Page 8 of Married in Michigan

I wince. “I, um…I wouldn’t sit there, ma’am. The couch was part of what Mr. deBraun’s friends used to contain the donkey, and I don’t know how clean the couch is.”

She shoots up, swiping at the seat of her dress with both hands, which come away covered in slobber, hay, and who knows what else. “Oh my, how disgusting.” She wiggles her hands, and then rushes to the kitchen sink to wash her hands, and then sighs at me. “So, the rug?”

I wince again and shake my head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll bring it downstairs and work on it, but I’m honestly not hopeful. It’s pretty stained.”

Another long-suffering sigh, French-manicured fingers dimpling against her delicate temples. “That rug was a personal gift to me from the Sultan of Brunei.”

I blink. “Sounds like it was expensive.”

A slant-wise look at me, smacking of disbelief. “Have you heard the term ‘priceless’, Miss Poe?”

Yes, she knows us all by name, from housekeeping to janitorial staff to chef to clerk. “Oh,” I say. “In that case, you may want to have someone who’s an expert in priceless rugs try to fix it. I would just be spraying it with Resolve, scrubbing, and hoping for the best.”

This earns me a faint ghost of a smile. “Yes, an expert would be best, I believe.” She pours herself a mug of coffee, leaning her backside against the edge of the kitchen counter, and eyes me speculatively. “I think you’ll have earned quite a bonus for this cleanup, Miss Poe. Paxton has thrown some wild parties in his day, but this one takes the cake.” She snorts. “A live donkey. Someone’s idea of a joke, probably.”

I’m not certain what response if any is required from me, so I just smile, shrug, and keep working on the stained hardwood with a hardwood floor cleaning and polishing agent and a rag.

“More coffee?” I hear Camilla say, which is answered by a single grunt. I risk a quick glance to see Paxton with a towel wrapped around his waist, hair a gloriously beautiful mess, desperately sipping at a fresh mug of coffee; the pot is empty, which means in five…four…three…two…one…

“Miss Poe?” Camilla says.

“Yes ma’am. I’m on it.” I toss my rag over my shoulder and head into the kitchen to make more.

Which means brushing past Paxton. He smells…good. How can he smell good? He’s been partying all night. He probably screwed one or all of those hookers. He’s still drunk. He has no right to smell like expensive cologne.

I make a fresh pot of coffee, and as I brush past him once more, I catch his eyes on me. A quick glance, and I’m dismissed.

Nothing special.

Nothing to see here.

That’s my job—to be invisible, unnoticeable. Sometimes, though, a girl wants to be noticed, especially by a gorgeous, naked man who I know for a fact has a monster…ahem.

Work, Makayla. Work. He’s an arrogant, lazy, spoiled, entitled rich white asshole.

He’ll never even look at me again.

And, as I go back to scrubbing the hardwood floors, he indeed doesn’t spare me a second glance. As a housekeeper, I’m little more than furniture to someone like him.

I keep working, ignore the brooding, beautiful, silent man in the kitchen, and his mother, who is visibly displeased—the entire penthouse seethes with her displeasure.

I don’t envy the tongue-lashing I’m certain is coming his way.

A subtle glance at Paxton tells me he knows it as well as I do—his shoulders are hunched, and he’s curled in around his coffee mug like it can protect him from his mother.

“It’s time we had a serious talk about your lifestyle, Paxton.”

Oh boy, here we go. Front row seats.

3

“No thanks, Mom,” Paxton drawls. “I’ll pass.

A snort. “I’m sure you’d like to. But unfortunately for you, this one isn’t negotiable.”

A groan. “Must we, Mother? Now?”

Her voice raises just a little to impinge on his hangover headache, I’m certain. “Yes, Paxton, now. We’ve allowed you your dalliance, up until now, your father and I have.”