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The Millionaire Meets His Maid

Abi

“Would you like your receipt?”

“No,” the woman said, grabbing her Lululemon tote bag and heading for the exit of Benny’s Natural Grocers without giving me a second glance.

“Have a good day,” I yelled before turning to ring up the next customer in line.

I hated this job, this perfectly easy and mind-numbing job. I’d worked at Benny’s since high school, so it was comfortable, not to mention necessary because it supplied me with my health insurance, but every shift just reminded me that my life was stuck in quicksand that I might never get out of.

Hence my second go-round of college.

Hence my need for this job and my three-times-a-week overnight job.

Hence my propensity for thinking stupid words like hence .

“Hi,” I said robotically to the next customer, my mouth on autopilot before I noticed the person in line didn’t have anything on the belt. I raised my eyes to the customer’s face but then— wow.

I might’ve actually gasped aloud.

There were a lot of attractive men out there, but this man had to be The One they were inspired by.

He was tall—like six and a half feet of tall—but no one would call him lanky. They would never. Broad shoulders filled out the impeccably tailored suit, and he reminded me of a professional football player when they did the long walk from the bus to the locker room.

Expensive.

Built.

Perfect.

And not to be messed with.

His face made that point even more than his impressive physique, actually.

He had brown eyes—no, green—that were trained on me and absolutely butterfly-inducing with their directness. It was like the man was staring into my soul, I swear to God, and his lips were turned up like he wanted to smile.

I usually didn’t notice mouths on men, to be honest, but the bow on his top lip—or maybe it was the fullness of the bottom—drew my eyes downward as if it were a magnet and my irises were flecked with steel.

I could picture that mouth speaking French. Or Italian. I forced my eyes back up and offhandedly thought that this well- dressed man could actually be the cover model for any romance novel about mob bosses, racecar drivers, or grumpy billionaires.

I opened my smitten mouth to say “How can I help you?” without drooling when he said in a midnight-rich voice, “Hello, Abi with an i .”

“Hi…?” I narrowed my eyes, biting my lip so I didn’t smile like a lovesick schoolgirl as his eyes dipped to my name tag.

“You don’t recognize me?” he asked, tilting his head.

Did I know him? There’s no way I could’ve forgotten that face, right? I tried not to seem too flirty, but Joey Tribbiani’s how you doin’? was totally in my tone when I said, “Should I?”

“I would think so, since just this morning you woke up in my bed and told my parents you’re my girlfriend.”

“Oh. Shit.” Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit.

“Oh, shit, indeed,” he repeated, his eyes judgmental under slashing dark brows as he watched me like I was a bug he was about to squash.

My heart started pounding and I was hot everywhere as this man stared me down with pure disdain.

“Benny,” I yelled, not taking my eyes off the guy’s face. “I need to go on break.”

“You just had a break, Mariano,” I heard from behind me, where Benny was ordering produce at his desk. He’d been hunched over the antiquated computer for hours, rotating between grunting, sighing, and scratching his bald spot, so I knew he wasn’t in the mood for this.

“Mariano,” the man in front of me quietly repeated, as if memorizing that morsel of information.

“I’m taking a break, Benny,” I said through gritted teeth as I turned off my aisle’s light. “Whether you okay it or not.”

I pulled off my Benny’s apron and gestured for the guy in the suit to follow me as my pulse skyrocketed.

I’d been panic-watching the door all morning, expecting the police to show up and arrest me for breaking and entering.

It wasn’t until an hour ago, when I ate my lunch at the table beside the big green dumpster, that I foolishly convinced myself no one would ever know it’d been me.

I’d been stupid enough to allow myself a deep breath.

“Swear to God I’m gonna fire you one of these days, Ab,” Benny yelled as I walked away from my register.

“No, you’re not,” I yelled back as I tried not to hyperventilate. “No one else would put up with you.”

“At least hurry, will ya?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I could sense Mr. Suit following behind me as I led him through the back of the store and out the door that led to the alley. Bright sunlight, warm air, and the faint smell of garbage flooded my senses as the door slammed behind us and I turned to face the guy.

Declan was what the royal couple had called him, right?

“Please let me explain. Declan.”

That made his eyes narrow—oops, should not have used his name—but he didn’t say anything.

“I’m not some sort of criminal, I promise. I work a few overnights for Masterkleen as a maid—I’m actually the maid who cleans your apartment on the nights when you aren’t in town. So even though I was there, I didn’t break and enter or anything like that.”

Good point, Abi.

I gave him what I hoped was a sweet smile, an expression that would confirm my innocence.

He frowned.

“I had a key,” I said, “so it wasn’t like—”

“You moved into my bed room.” His voice was calm, but he definitely wasn’t interested in understanding. His scowl made that abundantly clear as he said, “You baked muffins in my kitchen. I don’t believe that’s part of your job description. I believe that’s called trespassing. Abi. ”

Okay, the mocking way he said my name was straight up insulting and made my teeth hurt.

But I needed to keep my cool.

I tried again. “I know, but it was only because my apartment building has an infestation—I promise I didn’t bring any critters to your place.

See, the property management company—who are total slumlord jackasses, by the way—said I had to find somewhere else to stay for a few days so they can take care of it, but I don’t have anywhere else. ”

My cheeks got hot as soon as I said it because it was so pathetic.

He stared at me like I was picking food out of my teeth, and any hope of him somehow showing a little empathy for my situation completely dissipated when he said, “Hotels are a thing, you know.”

“I can’t afford a hotel,” I snapped, mortified.

I wanted to disappear, but I forged on out of desperation.

“But when I was cleaning your place last night, I thought, who would it hurt? I knew that you were in London for the week—I mean, apparently you came back early but I guess you forgot to tell Masterkleen—so I just thought I could crash for a few hours and no one would be the wiser.”

His jaw flexed, but he remained quiet. I really wanted to believe he was considering my defense, but he looked like one of those über-controlled types who enjoyed keeping his mouth shut so his adversaries could bury themselves with their own words.

Which meant RIP me, because I was the world’s worst rambler.

“And I’m sure you don’t care,” I continued, “but I’m really good at my job. I’m great at cleaning your apartment—you could eat off the bathroom floor. I mean, not that you would because that’s disgusting, but you genuinely could because I’m just that thorough.”

He cleared his throat and looked down at his expensive watch, the asshole, and I realized that no matter what I said, I was going to lose my job.

Oh, God.

This man was definitely going to fire me.

And I needed that job so badly.

There were a lot of jobs out there, but not many as flexible as the one I had with Masterkleen.

I inhaled through my nose, gritted my teeth, and swallowed my pride, because what other choice did I have? “I know I have no right to ask this, but please don’t tell Masterkleen. I’m begging. I really need this job and literally can’t afford to get fired. Please don’t tell my boss.”

His dark eyebrows knitted together, and he looked insulted by my request.

“Oh, I will definitely be telling your boss,” he said without even blinking. “Because you trespassed in my home.”

“Or,” I countered, grabbing his right arm as I desperately tried to get him to understand, “I fell asleep at my job. That’s not a crime, right?”

“I’m not interested in your justifications,” he said, looking down at my hand so aggressively that I dropped it. “I just came here to see who the hell had broken into my place and had breakfast with my parents. Now I know.”

“Please.” My voice cracked and I hated it. “Can’t you just forget it ever happened? Like, just pretend I never stayed there.”

“I wish I could,” he said, shaking his head. “But you have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Come on.” God, why was he such a hard-ass? “Who did it really hurt, though?”

“Me!” He barked out a mirthless laugh and said, “Now my parents and my colleagues all think Abby is coming to the most important event of my life tonight because Abi told them she was.”

“Why can’t you just tell them Abi’s not going?” I paused, frowning. “And why did they act like they knew me in the first place?”

“Because they think I have a girlfriend named Abby, for Christ’s sake,” he snapped, his voice full of frustration. “What are the odds my maid would have the same damn name?”

“So…” I was missing something, something that had nothing to do with my sleepover at his penthouse. “You don’t actually have a girlfriend named Abby?”

“I do not,” he said through gritted teeth, his eyes on the alley just beyond my shoulder, his thoughts no longer on me but on his apparently stressful situation.

“What did you do,” I said, watching him attempt to mentally formulate a plan, “make her up or something?”

His intense gaze snapped back to me and I regretted the question immediately. His voice was dangerously quiet when he asked, “Have you ever been arrested, Abi Mariano?”

“Of course not!” My cheeks were hot even though I deserved the inquiry.

“So if I ran a background check, you would—”

“Call the authorities on you for stalking? Yes,” I said in a near yell, frustrated he was treating me like a criminal after I’d explained the situation.

Not everyone had piles of money for hotel stays or multiple residences, damn it, and it stung that my tiny questionable decision made him behave as if I’d stolen the family jewels.

But then he smiled at me.

He smiled, and whoa —it was something.

That grin packed a punch, sexy and dirty from the slide of his lips to the squint of his very green eyes. Declan’s voice was silky smooth when he stepped closer, so he was towering over me. “But you can’t do that because you’ve been trespassing, remember?”

“Stop playing with me.” I swallowed hard and crossed my arms. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m still working it out,” he replied as his eyes went down to my chest. “What does that mean?”

“What?”

His eyebrows went down and he gestured to my shirt with his chin. “Your shirt. I don’t get it.”

Of course you don’t. The custom T-shirt shop behind my apartment had a clearance rack where all their mistakes were 80 percent off, so my wardrobe was full of tops that were off-center, riddled with misspellings, or downright stupid.

I didn’t care when I could get a shirt for two bucks, but I’m sure that wouldn’t make sense to someone like him. I raised my chin and said, “What exactly don’t you get?”

The shirt—my favorite shirt, actually—had a picture of a squirrel wearing underpants. The letters above it read Hamilton Won Chip , and the letters below it read Working for Underwear . I couldn’t even fathom what the attempt had been, but it made me smile every time I pulled it out of the dryer.

“Does it mean something?” he asked, seeming irritated that he didn’t understand.

I made a face like he was an idiot for being confused and said, “Obviously.”

“I don’t have time for this today.” Those green eyes moved all over my face before he said, “I’ll be in touch. Answer my call.”

And then he just turned and started walking away from me like a freaking king who had no more time for peasant interaction. I wanted to throw a rock at his perfect suit as he strode toward the parking lot in gorgeous leather shoes that surely cost more than my car.

“What are you going to do? What does ‘I’ll be in touch’ mean?” I yelled, wanting to chase after him and force him to put me out of my misery. “You don’t even have my number.”

“I’ll get it from Carl,” he yelled, not even looking back at me.

“Who the hell is Carl?” I said to myself, frustration filling every molecule in my body. I didn’t need this; I had enough problems, for the love of God.

“My doorman,” he replied, apparently in possession of both supersonic hearing and privileged arrogance. “According to him, you two are thick as thieves.”

Damn it, Carl.

I sighed and watched him disappear, my stomach sinking with dread as I wondered how long I had before the millionaire jerk destroyed my life.