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It took nearly an hour of juggling to move the guests and their abundant luggage out of that room to one of the vacant rooftop penthouse suits. Although it was the middle of the night and they were seriously pissed off at the inconvenience, once the couple was settled into the decadent two-story penthouse with its own lap pool and spacious living area, they quickly changed their tune.
When I returned to the reception desk, I dialed the hotel’s maintenance manager to solve the leaking shower. Brett Taylor was paid well to be on call twenty-four/seven. Not today, though. He wasn’t answering his phone. Being two o’clock in the morning, I couldn’t decide if he was deliberately avoiding my calls, or he was simply passed out asleep and didn’t hear it ring. Either way it didn’t help.
That meant I had to call someone else before the entire sixth floor and every level below became flooded.
I scoured Google for plumbers in the area who were willing to work anytime, day or night. It took seven phone calls before “Mickey the Fixer” not only answered his phone but also agreed to come and take a look.
The man on the end of the phone had a voice tortured by cigarette abuse or something just as brutal, and I imagined he was a rugged brute of a man in his mid to late forties.
Thirty minutes later, when Mickey Taylor walked through the lobby doors carrying a bulky toolbox with ease, I was shocked at how wrong I was on all accounts.
He was devilishly handsome with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and rough beard stubble. But beneath that unshaven facade was a good-looking man. And his age? My new guess was late twenties. Same as me.
“You must be Jane. I hear you’ve got a plumbing issue,” he said as he walked to the reception desk. His voice had shifted from husky to sexy and no longer sounded like a smoker’s battlefield.
“Yes, unfortunately. Let me show you.”
I put the ‘Back in five minutes’ sign on the front counter and pointed at the elevator. As I followed him to the brushed silver doors, I admired his sexy ass that shifted beneath his khaki shorts with smooth repetition. I couldn’t believe I was perving. I would never have done that before this year.
“Thank you for coming.” I stepped into the elevator behind him and used my security access card to press the button for the sixth floor.
“No problem. These things always happen in the middle of the night. Murphy’s law or something. Hopefully, it’s a quick fix.” Mickey didn’t seem too upset about the early-morning callout. Brett, on the other hand, who was paid to do these midnight visits, had been almost blue with fury the last time I’d called him to the hotel in the middle of the night.
As Mickey and I stepped into room thirty-one, I noted the tumbling water seemed much louder than it did an hour ago. I directed him to the problem, but remained at the bathroom doorway to avoid getting wet.
The head of the shower had a crack at the point where it joined the wall, and water sprayed out in a forceful arc that hit the ceiling and nearly every surface of the shower recess. Despite the glass cubicle containing most of the spray, a light mist had escaped over the top of the partition and hovered in the room like a cloud.
“Righty-ho then. Let’s get this sorted.” Mickey bent over to place his toolbox on the damp floor, and I was drawn to the lovely curve of his ass.
“Great,” I mumbled, barely capable of speaking as he stood and ran his fingers through his sandy blond curls, slicking them back from his forehead.
It took a mammoth effort to drag my eyes away and check my watch. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
He turned to me. “Okay. I’ll see you back downstairs when I’m done.”
My breath caught at how stunning he was, and from that moment on, I was obsessed.
Mickey the Fixer is my new sexual adventure.
But for that to happen, I couldn’t wait until the end of my shift as I normally would. I had to do it now. . . do him now. . .while he’s all wet and scrumptious in his work gear.
Am I fucking crazy?
Yep, no argument there.
Then again, nothing was happening downstairs, and the chances of anyone missing me were minuscule. The debate was over—I’d officially lost my marbles.
I am doing this! Doing Mickey the Fixer, to be correct.
I nearly chuckled at my glorious, kinky thoughts.
Mickey looked at me expectantly.
“Okay, I’ll go then.” I was milliseconds off blurting out that he’d see me in about ten minutes before I caught myself. With one last glance at his perfect physique, I backed out the door. Once it shut behind me, I dashed to the elevator, punched the call button, and counted the seconds until the elevator pinged its arrival.
The doors were barely open when I jumped in and jabbed the button for the third floor about a dozen times.
In my room, I stripped off, re-dressed, and applied my abundant makeup and black bob wig in record time. I was back in the French maid outfit, and although aware of how clichéd it was, the costume was a perfect choice for what I was planning.
