8. Cassidy
Damn it. When I came up with this idea to impersonate Olivia, I never thought it would be so difficult being subservient to a man like Ethan. What an arrogant prick. It’s like he assumes just because I’m a maid that I’m begging to lick his boots and then thank him for the fucking pleasure.
If he’s this rude to every cleaning lady that rocks up at his door, it’s no fucking wonder he has to make do with me. That’s why Olivia was so happy to swap with me. She’s probably got her feet propped up in front of some cozy fireplace somewhere, rubbing her hands and cackling with delight.
I slide a hand under the lapels of my coat, clutching my necklace. The dark stone flecked with green and red warms in my hand. Other than fond memories, this piece of jewelry is all I have left of my mother. It’s part of a set, but she took the earrings with her when she left.
“I meant what I said,” I whisper. “I’m going to find you. Even if it means cleaning this bastard’s entire mansion.”
I shake out my hands, stretch my neck.
Time to get into character.
I stare into the kitchen. Cleaning that massive room won’t get me any closer to what I need. There’s no computer or cellphone in there. How am I supposed to snoop through his things after he made it so clear he wasn’t to be disturbed?
What I need is an excuse to venture upstairs.
Not later.
Now.
My eyes sweep back to the pile of clothes in the corner, and my mouth quirks up.
“Bingo.”
Can’t have the man of the house wandering around in dirty clothes, can I? And unless he has two walk-in closets, I’m pretty sure most of his wardrobe is on the floor.
I drag out an armful of his clothes, fervently trying to ignore the smell of his cologne or body wash or whatever the hell is seeping out of them.
It’s fucking intoxicating.
As I’m sorting out a pile to go into the machine, I notice something strange.
No bras. No panties or thongs. Not a blouse or a skirt in sight.
Is Remington…a bachelor?
Hastily shoving that thought out of my mind, I toss the clothes into the industrial sized washing machine along with half a box of detergent. There’s no time to figure out all the dials and whatnots on this machine, so I just press ‘start’ and hope that’ll get me a load of clean laundry at the end of the hour and a half timer.
There’s a whoosh of water being let into the machine, and I watch the clothes tumbling around inside with a smile on my face.
“You’re my ticket upstairs, baby,” I whisper, tapping a nail against the machine’s window.
On my way out of the laundry room, I accidentally step on a pair of pants that look fancy enough to be part of a three-piece suit. I pick them up, glaring at the belt he didn’t even bother taking out before tossing them down the chute.
I scoff at the label.
LOUIS VUITTON
I’m so fucking tempted to add them to the next load of laundry. But Remington would probably have a heart attack if he found out I didn’t get these dry cleaned.
Absently taking off the belt, I lift the house phone’s receiver and jam it between my ear and my shoulder as I stare at the speed dial buttons. He didn’t say which number he’d programmed the dry cleaner into, so I begin at one.
I put the phone down when someone answers with a bright, “Butter Believe It, this is Kerry.” Why the hell Ethan has what I assume is a bakery programmed into his phone is a mystery for another day.
The second saved number is for his cable company. I sigh as I hang up and immediately hit the third button.
“Shimmer and Shine, radiant results every time. How may I direct your call?”
I immediately hang up.
Shit!
I tap my fingers on the phone’s receiver. At least I might have a way to contact Olivia if I need to. In case of emergency, kind of thing. I phone the next number and roll my eyes in relief when a dry cleaning company answers. They have Remington’s details on file, and tell me someone will be there in the afternoon to collect the clothes.
Now all I can do is wait for the laundry to finish up and hope that, when I venture upstairs later this morning, Remington doesn’t have a hissy fit because I’m disturbing him.
If that’s the case…well, I’ll have to cross that bridge when I get there.
Hopefully it won’t be on fire by then.
I pop in my earbuds, choose one of my favorite playlists, and get to work on the kitchen. It’s large, but thankfully more dusty than dirty. Looks like no one’s used the stove since the last time it was cleaned.
I’m not sure if he’s expecting me to take down all the copper pans hanging from their hooks above the kitchen island, but I’m just going to pretend I’m here for a surface clean. When I’m almost done with the massive room—and my playlist—the laundry machine beeps at me. I transfer the clothes into the dryer and start on the entrance hall.
I’m jamming to one of my happiest tunes when I hear something that might have been a beep. I hurry back into the kitchen, then the laundry, letting out a soft whoop of delight when I see the cycle’s done. I fluff and fold the first load of laundry, trying to wring out the nervous trembling in my hands as I get ready to head upstairs.
I can do this.
Yes, Ethan is intimidating as fuck.
He looks like he could snap my neck with one hand. And at one stage he was staring at my neck so hard, it was almost as if he wanted to choke me.
But he’s a gentleman. Right?
Gentlemen don’t go around murdering their maids…right?
I slip my earbuds back into their charging case inside my purse, and hide my purse inside the supply closet. Not that there’s anything incriminating in there, but still.
Better safe than sorry.
I put Remington’s clean, folded clothes into a basket, and climb hesitantly up the left-hand staircase that sweeps up to the first floor.
My eyes don’t know what to look at first—the intricate scrollwork on the wrought-iron railings, or the large oil paintings with their dark, moody palettes hung on the walls.
I don’t even know where Remington disappeared to, or where his bedroom is. But since he asked me not to disturb him, I guess I’ll have to find it myself.
Please let there be something useful in there. A laptop, a charging phone.
A manilla folder stuffed with documents detailing the specifics of his clandestine meeting with my mother would be fantastic.
As I arrive at the landing, I realize how enormous this mansion actually is.
It has at least three levels, not considering an attic or a basement. The hallway stretches left and right, Persian rugs covering most of the hardwood floor. Intricate moldings on the ceiling easily rival some of the artwork cladding the walls.
Assuming the master bedroom is the last door in one wing, I head for the east corridor first, peeking inside every room with an unlocked door I pass. I don’t even want to think about how long it’ll take me to dust all these antique vases and sculptures, or to polish every mahogany side table.
I’m right beside a partly open door leading into what looks like a guest bedroom when the exact door I was heading for opens.
My heart gives a hard thud in my chest, propelling me into the guest room with a stifled squeak of surprise. I press my back against the wall, gulping down a silent breath to fill my tight chest.
The thick carpeting in the hallway gives me no clue where Remington could be, but I remembered his long, sure strides—he should have passed me already. I’m about to peek out of the room, laundry hamper clutched to my chest, when he crosses the doorway outside.
Of course I drop the hamper.
Of course he hears the noise and turns to find me on hands and knees, hurriedly scooping his clean clothes off the jewel-colored rug and tossing them into the hamper.
“Olivia?”
God, I hate his voice. Gravelly, slightly hoarse. It sounds like he’s exorcizing a demon every time he calls me.
“Mr. Remington, uh, Sir. I, uh, I was—” I swallow down whatever nonsense I was trying to concoct and blurt out, “I was looking for your bedroom.” Then, because he’s just standing there with his phone in one hand, a deep frown between his brows, I add, “You said not to disturb you.”
“And yet here you are.” From the sounds of it, he’s never been more disturbed in his fucking life.
There’s a twist to his mouth like he’s eaten something sour, and the derogatory scan he gives me suggests that he’s seen more appetizing things smeared on the tarmac several sweltering days after their encounter with a speeding car.
“My apologies.” And then, because he’s such a smarmy fuck, I add in an icy, “Sir.”
His lips part, cement-gray eyes narrowing. “Why were you looking for my room?”
“To put these away.” I stand, lifting the hamper in case he doesn’t know what clean clothes look like anymore.
He barely glances at it. “Is this your first time working under someone?”
I don’t know why the hell my cheeks catch fire. Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he means something else entirely. “Look, if you can just tell me where your bedroom is, I can?—”
When he stalks up to me, I hurriedly bite off the rest of the sentence. It’s that or yelp like a terrified puppy again.
He plucks out a pink button-down shirt, then a pair of black socks, then a blood-red tie. Slowly, alarm spreads across his face. “Did you wash these?”
“Yes, Sir.” My voice jumps up a few octaves. “You can tell by how clean they are.”
“Together?” His growl makes my hackles rise.
I barely stop myself from retreating.
Shit. I hadn’t even thought about separating colors or anything like that. My clothes are all so worn out, it doesn’t matter anymore. Come to think about it, I don’t remember seeing any pink shirts going into the washer.
He smells the shirt. “No dryer sheets?” When he puts his phone in his pants pockets so he can lift the shirt in both hands, that’s when I know I’m in deep shit. “Do you assume I have an iron in my bedroom? Or were you planning to hang these up as is?”
“It was a lot less creased before it landed on the floor,” I mutter.
He tosses the shirt back in the hamper. “Why the hell are you doing laundry, anyway? The dry cleaners could have taken care of these.” His voice drops even lower. “I told you to clean the kitchen.”
“What did you think I was doing while the laundry was being washed?” I lift my chin and give him an indignant sniff. “Filing my nails? Plus, it’s a waste of money sending stuff like this to the cleaners.”
There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “You cleaned the entire kitchen already?”
“Yes, Sir. The whole entire kitchen. And half of your enormous entrance hall.” I shift my grip on the hamper. “Came upstairs to put these away before they got even more creased.” I drop my eyes, glancing at the shirt he picked up. “I’ll iron those this afternoon when all the housework is done, but I need clothes hangers in the meantime.”
The more I speak, the calmer he looks. He steps back and sweeps out an arm. “Down the hall. Last door.”
I keep my chin up as I slip past him and make my way to the end of the hall. I can feel his eyes moving over me as I walk, piercing through my coat like I might as well be wearing nothing at all. It’s only when I stop to juggle the hamper so I can open one of the double doors that I realize why the feeling was so intense.
“Allow me.”
His muscular arm reaches past me to turn the knob, and I nearly jump out of my skin. This man moves like a tiger. Silent, despite his size, and just as damn deadly.
“Thanks,” I mutter, hurriedly pushing into the room so I don’t have to breathe in his smell. It was even stronger this time, and there was an underlying scent I wasn’t prepared for—Ethan’s masculinity. It made me want to press back into him and tip my head back for?—
Dear God, for what, Cassidy? A kiss?
The first thing to catch my eye is the imposing four-poster bed with its towering wooden frame. I cross a thick, blue-and-cream striped rug as I make a beeline for the walk-in closet on the other side of the room.
A fireplace crackles nearby, casting a warm orange hue on the two wingback chairs positioned in front of it. There’s a dark desk with a green leather insert in front of the windows.
I glimpse a majestic view of the manor’s gardens through the partially drawn silk curtains.
The bedroom door closes behind me. I skid to a halt and whip my head around to look.
“Don’t want to let the heat out,” Ethan grates.
That should reassure me…but all I keep thinking is that as large as this room might be, it suddenly feels like a prison.