Chapter 1
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Policies are stupid, and so are grumpy…billionaire…bosses.
Mirabelle
“Mr. Anders,” I say, greeting the ginormous, tattooed grump above all grumps that I’ve cleaned for each week in summer the past four years.
I would say he’s my least favorite client, since he’s one of the few long-term vacationers who is normally in the building when I’m cleaning it, but given that one of the other long-term vacationer’s kids has a habit of flipping up my skirt, I am going to refrain.
Mr. Anders is…fine. If you like being glared at. And aren’t really worried about assault.
As stated, he is massive, undeniably in love with the home gym equipment I wipe down every time I’m here, and most likely a huge advocate of downing two dozen eggs each morning.
He’s tall, dark, and handsome—if you’re either into rippling muscles and men in their mid-thirties, or being murdered and buried in the mountains.
Plainly put, Mr. Anders is scary. I don’t know how to read the stoic expressions that cross his face, and I pray every time I come here that I leave in one piece.
He returns my greeting with a coarse, “Peters,” and steps back from the large wood double doors to let me in to his lavish summer home.
Two whole stories of sprawling, opulent abundance rest before me, ready to clean.
And I’m totally going to clean it all. Again. For the…fifteenth time this year.
That is to say, it is no longer summer. It is September.
September, yet he’s still here, darkening the doorway.
Fixing my brightest smile on my face, I turn and lace my fingers together behind my back, right beneath the bow of my apron. “Mr. Anders, sir?”
He closes the door and glances at me, solemn, dark gray eyes simmering with their perma-glare. “Yes?”
I am not certain on the polite way to ask this question, so I do not attempt to make it polite. I simply keep my sweet little smile in place and hope my usual tactics work on big scary men about as well as they work on most everyone else. “When are you leaving?”
He blinks, echoing, “Leaving?”
I nod, sweetly and cutely, which are two things I am known for being. “You normally stay from June to August.” I pause, so he can enlighten me; he doesn’t, so I enlighten him. “It’s September.”
His hand lifts, covering his mouth as his eyes get all distant and ponder-y.
I think, anyway. He really isn’t a shows emotion kind of guy.
“Ah,” he says, most intelligently. His hand drops, and he turns for his office, an offshoot of the foyer.
“I bought the house this year.” He walks as my heart drops.
“I like it here.” His heavy footsteps carry him to the archway while I begin the arduous task of processing the fact I will be here with him every. single. week.
Indefinitely.
It’s a miracle I’m not hyperventilating when he stops short before the three steps that would carry him down into the belly of a room with a corner desk that takes up roughly a quarter of the space—and needs endless amounts of dusting—several leather chairs positioned around a coffee table, and, of course, the coffee table itself.
He cocks his head over his shoulder, back at me. “Speaking of, does your agency provide more permanent solutions?”
“Pardon?” I squeak.
“I’d like someone to live in the adjacent building and handle daily tasks. Laundry. Cooking. Upkeep. Does your agency do that sort of thing?”
My heart lightens, flutters. Because that is not my department.
Clapping my hands together, I beam, “Of course! Would you like me to message Mr. Lundberg for you today and get something coordinated? Also, congratulations on your new home. It’s…” Excessive. Probably a hundred thousand dollars in taxes alone each year. “…big!”
Air leaves his nostrils, and he turns his attention past me, toward the wooden staircase that leads to the second floor. “It’s actually pretty small, compared to what I’m used to.”
I’d beggeth thy pardon, if I cared.
But I don’t.
Amarella is a rich tourist area.
Of course the largest building in this neighborhood, settled an inhospitable distance away from anyone else yet a comfortable distance away from downtown, is small to whoever can actually afford to be here, paying daily, for three months every year.
“Wow,” I chirp, “your usual home must be massive.”
“Yeah, it is. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”
I swallow, keeping my expression totally chipper. Because, I am so sorry. He’ll…what? Show me where he normally lives sometime? No, no, no. No, thank you. I’m very happy right here, outside of the body bags I really hope he hasn’t moved in yet.
After all, I’m almost one hundred percent certain he has accrued his wealth via the selling of organs. He just gives off that vibe, you know? The “I’m the boss of a mafia” vibe.
Proving my point, he rolls up his sleeves to reveal more ink than skin as he leans back against the doorjamb to his office. “I should like to clarify. Peters.”
My heart thuds, so I twist my fingers. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m offering you a job. Can you cook?”
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
My smile stiffens, because the honest truth is yes.
I can cook. Very well. I can cook a wide variety of things.
I am known for cooking. And baking, even.
Most of the time, I’m the one bringing the pastries and the snacks to all my book club meetings.
Sometimes, I get asked to do birthdays or baby showers, and there was that one wedding when Mrs. Levine got married.
I’ve been paid to cook for gatherings at churches and for other clubs at least a few dozen times.
I can cook, and the truth is that a live-in position would save me so much money on rent and gas and frustration and dealing with bratty children and unknown interactions with strangers. The only reason to turn down this job is a truth I cannot share with a wealthy client.
Mostly because Mr. Lundberg would kill me if he knew I looked this man dead in the eyes and said, I don’t like you, and also you’re scary.
Therefore, my gaze skids off him, and I fumble.
“Oh, um, well. You know. Can’t anyone cook?
I myself mostly cook, um, ramen. But.” It’s true.
Ramen is my go-to. Never mind that I make it full anime style, with veggies and broth and meat, then arrange it all in my pretty pink and my roommate’s pretty purple authentic ramen bowls before I take pictures that I sometimes send to my guy group of friends.
I make ramen.
Probably, most likely, three-minute packet…not homemade, obviously, don’t be stupid…um…ramen.
The man, who just bought this place and calls it small, says, “I love ramen.”
Oh.
That’s.
Great…
Mouth going dry, I say, “Who doesn’t?” I should have picked something more controversial. Like olives, or okra, or anchovies.
I blink, returning my gaze to the big, scary man when I am certain he has said insane words, that I surely could not quite make out correctly. “Come…again?”
“Salary starts at a hundred grand, and you can begin as soon as is most convenient for you.”
A hundred thousand dollars? He wants to pay me as much as he’ll pay the government in taxes for this place? That’s…insane. There has to be a catch. Like winding up in a body bag after my first week. My kidney, I betcha, sells for that much.
I roll the excess of my apron tie around my fingers. “Is there…rent?”
“That would be silly, wouldn’t it? Room and board is obviously included in the position.
And it’s full time, so I will be discussing benefits with my assistant when we draft the work agreement.
I’d prefer to poach you directly from Mr. Lundberg rather than go through him, if it’s all the same to you. ”
I…
This is how I die, isn’t it?
Swallowing hard, I say, “I’ll have to think about it. It’s a big decision.”
His brows lower. “You have to think about taking a massive raise?”
I mull my words over for a minute, realize that once again there’s no polite way to mince them, and say, “I’d want to make sure it’s a…safe environment. I’d ask you to complete a background check before I put myself so solidly in your care.”
He stares at me.
He looks down at himself.
He says, “Ah.”
Okay.
Thank goodness.
He gets it.
He understands.
He has just computed she is small, I am large in his brain and come to the conclusion that a single woman and a single man in close cohabitation like this is troubling for the powerless party without taking further precautions.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he asks.
Or…maybe not.
Fidgeting prevalent, I say, “Am I…supposed to?”
He removes a cell phone from his pocket, taps in a few things, then takes two, maybe three, steps to reach me on the other side of the room.
Showing me the screen, he presents Damion Anders, billionaire co-CEO of Anders & Sons.
I blink at the paparazzi photos presented in the headline section. I lift my gaze off the pictures of a giant man, who looks far larger in person, to the…well…in person version.
My attention drops again.
To his…net worth…of 200.8 billion.
Thirty-four.
Born August 27th.
When I look up at him again, the corner of his mouth has lifted in something that could almost be considered the idea of a smile—the first I’ve ever seen on his face. “You’ve worked for me four years and didn’t know who I was?”
Worked for him is a stretch. I’ve worked for Mr. Lundberg for seven years. He sends me to all sorts of places. Who knows the celebrities I haven’t recognized? I have a raging case of face blindness as compounded by does not care.
I fear I’ve lost my smile. “Shouldn’t you have bodyguards, or something?”
“It’s a quiet enough town. I’ll bring extra protection in if it stops being as quiet. Until then, though, I think I can handle it. I’m not exactly someone the regular public recognizes. I’m like Jensen Huang or Sergey Brin.”
My head tilts. “Who?”
“Exactly.”
I have lost all my good sweet girl persona. Stepping back, I smooth my hands down my apron. “This doesn’t exactly mean I trust you any more than I did a few seconds ago, Mr. Anders.”
“I suppose that’s smart of you, but it does mean you can background check me yourself.
Look for scandals, unsavories, birthday parties, charity events…
” He wobbles his phone. “It’s all on here, at your fingertips.
” He locks and pockets the device. “The offer remains open while you’re actively deciding.
Let me know when you’ve made a decision. ”
“Right…”
With my response, he turns and descends into his office, where—quite apparently—he does very important billionaire things…