her bed, I have no doubt.
The only question is, why?
And that question of why is the full reason that I haven’t yet told Decker what I know about his half sister.
I told him I’d find out if he can trust his newly discovered half sister.
The quick and easy answer is of fucking course he can’t because she’s lying about who she is.
Except I’ve been around and worked for enough celebrities and CEOs in my lifetime—first watching my mom do her thing when she and my grandpa founded Technique Group, then joining the firm myself after the military—to know that the quick and easy answer isn’t always the right one.
I need to learn more about this woman.
Who she really is.
What she wants.
And to do that, I’ve taken to spying on her. Including now, mid-afternoon Wednesday, as she delivers fresh towels to a guest in one of the chalets.
“Are you sure this was washed with non-GMO chemical-free organic detergent?” the older man asks her as she stands on the chalet porch in her black uniform pants and shirt, offering him the stack of towels.
“Yes, sir,” she says smoothly. “I checked the detergent myself this morning because I knew it mattered to you. Would you like to see a picture?”
“Yes.”
She slips her phone out of her pocket and holds it out for him to see.
He leans in close—too close, in my professional opinion—and pretends to squint at the screen.
Fucker’s really squinting at her chest. I’d bet my entire month’s salary on it.
“Are you sure this is from the laundry room here?” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t take this picture somewhere else?”
“Sir, I’ve been at work since seven this morning, and I don’t have industrial washing machines at my house. See the timestamp? Just after eight.”
He straightens, still staring at her chest.
I feel a growl start low in my own chest.
It’s far more protective than it should be, and I don’t want to contemplate why.
She’s lying.
She’s lying about who she is, but because I’ve seen her show basic human decency to multiple people, she’s getting under my skin in the worst way.
The way that makes me vulnerable and stupid.
“Fine. Come in and put them in the bathroom,” the guest says.
“I’m not allowed to enter occupied rooms, sir.”
“I just told you to come in and put them in the bathroom.”
“Thank you for your generous invitation, sir, but rules are rules, and I can’t afford to get fired.”
He reaches out and grabs her elbow. “I’ll tell them not to fire you.”
Fuck.
Much as I want to watch her lay him out flat—and given what she did to me Friday night, I have zero doubt she could—I have a job to do as well.
So I stroll around the corner and clear my throat loudly. “Johnson, stop fraternizing with the guests. Sir, is this woman bothering you?”
I look pointedly at his hand, then back up to his face.
He’s a couple decades older than me, more gray than black in his beard, carrying himself with the arrogance that comes with a lifetime of not having his place in the world ever questioned, and he’s in a white retreat center robe and possibly nothing else.
It’s high-end here. They have a spa and a wine tasting room featuring wines from all over the state, both at the top of the mountain, accessible by either trails or a gondola.
“She won’t bring my towels into my room like I told her to,” he says to me.
“Because she’ll be fired.” I climb the two steps and take the towels from her, getting a whiff of lavender and lemon and sunshine as I do. “Where do you want them?” I ask him.
“He requested the bathroom, sir,” Margot—Margie—says to me.
I look at the guest. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“I—she—fine. I’ll do the damn work myself.” He grabs the towels and slams the door in my face.
Margot’s face twitches in annoyance.
It’s not a large sign that she’s not who she’s claiming to be, but it’s one of the very, very few times I’ve seen her irritated to any degree since she got here.
Why the actual fuck is she pretending to be a housekeeper?
What’s she up to?
Are the triplets a convenient cover story for her to scope out retreat center competition to her hotel chains?
Is she really related to them?
“Thank you,” she says to me.
“You didn’t have your skillet. Someone had to do something.”
She purses her lips together, but a small laugh still slips out. “That wouldn’t end well for my job either.”
I slide another look at her.
She doesn’t need this job.
But I’ll give her credit. These past three days since we both started, she’s efficiently cleaned every room or chalet she’s worked on spotlessly, without complaint, though I did hear that she’s taking too long sometimes and had an incident with a spray bottle.
At home, I haven’t seen her much in the cabin. She’s frequently out later than I am after work, and when she’s there, she keeps to herself aside from the occasional meal we share, where I’ve been pushing limits to see if she’ll crack with her cover story.
But while she’s been there, I’ve heard her moving around in the bedroom, and she’s not making the noises I’d expect of a pampered heiress who doesn’t generally do manual labor every day like she’s doing now.
It’s like she has the same boundless energy as the triplets.
Figures.
If I had to play housekeeper with all of the running around and bending and straightening and dusting and bed-making and towel-delivering, I’d be moaning and groaning and living in Epsom salt baths every night, and I say that as someone who keeps himself in good shape.
She moves back to the housekeeping cart on the sidewalk. “How has your first week been?”
I fall into step with her as she makes her way up the sidewalk.
My job is to patrol the grounds and be available via radio if anyone needs anything.
It’s cushy compared to my last security gig but more active than the occasional tasks I’ve been doing for another former military buddy who went into private detective work when he got out.
That’s been mostly computer-based research or sitting in a car conducting surveillance.
Boring as shit.
“Quiet,” I tell her. “It’s been quiet.”
“One of the triplets said you used to do private security? Like that’s different from what you do here?”
Fuck.
She probably knows why I left Technique Group.
She probably knows more about me than I know about myself by now, actually. Or else she needs a new security team.
I’d hope they know everything they can about me since I’m living with her.
“It’s different,” I confirm while she pushes the cart. I can see her notes and know she’s headed to nearly the end of this row, to a cabin on the left instead of on the right.
She slides another look at me.
I don’t explain different.
“I heard the boss say there’s a big event next week,” she says.
“Yep.”
“Wonder who’s coming.”
“People.”
She glances at me, doing that half-squint thing that gave her away the other day. “Are you still mad about Friday night?”
“No.”
“Did I do something else to offend you?”
“No.”
“You’re simply always this aloof?”
“Yes.”
I could tell her at any time that I know who she is and demand to know what the fuck she wants with the Sullivan triplets, but I haven’t had a good puzzle in too long.
I want to see if I can figure it out on my own before I confront her.
And then there are the other things that keep rolling through my mind.
Like that she’s normally in a position of power.
She can make things happen.
Very specific things.
Like saying the right thing to the right people to ensure that no one in her circles ever hires anyone related to Technique Group ever again.
Essentially blacklist them among her colleagues and friends the way that Xavier had me blacklisted in the industry.
Not that I’ve decided I want to be that kind of asshole.
Yet.
The idea of destroying what my mom built with my grandpa—that hurts.
But it won’t ever be mine again.