Maid
for Each Other
Lynn Painter is the USA Today and New York Times bestselling author of Better Than the Movies and Mr Wrong Number, as well as the co-creator of five obnoxious children who populate the great state of Nebraska. When she isn’t reading or writing, she can be found binge-watching rom-coms and obsessing over Spotify playlists.
Praise for Happily Never After
‘A giggle-inducing romp that readers won’t be able to object to.’
– Lana Ferguson, USA Today bestselling author of The Game Changer
‘Happily Never After takes an irresistibly fun concept and expertly delivers on its promise, brimming with hilariously cheeky banter and so-red-hot-it’ll-make-yousweat chemistry between its lovable lead characters. Lynn Painter has a true gift for crafting wildly entertaining rom-coms, and this is her best one yet.’
– Nicolas DiDomizio, author of Nearlywed
‘Lynn Painter writes the rom-com banter of my dreams! Happily Never After is a sparkling, hilarious, sexy romance that leaps off the page and is just begging to be made into a movie.’
– Sarah Adams, New York Times bestselling author of The Rule Book
‘Well-crafted and filled to the brim with sexual tension, Happily Never After is rom-com gold! We fell head over heels for the romance and the undeniably swoony chemistry. Max and Sophie are two characters so perfect for each other that you can’t help but want to smoosh them together.’
– Krista and Becca Ritchie, New York Times bestselling authors
‘A rom-com for the cynics . . . The supporting cast is equally funny and helps to round out an entertaining yarn that doesn’t take itself too seriously.’
– Library Journal
Praise for The Love Wager
‘Painter follows up Mr Wrong Number with an equally cute friends-to-lovers romance . . . Their equally filthy sense of humor makes their connection feel real, and their game of constant one-upmanship is a lot of fun. Painter’s fans won’t be disappointed.’
– Publishers Weekly
‘A fun, flirty, and timely read from Painter . . . with likable characters to boot.’
– Library Journal
‘Honestly, this book was so much fun and I can’t believe it took me this long to finally pick [up] Lynn Painter. Her books are a hoot.’
– Culturess
‘Lynn Painter . . . provides the perfect romcom escape in The Love Wager, a trope-driven romance that will remind readers, as they laugh themselves to tears, why they love the genre.’
– Shelf Awareness
Praise for Mr Wrong Number
‘Smart, sexy, and downright hilarious. Mr Wrong Number is an absolutely pitch-perfect romantic comedy.’
– Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of Tangled Up in You
‘This book is an absolute blast, a classic romcom setup with a modern twist. Lynn Painter’s clever, charming voice sparkles on every page.’
– Rachel Lynn Solomon, USA Today bestselling author of Business or Pleasure
‘The most sidesplittingly funny, shenaniganpacked, sexual tension–filled book I’ve read in a long, long time. I dare you not to fall in love with Olivia and Colin, but most of all I dare you not to fall in love with Lynn Painter’s writing!’
– Ali Hazelwood, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Bride
‘If you like your romances steamy, then Mr Wrong Number by Lynn Painter is sure to leave you hot and bothered in a good way.’
– PopSugar
Also by Lynn Painter
Mr Wrong Number
The Love Wager
Happily Never After Accidentally Amy
Maid for Each Other
PENGUIN BOOK S
lynn painter
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For Kevin:
I love you more than Saturday night spaghetti with Pappy.
I love every single thing about you and our life together and shall now write a haiku* that perfectly captures my adoration.
I love your cute face
Cute cute cute cute cute cute cute You are the most cute
*I am not a poet.
1.
Waking Up in the Bed of
a Millionaire
Is it wrong that a tiny part of me is happy to have an infestation at my apartment?
Of course it is , I thought as I sat up and stretched in the decadently soft king- size bed. But who could blame me? The luxuriousness of the million-thread-count sheets alone made it way less of a hardship, not to mention the frothy memory foam pillows. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how the wealthy ever dragged themselves out of bed in the morning when it felt so good to just lie there, cocooned in expensive linens.
But I didn’t have time to languish in the opulence. I needed to get the hell out of there and get to work before Benny fired me.
I carefully made the bed, ensuring it was impossible to tell I’d ever been there. I was going to wash the sheets after I came back later because I wasn’t some kind of psychotic Goldilocks-coded monster who’d secretly sleep in someone else’s bed without laundering away my DNA, but just in case someone happened to show up in the meantime, I wanted to remove all traces of the uninvited Abi Mariano.
Abi
I’d showered last night, just to ensure I had time to clean every square inch of the bathroom (a lot of square inches, for the record), so I quickly changed and pulled my hair into a ponytail. Five minutes later, everything I brought with me was jammed and zipped into my backpack as I reached for the doorknob and opened the bedroom door.
‘Well, good morning!’
I gasped and my hands flew to my heart as I looked to my right.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
Standing there, in the enormous kitchen of the fancy penthouse, was a silver- haired man and a woman with a sleek black bob. They were smiling, but that didn’t make me feel any better.
I was completely, totally, absolutely screwed.
The guy was wearing a flawless navy suit that was definitely not off- the- rack (hello, rich dude with the pocket square), and the woman was in one of those it’s-just-anoxford-and-white-jeans-but-they-cost-a-thousand-bucks ensembles. They looked like beautiful royals on retirement, perfectly put together, and they looked like they belonged in the upscale residence where I’d been squatting.
But they didn’t look surprised to see me.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,’ the man said, stepping forward to extend his hand while he smiled warmly. ‘I’m Charles, and this is Elaine.’
‘Abi,’ I mumbled in shock as King Charles wrapped his big hand around mine and shook it confidently, as if this was okay and I was supposed to be there.
Way to give them your real name, dipshit!
‘Abi!’ The woman – Elaine, apparently – beamed at me like she’d been breathlessly anticipating my arrival. ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you.’
‘Yeah, um, same,’ I said, unsure of what she could possibly mean by finally.
Am I in an episode of some pranking show?
Are the cops on their way and the Chuck/Lainey duo before me is simply a distraction to keep me from getting away?
‘I, um –’
‘We helped ourselves to your muffins, by the way.’ Charles pointed toward the cooling rack on the center island, where the six face-size blueberry muffins I’d painstakingly made from scratch in that glorious gourmet kitchen the night before had now been reduced by two.
THEY. ATE. MY. MUFFINS.
I had bigger problems at the moment, but a tiny part of me wanted to rage because those muffins had been the most delicious things I’d ever tasted. They were supposed to be my amazing breakfast for the next week. I’d planned to devour one perfect little pastry every morning before embarking upon my far-from-perfect life.
Only now, two resided in the digestive tracts of these two beaming socialites.
RIP, decadent pastries, and a plague on the house of Charles and Elaine.
‘They were so delicious,’ Elaine gushed, then added, ‘Declan never told us you were a pastry chef.’
‘Well,’ I said, my heart pounding out of my chest as I tried to play along, ‘you know Declan.’
They laughed like that made sense – what in the ever-loving hell? – and I needed to go. I pulled my car keys out of my backpack and pasted on a huge smile. ‘Listen, it was so nice to meet you and I’d love to chat more but I have to get to work.’
‘Typical Abi,’ Charles said in a she’s-so-adorable tone, giving me just the nicest grin. ‘Will you be at the Hathaway party tonight?’
Typical Abi?
‘I’m, uh, I’m not sure,’ I stammered, doing a sideways walk in the direction of the front door, desperate to escape. Because the quicker I got out of there, the better my odds were of not being arrested for trespassing. ‘Probably . . . ?’
‘We won’t take “probably” for an answer, Abi,’ Elaine said, running a manicured hand – holy shit that’s a huge diamond – over her perfectly coiffed hair. ‘No going to work until you say yes. We’re dying to get to know you.’
‘Um, yes, then.’ Relief shot through me when I reached the front door and felt the cool metal knob in my palm. Almost there. ‘I will definitely be at the party.’
I would say anything to escape at that moment.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ Elaine said emphatically.
‘Fantastic,’ Charles agreed.
‘I have to go now,’ I managed, pulling open the door and giving them what I hoped was a charming smile. ‘It was lovely meeting you.’
The second I was in the hall and the door clicked shut behind me, I made a beeline for the stairs, ignoring the elevator completely. I wasn’t usually a fan of exercise, but I full-on sprinted down all twenty flights of stairs, wanting
to put as much distance as possible between me and whatever the hell that whole scene just was.
I had no idea why those strangers thought they knew me, but I definitely wasn’t going to stick around to find out.
2. Discovering the Real-life
Existence
of an Imaginary Friend
Declan
‘Good morning, darling.’
‘Mom.’ I leaned down and kissed her cheek before taking a seat between her and my dad at the round banquet table. They’d flown in late last night, so I hadn’t had a chance to talk to them before giving my little welcome presentation to the Hathaway VIPs. ‘How was the flight?’
‘Delayed,’ my dad said, lifting a piece of bacon to his mouth. ‘But uneventful. Great speech, by the way.’
‘Thanks.’ He was right – I’d fucking nailed it – but I still had the entire shareholder weekend in front of me so I wasn’t about to get cocky.
The Hathaway Annual Shareholder Meeting, for which thousands of investors trekked to Omaha for a week of feeling like stock-owning rock stars, always kicked off with a Friday-morning breakfast meeting that was just for the VIPs; there was another one tomorrow morning for everyone else.
This year I’d been tapped to do the welcome address at both.
‘He didn’t even bore me while I ate my eggs,’ Warren
said from the other side of the table, picking up his coffee cup. ‘The kid’s okay.’
The kid’s okay.
Warren Hathaway, the richest man in America and longterm CEO of Hathaway Holdings, had just spoken those words about me. The guy had a genius brain for business and had been my hero for as long as I could remember, so I’d be lying if I said his praise didn’t mean a lot.
Right after I graduated from college, Hathaway offered my family (who’d taken my great-grandmother’s tiny sofa business and turned it into CrashPad, the nation’s largest furniture store) a multimillion-dollar buyout. It’d been a dream come true because not only could my parents retire early and travel the world, but I was absorbed into the Hathaway enterprise and given the opportunity to work my way up in a much larger corporation.
Suddenly the MBA that my uncles had called a waste (You don’t need college to work in the family business) was guiding me toward the career I’d always wanted.
I’d been an EVP at Hathaway for two years now, but moving higher had been proving difficult. No matter how hard I worked, the guys at the top still saw me as a ‘young kid,’ even though I was thirty.
But a disagreement at the QBR last month – where I was right and CFO Marty Mueller was nearly catastrophically wrong – put me on the map with Warren, and suddenly my career was in new territory.
The old guy and his inner circle seemed to be forgetting about my age and inexperience and actually trusting my knowledge.
Fucking huge.
‘We finally met his girlfriend this morning,’ my mom said to Warren, and it took me a minute to catch up. What?
‘You met his Abby?’ Warren set down his cup and gave my mom a grin of commiseration. ‘I was starting to wonder if she’s real, because no one’s ever seen her.’
‘Right?’ My mom laughed in agreement. What. The. Fuck?
She wasn’t real.
Abby was the name I’d given to my nonexistent girlfriend. So how had my mother met her?
For what it’s worth, I never meant to make up a girlfriend. I wasn’t some adolescent who was too scared of women to date, for God’s sake; I was actually a big fan. But I didn’t have any time to commit to all the bullshit that went along with relationships. Work was my focus for now, and I’d worry about things like settling down after I turned forty.
But when everyone in leadership had a significant other, well . . . desperate times called for desperate measures. I needed the powers that be to think I was settled and grounded and ready to lead the company, so when my personal life became a topic of conversation at the quarterly retreat, I might’ve offhandedly mentioned my down- toearth-and-wanting-a-family-right-away angelic girlfriend.
Abby.
I’d literally looked at the server’s name tag – Abby – and named my imaginary girlfriend after her; not a lot of forethought went into it.
I hadn’t intended on keeping the Abby thing going, but it was convenient. It made my parents happy, my coworkers, my nana; everyone seemed to take comfort in the fact that I had an Abby in my life.
Only I didn’t.
She didn’t exist.
So what was my mother talking about?
‘She’s coming to the party tonight,’ my dad said to Warren, who’d become his pal over the past few years. ‘So you can meet her then.’
‘She . . . ,’ I said, squeezing the bridge of my nose as my brain ran wild trying to figure out what the hell could be happening. ‘She, uh, told you she’s coming tonight?’
‘Yes,’ my mom said, turning in her seat to scrutinize me. ‘But she looked surprised to see us in the kitchen when she woke up, Dex; did you forget to tell her we’d be staying at your place?’
‘Oh,’ I managed, trying my best to not look shocked that a stranger had actually been in my apartment. ‘Ah, I didn’t think she’d be there last night. I thought she –’
‘I’m so glad she was,’ she continued, as if I hadn’t even spoken. ‘She’s the most adorable little redhead and she baked a kitchen full of muffins that were to die for.’
So this was real. Someone named Abby had slept in my apartment and made fucking muffins.
‘Abby can cook, that’s for sure,’ I muttered as my mind whirled. What the hell was going on? I lived in a secured building with a doorman. I had locks on my doors and a security system.
How could this have happened?
Who the fuck was Abby?
‘I haven’t had a good muffin since Ethel passed,’ Warren murmured, setting down his coffee. ‘Have your little Abby bring one tonight, okay, Dex?’
‘Of course,’ I said, hearing a roaring in my ears as I gave him what I hoped was a casual smile. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to step out and make a call.’
‘Calling Abby?’ my mother asked in a singsong voice.
‘I’m definitely going to try and track her down,’ I said before turning away from the table full of watchful eyes and charging for the door. ‘Excuse me.’
3. 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 bedroom.’ 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.
4. Wherein a Deal is Arranged
Declan
I cannot believe I’m doing this.
I sat in my car – my parents were clearing their stuff out of my place so I’d been relegated to my vehicle for privacy – and pulled her up in my contact list.
Abi Mariano.
After utilizing Google to (a) make sure she wasn’t an actual criminal (I believed her about the infestation), (b) ascertain whether or not she was a functioning member of society (she’d graduated with honors from UNO and had a LinkedIn profile), and (c) determine her sketchiness factor, I consulted with my buddy Roman, who convinced me to take a huge-ass gamble.
I hit the FaceTime button and waited while it rang. And then she answered. ‘Hello?’
Her face popped up, her eyebrows all scrunched together like she was confused by the call. Which, I supposed, was fair since she didn’t know my number and we weren’t friends.
‘Mariano.’
‘Yes?’ She sighed and gave me an impatient glare before glancing at something beyond the phone and muttering an ‘excuse me’ to someone.
‘Can I have your attention for a moment?’
Her eyes shot back to me and she looked pissed, even as she said, ‘It is yours.’
I could tell by the narrowed brown eyes that she wasn’t in the mood to be messed with, which irked me because who did she think she was, using my house as her personal Airbnb and then acting like I was an ass for being unhappy about it?
She was a five-foot-nothing bundle of red hair and attitude who’d be cute if she wasn’t the cause of my current headache, but alas, Abi Mariano had seemed incapable of not causing me difficulty. I said, ‘I have a proposition for you.’
‘Oh, joy.’ She was walking beside a congested street, but I couldn’t tell where she was in the city. She looked at me through the camera and said, ‘Listen, let me stop you right there because I’m not interested in anything sexual or illegal.’
‘As if I am.’ For someone who’d squatted in my residence last night without permission, she sure had a big chip on her shoulder. I would’ve called her boss immediately if I wasn’t so desperate to keep my career on its current upward trajectory. ‘Do you want to hear my offer, or should I call Ken Adams?’
That made her mouth close. Yes, I know your boss’s name, honey.
‘Please continue,’ she said, and I was pretty sure she was gritting her teeth.
‘If you pretend to be my girlfriend at the party tonight –and do a good job without making things worse – then we’re square.’
‘Wait, what?’ She stopped walking and looked at me like I’d lost my mind. ‘You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend at some cocktail party?’
This was such a bad idea. ‘Yes.’
‘But I don’t even know you.’
‘I’ll give you notes so it’ll be easy to fake it.’
‘How do I know you’re not going to get me fired after I do this?’
‘I won’t.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m not going to trust you on that. See previous “I don’t even know you” comment.’
‘I’ll put it in writing.’
‘That means nothing. Like I’m going to hire a lawyer to sue a billionaire for going against his word to not fire me for trespassing? Nope.’
‘What do you want from me here?’ I snapped, irritated that she was making this absurd situation even more difficult.
‘Hmm.’ She sat down on a bench – is that Elmwood Park? – and was silent for a solid five seconds before snapping her fingers and saying, ‘I’ve got it. You can email Ken and tell him that you’re paying me to house-sit for a week. It’s electronic evidence of permission, and also an FYI so the amazing Abi doesn’t get in trouble if someone saw me slipping out in the morning.’
Okay, so the girl was quick on her feet; I’d give her that. ‘Fine, but why would I say a week? I’ll just say, FYI I paid Abi to house-sit last night.’
‘Because you’re going to let me stay at your apartment for a week, just until my situation has resolved itself.’
‘That is not happening,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘I’m not letting a stranger stay –’
‘First of all, we aren’t strangers – I’m your girlfriend,’ she interrupted in a tone that made me sound like the ridiculous one. ‘And you will be staying at a hotel. It wouldn’t make sense for me to house-sit if you’re there.’
‘You want me to move into a hotel and let you – a stranger – stay at my house.’
This girl was clearly out of her mind.
Ironically, I was already planning on staying in a hotel for the weekend. My dad had a bad back and couldn’t handle shitty beds, so since I was leaving again on Monday, it’d just made sense to let my parents stay at my place.
Until Abi showed up, that is.
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘And technically you let strangers come into your house all the time when you’re out of town, so it won’t be my first unsupervised-in-your-place rodeo. I’m there all the time.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘Then I’m not doing it. Count me out.’
‘I might consider putting you up in a hotel for a week,’ I said, not wanting to but also ready to be finished with this bullshit.
She scrunched up her nose. ‘Nah.’
‘Nah?’ I was going to fucking lose it. ‘Why nah? I just said I’ll pay for you to stay in a hotel for a week.’
‘Yeah, but I really want to use your kitchen.’
‘This is madness.’ I took a deep breath and tried for calm when I had mere hours until the party. I needed to focus on that, not this ridiculous person who’d suddenly
inserted herself in my life. ‘It was nice meeting you. Have a wonderful life – I’ll tell Ken you say hi.’
‘And I’ll tell your parents you say hi and also that you made up a fake girlfriend.’
My mouth snapped closed, and I literally had no idea what to say as she watched me with her eyebrows raised. There was nothing on her face but attitude, like she was daring me to test her, and I wanted to bang my head against a wall.
‘I will not be blackmailed by a maid,’ I said through gritted teeth, wondering how things could’ve gone off the rails so quickly. ‘Take the original offer or I’m hanging up and calling Ken.’
She bit down on her lower lip, blinking fast like she was trying hard to figure the best angle. Do the smart thing, Abi, come on. I kept my mouth shut, waiting for her to make the right decision.
‘Why, though?’ She didn’t look opposed to the idea, but blinked like she was trying to figure out a puzzle. ‘It’s only solving your problem for one night and will probably make things worse in the long run.’
‘Look, I just need to get through this very important evening without a million questions, okay?’
She pursed her lips. ‘What is the dress code at this very important evening?’
Thank God – she’s going to do it. I let out a breath of relief. ‘Do you have a cocktail dress?’
She snorted. The girl literally snorted, so I shut that down with, ‘Listen, I’ll send everything you need – dress, shoes, the works – to the apartment, and I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘Wait. Your apartment or my apartment?’