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SEVEN

NATALIE

We still haven’t moved an inch closer to the staff entrance door. I think Julien is profiling me. We have a little staring competition going on, and I let him take his time, not saying a single word, feeling the tension rising in me—I want this job badly.

“It’s quite unusual,” Julien finally says, “that you got this job so fast and at the request of the boss.”

My eyebrows rise in surprise. “The boss? I talked to Nick, the driver.”

“Makes sense.”

Does it? “Meaning?”

“Special favors and all.”

“No, actually…”

I shut up instantly when I realize what he’s insinuating.

Are you kidding me?

It takes me a moment to pull myself back together. Julien must’ve noticed my expression change, because a barely noticeable smirk curls at one corner of his lips.

“Follow me,” he says in a tone five degrees colder. He finally opens the staff door and—what do you know—holds it for me.

I can tell that I’m unwanted here, but once again, nothing I haven’t seen before. Every business and establishment has a well-oiled crew that often doesn’t warmly welcome the outsiders right away.

“Apparently, there’s an issue with one of your housekeepers,” I say to make a point as I step into a bright hallway.

Julien stops and stares at me again.

Ugh. If we’re going to pause in every room we walk through, it will take a week to walk through this mansion.

“Make sure you follow the rules and instructions,” he says, “so there’s no issue with you either.”

Either ? Is that a warning?

“Work dress code is a black button-up,” he says monotonously, as if reading a memo, “black pants, black shoes, and a white neckerchief around your neck.”

For cleaning? Really? I was expecting some sort of common uniform, not dress clothes.

“No loose hair,” he continues. “No perfumes, incense, or air fresheners. No food anywhere outside the staff quarters. Don’t be late for work. You won’t be able to leave early either, unless previously discussed.” He is reciting the house rules like I’m a prisoner. “You’ve already met Dave. There’s one more security guard, Steve.”

I nod.

“The housekeeper is Rosalie. She’ll be in charge of everything you do. There is a gardener, Walter, a maintenance worker, Sagar, and a driver. This”—he motions to his left—“is the staff stairs to the second floor. To my right is the staff kitchen, the storage room, and lockers.”

He turns and walks toward the doorway that leads into a spacious kitchen. The large kitchen island is crowded with boxes and bags of what appear to be catering supplies.

“Well, hello,” says a cheerful female voice, and I turn to see a short woman in her forties approaching me with a smile. “I’m Rosalie, the housekeeper.”

She offers her hand for a shake.

Black pants, black button-up shirt with—yep—a white neckerchief around her neck. Her jet-black hair with gray streaks is tied into a knot at the back. Her smile is warm, but her gaze on me is more curious and cautious than friendly.

“Natalie,” I say, shaking her hand enthusiastically. “Nice to meet you.”

As with any work dynamic I’ve seen in the hospitality industry, Rosalie, by all obvious markers, is the binding element in this staff crew. She’s probably the only one I’ll like, the only one I’ll really interact with, and the one who will eventually give me the scoop on anything I ask. That’s what I’m hoping for.

“I’m here temporarily,” I explain eagerly. “I’ve worked in the food and beverage sector for seven years. I’m glad to be here.”

She glances at Julien, then returns her eyes to me. “We are happy to have you.” Lies, but at least she tries, unlike the house manager. “Did Julien explain the rules to you?”

I intentionally ignore him. “Barely.”

The side entrance door in the hallway slams shut, and a man bursts into the kitchen.

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t wait until morning,” the man rants, seemingly frustrated. He is shorter than I am, with a thick mustache over his upper lip, dressed in—surprise, surprise—all black.

“Who?” Rosalie asks him.

He takes off his blue baseball hat and wipes his sweaty forehead with his forearm, then picks up a bottle of water from a stack on the counter and takes a few greedy gulps.

“Nick,” he responds, sniffling. “I could totally fix his shower. But no, he called an outside service company at ten last night.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Why would he get an outsider?” he snaps, then catches sight of me and freezes. “Who is that?”

Nice to meet you, too.

It really feels like they have a close-knit circle here at The Splendors because he also looks at me like I have three eyes. I should get used to this.

“Apparently, Nick has more trust in pretty outsiders than us,” Julien quips.

I’m not surprised he just poked me again. But then his words, “Pretty outsider,” work their way into my brain. Pretty . So, he thinks I’m pretty. And he hasn’t even seen me in heels and a minidress, with fake eyelashes and nails, all dolled up.

“This is Natalie,” Julien explains. “She is here to help with the party.”

The man furrows his brows in confusion. “She’s with the catering crew?”

“Actually,” I interrupt, “I’m here to replace the other housekeeper.” I step toward him and offer a handshake. “Natalie.”

He looks at Julien, then Rosalie, then returns his gaze to me, and his lips instantly stretch in a diplomatic, white-toothed smile under his black mustache. It’s as if he’s gotten a hidden cue to be friendly.

“Welcome. It’s a nuthouse here, but as long as you don’t deal with the boss, you’ll be fine.” He shakes his head from side to side. “Also, if you need anything, repairs or whatnot, you tell me.”

“Sagar is our maintenance man,” Julien introduces him.

Sagar presses his palm to his chest in a theatrical bow. “That’s me. Handyman. Repairman. Car guy.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, puzzled by his sudden change in attitude. I like him. I also like Rosalie. I’m yet to meet Walter, the gardener, and another security guy.

“She won’t be staying for long.” That, of course, comes from Julien, who seems to have the same phrase on repeat.

Rosalie gives him a reproachful glance. “Well,” she says, taking a deep breath and releasing it with a long sigh. She pushes off the counter, walks up to Julien, and pats him gently on the arm. “You give her a quick tour, and then I need her for a whole bunch of things that were Darla’s responsibility.”

One, I bet Rosalie is the only one who’s allowed to be so informal with Julien.

Two, I guess Darla is the name of the previous housekeeper, and I have a feeling that there’s more to her absence than a sudden emergency leave.

Julien is already walking out, and I hurry after him. Just before turning the corner of the doorway, I look over my shoulder and see both Rosalie and Sagar staring at me. The smiles are still on their faces, but the friendliness in their eyes is gone.