And yet, I had told Geoffrey to offer it at double her hourly rate. She had accepted within minutes. That part unsettled me more than it should have. She had jumped at every offer of overtime, and that made me wonder. Did she need the money? Did she have someone at home missing her? I had too many questions for our intriguing new housekeeper.
I opened the Columbus renovation file.
Read the first paragraph. Stopped halfway through the second. Then I leaned back in my chair. This woman was terrible for my focus. She hadn’t been here yesterday, and my focus was even worse without her here, which is why I had Geoffrey offer her more hours.
Maybe I shouldn’t, but I decided to take a peek at the camera in the basement. I wasn’t someone who had many cameras in my home. I had some outside for surveillance, but inside, they were just in a few key locations; the basement, being full of valuable heirlooms, was one of them. I was only watching her to make sure she was doing an adequate job . . . even I didn’t believe that.
She worked with focus, which I recognized. But she moved differently from the staff I was accustomed to. She filled space. Not loudly. Just . . . fully. I remembered the way she had rolled up her sleeves yesterday. The small roller skate tattoo on the inside of her forearm. Black ink. Simple lines. Worn enough to suggest age. Derby, I assumed, if the stickers on her van were hers.
The shape had drawn my attention more than it should have. It was always accompanied by an unacceptable line of thought that followed.
She was staff. I did not indulge curiosity about employees. Not their lives. Not the things inked into their skin. And definitely not their curvy, delicious bodies.
And yet— The quiet strength in her forearm as she lifted weighted crates.
The way she braced her stance before moving something heavy.
I stood abruptly. The chair legs scraped softly against the floor. This was a distraction. I did not tolerate distraction.
In the past, I had removed it efficiently. I had fired a concierge for less.
I fired a housekeeper for hovering and another for attempting familiarity. Belle had done none of those things. She had not hovered. I had. That was the distinction I disliked.
I walked to the window overlooking the drive.
Her van remained parked in the same place.
I returned to my desk and forced myself back into the report. Occupancy projections. Quarterly expansion. Labor costs. Numbers were predictable. Desire was not.
I tapped my pen once against the desk, then stilled it. She would finish the basement. The project would conclude. Her presence would decrease. Order would return.
From the camera still pulled up, I heard a laugh. Just a brief sound of amusement at something unseen. My jaw tightened. I should not care what she found amusing in my basement. I should not imagine the expression on her face when she laughed. I should not want to know what other small markings might exist beneath the fabric on her body.
I opened another file. Read the first line three times.
The craving remained, and it was entirely my fault.
After a few more hours of work, I made my way to the kitchen to warm up some lunch. I didn’t typically use the kitchen. It existed for function. Today required sustenance.
The microwave beeped as I stood at the counter, sleeves rolled precisely, reheating a meal from a meal service I subscribed to. Cooking wasn’t something I had time for usually. I couldn’t remember the last time this kitchen was used for anything besides this.
Movement drifted faintly up from the basement. Footsteps approached from the corridor. The flutter of anticipation danced in my chest. It was a strange feeling.
She appeared in the doorway a second later, a clipboard tucked under one arm, hair slightly loosened from its earlier precision.
“You own a museum,” she said as a way of greeting. She blew a stray strand of hair above her eyebrow before a curious smirk covered her mouth.
“It is storage.”
“It is curated history,” she corrected. “I half-expected a docent.”
I cocked my head, taking her in. “You’re being paid to inventory it.”
“I am. And I’m doing an excellent job,” she said with a cocked eyebrow as she hugged her clipboard to her chest. And that smirk came back. Her casual nature is irksome. Right? Yes, irksome must be the right word for whatever I am feeling.
“Good, make sure that continues.”
The microwave beeped again. I removed the container.
