Page 22 of Middle Ground

While I don’t particularly enjoy housekeeping, I can respect how much hard work goes into it, and I’m appreciative of every person we have on our cleaning staff. It’s far from an easy task.

With any luck, it will only take one shift to break Jackson. To have him running for the hills, back to his fancy condo in the city that probably gets cleaned weekly by an equally fancy team.

After a brief tutorial, I send him off to start on one room while I go to another. Because I don’t do this job often, it takes me a while to get into it, but then I’m on a roll and I don’t look up for an hour. When I pause to take a break, I remember that I’m meant to be coaching Jackson, so I go to check on him.

But when I get to the room he’s in, I stop short in the doorway.

The sight of him with the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to his elbows is something out of a Harlequin romance. Or a porno. There’s just something about a well-dressed man in a state of slight dishevelment that does something to a woman. And sadly, I am no exception.

Upon closer inspection, I see the sheen of sweat gathered on his brow. Usually, perspiration doesn’t do it for me, but again, there’s something utterly lewd about this scenario.

I hate it.

I step into the room, pretending I didn’t just spend the past thirty seconds ogling him while he leaned against the dresser. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if he knew. “How’s it going, Molly Maid?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he replies, turning to face me fully. “You tell me.”

I cross my arms as I take in the space. I expect to find it worse off than when the occupants checked out earlier this morning. But as my eyes roam over the room, I’m begrudgingly surprised. My annoyance only grows when I take in his satisfied expression.

He wasn’t supposed to be good at this task, but he most definitely wasn’t meant toenjoyit. He was supposed to be broken, goddamn it. He was supposed to regret ever setting foot in Fraisier Creek.

I walk over to the dresser and run a finger over the top, right beside where he’s standing. It comes back spotless, free of dust. So does the top of the TV and the ring of the lampshade.

Well, shit.

“It’s…alright,” I admit.

His expression is one of mild shock. “Alright?Justalright? Do you know how hard it was to get those condensation rings off that nightstand?”

The way he looks right now, so passionate about condensation rings, I have the strong urge to laugh.Damn it. He’snot supposed to befunnyeither. My mouth twitches as I fight my chuckle.

Jackson notices—becauseof coursehe notices—and smirks. “You can laugh, Ellison,” he says. “Rest assured, I won’t start thinking that you like me if you do.”

I shrug, unbothered. “If you need a stroke to your ego that desperately, Vaughan, just say so.”

“Only if it’s you who will be doing the stroking.”

A warning flashes in my mind.Danger, abort—do not travel down this road, you idiot. I shake my head with a huff, brushing him off, as a flush creeps up my neck. Embarrassment over letting him see that I’m flustered.

I pretend to inspect the way he’s made the bed, knowing it will be frustratingly perfect but needing to put my focus on something other than him. When my flaming cheeks have calmed, I turn back to him.

“So.” He rocks back on his heels, looking all too pleased with himself. “Did I pass the test?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He nods. “Sure. We’ll pretend this wasn’t some kind of hoop I had to jump through in a vain effort to prove myself to you.”

Double shit. Am I that transparent?

I turn on my heel and march out of the suite. “Back to work, Vaughan!” I call over my shoulder. “These rooms aren’t going to clean themselves.”

CHAPTER 9

MEYER

I am officially late.

On Monday mornings, the doors to the restaurant stay shuttered until eleven. Not only does this give the staff ample time to unload and put away the weekly food delivery, but it also creates a window for all the staff, not just those that work in the restaurant, to gather for meetings.