Page 6 of Married in Michigan
“Thanks.”
“Don’t touch the drugs. Leave it for the deBrauns to handle, especially since I’m guessing our guest of honor is still there.”
“That’s what I was thinking, just had to be sure.” I sigh. “And yes, he’s here, as well as a few others.”
“I don’t want to know. The less I know, the better.”
“Lucky,” I mutter into the walkie. “Okay, back to work.”
“I’ll let you know what animal control says.”
“Great.”
And…back to work.
The master suite is last, and the room I want least to enter again. But, it’s my job. At least there are no weird surprises in here. I go in, clean the bathroom, even though it’s mostly clean already and doesn’t really need much besides a little shine and polish. I ignore the figure in the bed—now more covered, thank god—and start the vacuum.
“Shut that fucking thing off, goddammit,” I hear a deep, angry, sleepy male voice growl.
“Sorry, sir,” I say. “Housekeeping.”
“Well housekeep somewhere fucking else.”
I dare a glance at him: he’s upright in the bed with the sheet pooled around his waist—seems like his morning issue has subsided, thank god. Mussed dark brown hair that’s entirely too sexy for someone waking up drunk, and deep, wild, irritated, sleepy brown eyes—although brown is nowhere near descriptive enough. Golden—not quite tan, not quite khaki, not quite brown. A pure animal golden-brown.
I decide the better part of valor is to simply listen, so I take the vacuum and my cart and head for the door.
“Coffee.”
I pause, summoning every ounce of self-control I possess. “I’m housekeeping, sir, but I’d be glad to call room service for you, if you like.”
“My family owns this hotel and I’m telling you to make some damn coffee. There’s a pot and a bag of grounds in the kitchen.” He waves a hand at me. “I’m not asking you to serve it to me, just…fuck. My head is pounding.”
“Well, you brought it on yourself, you know.” A new voice startles us both—female, crisp, authoritative, brusque, and impatient; I turn to see Camilla deBraun waiting on the other side of my cart. “Excuse me please, I need to speak with my son.”
Tall, at least five-ten, with raven black hair pulled up in a sleek, elegant chignon, dressed in what I’m guessing is a custom-made designer sheath dress; she’s slender, beautiful, elegant, and exudes authority.
I pull the cart backward out of the room and wheel it aside. “Sorry, ma’am.”
She waves a hand, sparing me a quick glance. “I know it’s not your job, dear, but please start the coffee maker. He’s ever so much more tractable once he’s had caffeine.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I leave the cart, slip the vacuum off my shoulders and set it on the floor near the cart, heading for the kitchen.
I hear Camilla as I walk away: “Now, Paxton. I’d like you to explain, if you can, why there is a donkey in my penthouse.”
I can’t help myself—I poke my head back in. “Sorry to interrupt, but, um…there’s also a giant boa constrictor in the second guest bathroom.” I pause. “Animal control should be on the way to handle it, ma’am.”
She stares at me. “A boa constrictor.” Her voice is flat. “You’re joking.”
I shake my head, eyes wide—Mrs. deBraun is intimidating under the best of circumstances, and I’m far from easily intimidated. “No, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrow at her son. “A snake?”
He shrugs. “I dunno, Mom. It was a party. People do weird shit.”
I head for the kitchen, dump grounds into a filter, add water to the reservoir of the coffee maker, and press start—within seconds, there’s a gurgle of hot water percolating through the system; a few moments later, coffee trickles into the carafe. The coffee maker is sleek and expensive-looking, a clear plastic reservoir, carafe, and a basket for the filter. No extras, no timer or auto-start or fancy buttons, but the coffee is made within minutes. God, I want one. I have been using Mom’s ancient Mr. Coffee machine from what I imagine is the 1970s, and it takes forever to make coffee, the hot plate doesn’t work, and it only makes three small mugs worth of lukewarm, weak coffee.