EIGHT
Charlotte
The first week, it was incredibly weird to clean the house of a guy who’d had his dick in my mouth, but... hey. At least Noah was paying me.
Which was more than Zach had ever done.
I sighed as I mopped the kitchen tile and tried not to think about my ex—but I failed.
Fucking Zach.
Shortly after I’d moved back home, I’d noticed my iPad was missing. The last place I remembered having it was in his living room. I usually left it on his coffee table, stored in a decorative tray I’d bought because his place had the barest minimum of anything. Hardly any silverware or furniture or décor—unless you counted Davidson University posters taped to the walls.
Me : Is my iPad still on your coffee table?
Zach left my text message on read all day, which was infuriating. How hard was it to text me back a simple yes or no?
The second time I went to clean Noah’s house, it had been a lot easier. Sure, the place was messier, but he wasn’t there. I didn’t have that whining voice in the back of my head urging me constantly to go flirt with him. I could clean in peace.
That was the thing that was the most surprising about my new job, that cleaning somebody else’s place was sort of peaceful. I didn’t hate my biweekly trips to Warbler either. I liked seeing how fast I could get a task done.
Plus, it was turning out to be a freaking gold mine for content.
I couldn’t tell how many people cooked their lunches in the oven at Warbler, but it was obvious it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time. So I spent Thursday afternoon watching different YouTube videos to plan my attack, and Friday night I shot a time lapse of me scrubbing it clean with my favorite Scrub Mommy sponge. I’d used a plastic putty knife on the years’ worth of grease baked on to the window glass, scraping the gunk off in several satisfying passes.
On Saturday, I recorded the voiceover where I explained my technique, and then layered it over the time lapse video. On Sunday morning, I posted it to my newly created profile, Hot Girl Cleans.
The profile name wasn’t self-appointed. It had come from a comment on one of the cleaning videos I’d posted to my regular profile. I’d watch this hot girl clean all day, the guy had said.
I genuinely hadn’t meant to make a thirst trap.
But that post got more engagement than I’d ever gotten before, and so I decided to lean into it. And with the creation of a new profile, I needed more videos to start training the algorithm.
I did a deep clean of Noah’s dishwasher next, and when I had the post prepared, I texted a link to him for approval.
Me: Is it cool if I post this?
I waited with strange flutters in my stomach. I wasn’t typically nervous posting stuff, plus I was confident the video was good. The lighting and sound were spot-on, and I’d edited the clips to move at a great pace. Just long enough to get the information out with no extra fat. I wasn’t worried Noah would object to the post either. You could only see his kitchen sink and the dishwasher nearby, and everything looked like your basic kitchen. It was so generic, there was no way anyone could figure out where it had been shot.
These anxious flutters while I waited for his response were because I wanted him to like the video. To like my work, to like me. Why did it feel like his approval mattered more than any other viewer?
Noah: Fun fact. I didn’t know dishwashers had filters.
I snorted.
Me: Didn’t look like the previous owner knew either.
The little screened cup at the bottom of his dishwasher had been clogged with hard water buildup, food, and a papery sludge like someone had washed jars without removing the labels. I’d had to soak the filter in vinegar and then scrub it with an old toothbrush to get the crust off.
Noah: That shit looked nasty. Sorry.
Me: It was good for the vid. I don’t want to be cleaning things that look clean.
Noah: Makes sense. It’s fine with me to post.
There was a tightness inside me that didn’t go away with his approval. A twinge of disappointment lingered as I reread his text.
It’s fine.
That was all the feedback he’d given me. Not great , or amazing , or you looked hot.
I pushed my phone into my pocket and grew annoyed at myself. What had I expected? The guy didn’t even like cleaning. He wasn’t going to be interested in what I’d—
My phone vibrated with a new text message.
Noah: Video was great BTW. So professional.
A smile burst through my lips.
Me: Thanks.
The twinge evaporated in an instant, and I felt lighter the rest of the day.
When I wasn’t cleaning the Warbler office or Noah’s place, I also used places around my parents’ house for content. I needed to build a library of videos as quickly as possible, so people had other things to watch after finishing the post they’d found me through.
By the fourth week of working for him, we’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm. I texted him when I arrived and keyed myself in through the garage, cleaned, and then texted to let him know when I’d finished. He always Venmo-ed me the money right after.
The arrangement was perfect. I was working on my own, slowly chipping away at my debt with my parents, and had my car back. Plus, my Hot Girl Cleans channel was taking off. My previous profile had been lifestyle, but it’d been too broad, too unfocused. This new brand wasn’t just easier to create for—it was fun too. I didn’t have to struggle to find followers either.
“Everything always works out for you,” my friend Sasha had teased me last night when we’d hung out at her apartment. But her tone had been slightly off, and there’d been a hint of irritation, like maybe she wasn’t joking.
“It doesn’t feel that way,” I said.
She laughed and shook her head, not believing me. “Okay.”
I didn’t say anything else or bother trying to defend myself. From her perspective, it probably looked that way, and she’d seen my parents bail me out enough times to think they’d cave eventually. My dad would say all was forgiven and forget about the rest of the money I owed.
But it was different this time; I could sense it. Things were on track right now, but if I made another mistake? There would be no more second chances.
Sasha topped off her glass with a blush wine that was so sweet it made my teeth hurt and offered the bottle to me, but I shook my head. She folded a leg under herself as she turned to face me on her couch. “So, this guy’s house you’re cleaning... does he, like, watch you do it?”
I laughed. “No. He’s not even there. Which is was what I’d asked for, but now I sort of regret it.”
“Why?” She took a sip of her wine, and her eyes lit up with mischief. “Because you want him to watch you?”
“You know I’m not topless when I clean, right? It’s not sexy. I mean, unless he’s into seeing me in rubber gloves.”
This time I could tell her tone was teasing. “Really? I thought you wore the French maid outfit with thigh-highs and used a little feather duster.” Her expression shifted as a thought formed. “You could charge him more if you did.”
“Maybe I could.” I mimicked her joking voice. “You want to explain to my dad how I’m earning the extra cash?”
She looked at me like I was being an idiot. “You don’t have to tell him, you know.”
Keeping anything a secret from my parents right now was too risky, plus... “I’m his boss’s daughter. Noah would never go for it.”
Also, he’d already seen me naked. Why would he want to pay to see me scantily clad?
Sasha’s head tilted with agreement. “Right.” She took another sip of her Kool-Aid flavored wine. “So, what’s his deal? He’s not there, so I’m sure you’ve done some ‘investigating.’”
I mashed my lips, trying to squeeze away my guilt because I hadn’t been perfect. “I try not to snoop.”
Whatever expression I’d been making, it gave everything away. “Oh, bullshit,” she said. “Tell me.”
Would doing that be a second invasion of privacy? Noah had left one of the bedside table drawers open half an inch. Not enough for me to see inside, but it’d felt like an invitation for me to take a peek.
I’d tugged it open six more inches and found what I’d expected—a box of condoms, a bottle of lube. But there were other sexy things too, like a Fleshlight, a tiny vibrator... Silicone bands that were most likely cock rings. Plus, handcuffs and a blindfold.
Fuck me, I’d whispered to myself. Noah was hot enough already. He had to be kinky too? It was so unfair.
And judging by the contents of that drawer, he’d already found a partner.
I’d had no choice but to ball up my disappointment, put it in that drawer, and slam it shut with a definitive thud.
“Okay, I might have peeked a little bit,” I admitted, “but I didn’t find anything surprising.”
At least this time I was more convincing because Sasha frowned. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
God, she had no idea.
I was in Noah’s living room, in the middle of vacuuming the new rug he’d bought, when his doorbell rang. I slowed, unsure of what to do. Could I pretend I hadn’t heard it over the sound of the vacuum? It wasn’t my house, and I felt strange answering the door.
Since I had my back to the entryway, I couldn’t see who it was. It was a Tuesday, and in the middle of the afternoon, so it was probably some door-to-door salesperson.
I decided to keep trucking along. I needed to, because I had my camera going. I was filming coverage for either filler content, or something I could use behind a voiceover down the road.
The person at the front door was impatient though.
I waited less than thirty seconds before the doorbell chimed again, and it somehow sounded more urgent this time. They must have been able to see me through the window because when I didn’t react, there was the sharp sound of knuckles rapping against the glass.
Shit. What if it was an emergency?
I snapped the vacuum into its upright position, flipped it off, and turned to face the entryway.
The shadowy figure I could see through the side window was slender, and as I marched closer, the woman became clearer. She was older, pretty.
Oh, shit. Was this Noah’s mother?
I swallowed thickly and straightened my posture. I’d always felt so awkward meeting the parents of the guy I was with.
Girl, please. You’re not with him, remember?