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Farrow swept in through the double doors, dressed in her tight-fitted black maid’s dress with the white Peter Pan collar.
She carried a silver tray, not sparing me a glance as she glided past.
But I knew that with a single word, I could wipe off that stoic expression from her face. Conjure sweat at her temple, ruining the French braid she’d twisted her pale hair into.
In the few days she’d worked for me, Farrow had befriended all of my staff. The cook, the gardeners, the house manager.
She was a breath of fresh air in this lifeless mansion.
Problem was, I didn’t like air.
Suffocating suited me fine.
I slid my phone back into my pocket, my fingers twitching in my lap. Each time she moved, the A/C vent forced a current of her scent my way.
I held my breath to prevent it from trickling into my system. Wordlessly, she set down caviar pots, her lithe, athletic body leaning over my plate.
She tested my limits, constantly inching nearer. Stretches of empty space unfurled on either side of me.
Farrow could’ve occupied any piece of it, but she’d decided not to. I had no choice but to conclude that this was her dipping her toe into the water to check the temperature.
Had she figured out her purpose here?
It was entirely possible she’d put everything together.
The fact that I could picture myself touching her did not provide me any comfort. On the contrary.
It made me feel like an inferno seared beneath my skin.
Junior whistled low and rubbed his hands together, his eyes running up and down Farrow’s body. “Nice staff, man.”
My blood—normally a frozen, useless liquid in my veins—sizzled into lava within seconds.
“I see what you’ve done here.” Junior winked, licking his lips. “Very smart. No need to settle down, saddle yourself to one chick. A rotating staff is the way to go. Where’s she from, anyway? Norway? Holland?”
“Your worst nightmares,” Farrow muttered under her breath.
“Aw, she talks, too.” Junior slapped his thigh, cackling. “Baby, you’re no nightmare. A wet dream, maybe.”
“How about we test the theory with a sharp object?” She smiled, batting her lashes as she set down the last caviar pot. “I’m pretty good with handling those.”
Understatement of the century.
I knew she could hold her own.
But I wanted to kill him for her.
When she tucked the empty tray under her arm, pivoting to leave,I stopped her with the tip of my butter knife. It kissed her elbow each time she exhaled.
I leaned in for privacy, hissing out, “You should not be serving food.”
My fingers rebelled against my brain, twitching, eager to latch onto her wrist and drag her out of here in front of everyone.
I didn’t recognize myself these days.
I needed to do something about it.
Perhaps a lobotomy, since narrowing my masturbation window from every 48 hours to every 24 hadn’t worked.
