Chapter 8 - Pippa
The following Friday, I slide into the backseat of Dmitri's car, closing the door with a soft thud. "No classes today," I announce, handing him a small slip of paper with Mrs. Thompson's address scrawled on it. He glances at the address before typing it into his GPS, and I can't help but notice how his strong fingers fly across the screen.
"Mrs. Thompson's house?" he asks, raising an eyebrow in my direction.
"Yep, I clean her house every Friday," I reply, pulling out the new phone Lev got me to check for any last-minute schedule changes. I've been doing this for over a year now, ever since I won the scholarship for college, and I pride myself on being punctual and thorough. My clients appreciate that, even if they don't always show it. “Missed it past two Fridays because of your boss, but I think she’d want me there today.”
"Alright then, let's go," he says as he pulls the car away from Lev’s driveway.
A short drive later, we arrive in front of Mrs. Thompson's quaint little brick house. The neighborhood is filled with similarly charming homes, each boasting well-manicured lawns and flowerbeds bursting with color. As I step out of the car, I'm hit with the sweet aroma of blooming roses and freshly cut grass.
"Have fun cleaning," Dmitri says with a smirk as he watches me get out of the car. I roll my eyes at him but can't suppress a small smile.
"Thanks, I'll try," I shoot back sarcastically before walking over to the house and ringing Mrs. Thompson's doorbell.
When the door swings open, I'm greeted not by the familiar face of Mrs. Thompson or any of her family but by a young woman I've never seen before. She's wearing a cleaning uniform similar to mine, with a puzzled expression etched on her face.
"Um, hi," I say hesitantly. "I'm Pippa. I usually clean Mrs. Thompson's house on Fridays."
The girl looks at me with furrowed brows, clearly confused. "Oh. I was told you wouldn't be able to make it anymore for your appointments, so they sent me instead."
"Who told you that?" I demand, my confusion rapidly turning to irritation. My mind races, trying to figure out who could have called and canceled on my behalf without telling me.
"Uh, I'm not sure," she stammers, nervously twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Some guy from the cleaning service called and said you were unavailable and hired me as a replacement for Mrs. Thompson."
"Unavailable, huh?" I mutter under my breath, clenching my fists in frustration at this mix-up. For now, I plaster on a fake smile for the girl in front of me.
"Thanks for letting me know," I say through gritted teeth. "I guess I'll just have to sort it out later."
As I turn away from Mrs. Thompson's house, my mind reels with questions, anger bubbling just below the surface. Who at the cleaning company could mess my schedule up?
I storm back to Dmitri's car, my anger simmering just below the surface. As I slide into the backseat, he raises an eyebrow at me through the rearview mirror.
"Everything okay?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Fine," I snap, trying not to let my irritation show. "I just need to make a phone call.”
I wait in the car outside Mrs. Thompson's house, grab my phone and dial Mr. Jefferson, my next client for the day. He picks up after two rings.
"Hi, Mr. Jefferson. It's Pippa Anderson. I just wanted to let you know that I'm on my way to your house now."
"Ah, Pippa," he replies hesitantly. "Actually, someone else is already cleaning my house. A man called earlier saying you couldn't make it last week and offered to send another cleaner. I assumed it was a permanent change."
"Excuse me?" I say, my anger rising. "Mr. Jefferson, I've never missed a single day of cleaning for you before last week. Why would you believe some random guy without waiting to speak to me first?"
"I'm sorry, Pippa," he apologizes. "He sounded quite convincing, and I didn't want to be left without a cleaner. I hope you understand."
"Understand?" I grit my teeth, trying to keep my voice steady. "Of course, I understand. But I'll make sure this doesn't happen again."
"Alright, Pippa. Take care."
"Goodbye, Mr. Jefferson," I say, hanging up the call and resisting the urge to throw my phone across the car.
It can't be a coincidence. One cancellation might have been a mix-up, but two? My mind races as I dial my remaining clients, only to discover the same pattern: a man has been calling on my behalf, claiming I'm unavailable and offering alternate cleaners.
"Who does he think he is?" I mutter under my breath. My knuckles turn white as I grip my phone, barely containing my rage.
"Problem?" Dmitri asks from the front seat, his voice oozing with feigned innocence.
"Nothing that concerns you," I snap, glaring daggers at him through the rearview mirror. "Just drive back to Lev’s."
"Whatever you say, Boss," he smirks, turning his attention back to the road.
But in my heart, I know there's only one person brazen enough to mess with my livelihood like this: Lev. And when I get home, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind.
***
The moment I step inside the house, my anger boils over. Lev sits on the couch, sipping scotch from a glass, his eyes at the door. It's as if he's been waiting for this confrontation.
"Lev," I seethe, stomping toward him. "What did you do to my cleaning jobs?"
"Ah, Pippa," he drawls, not even trying to hide his amusement. "Good afternoon to you, too."
"Good afternoon? You've been sabotaging me!" I throw my hands up in the air, my fury barely contained.
"Think of it as a… favor," he says, swirling the liquid in his glass. "You don't need to work those menial jobs anymore."
"Who gave you the right to decide that for me?" I snap, clenching my fists at my sides. "I've worked hard to build my reputation and you just swoop in and ruin everything!"
"Relax, will you?" He stands up and saunters closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. His touch feels like fire on my skin, sending shivers down my spine despite my rage.
"Relax?" My voice cracks as I shrug off his hand. "How can I relax, Lev? This is ruining my financial goals. If I don’t work these jobs, then I can’t pay my expenses and rent. Don’t you get it?"
“And if you work these jobs, you might use it as a chance to escape,” he says, his anger flaring up.
I stand there, stunned.
“Escape?” I say coldly. “I could lose my livelihood, and all you’re worried about is yourself? I won’t run, Lev. I swear. I just need the work.”
“Look, you’ll still get paid, alright?” he tilts his head at me. “Just tell me what you make each month and I’ll give you the cash.” He pulls out his thick, cash-laden wallet and opens it, looking at me expectantly.
I glare at the wallet and then back at him. Is he being serious right now?
"I don't want your money," I assert, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Come on, Pippa," he coaxes, holding out several bills. "Take it. Consider it compensation for not making my life more difficult. I’d just prefer it if you didn’t work those jobs, and it’s fair if I compensate you for it."
My fingers tighten into fists at my sides, the anger so strong, that I could punch him. "You know, Lev, most people work hard for their money." I can't help but let the bitterness creep into my voice. "They don't just have it handed to them."
"Is that what you think I do? Just get money handed to me?" He crosses his arms defensively, and despite the anger boiling within me, I notice how the motion makes his biceps flex.
"Isn't it?" I shoot back, refusing to be distracted by his infuriatingly attractive physique. "I don't see you cleaning houses or juggling college classes."
"Listen," he snaps, his stormy grey-blue eyes flashing with irritation. "I'm not trying to take away your precious independence or whatever. I just thought I'd make both our lives easier. It's not like you ever ask for it."
"Maybe because I don't need it!" I practically shout, my face hot with fury. "I've been managing just fine on my own, thank you very much, and I don’t intend to start taking your pitiful handouts.”
"Fine!" Lev throws his hands up in exasperation. "Don't take the money, then. But you are not going back to cleaning other people’s houses!”
"You’re a jerk," I reply icily, my heart pounding in my chest.
"And you’re a stubborn woman," he mutters under his breath, but I catch it all the same.
"Better stubborn than a control freak," I retort, my nostrils flaring as I march toward the door. This conversation is going nowhere, and I refuse to stand here and argue with him any longer. With that, I slam the door behind me, leaving him standing in the hallway—no doubt fuming with frustration. But I don't care. I refuse to let anyone, especially Lev Zolotov, dictate the terms of my life.