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Henry was the only one from the maintenance crew allowed in this restricted area, unless absolutely necessary. And the housekeepers permitted in the wing were all to finish their work prior to noon, when Sterling and Alexander returned from their morning ritual of weight lifting, followed by racquetball, showers, and brunch. They’d missed all of that today, however, since they’d flown into San Francisco from New York—and Lily hadn’t needed to cater to them during meals yet. So this was her first meeting with either of them.
And not an impressive one at that on her end.
She said, “I apologize for the mess and the noise. I haven’t dropped a tray since I was sixteen. But Mr. Sterling’s music was riveting . . . and then he slammed the door. Caught me off guard.”
“An understandable reaction. And I apologize for both of us startling you. I didn’t want you to cut yourself on that vase. As for Jax . . . Well. He’s been in a bad mood for seven years. Don’t take it personally.”
Lily couldn’t tell if he was joking. His demeanor was causal, unassuming. He appeared to be very good-natured. Laid-back even. Surprising considering how intensely he played the piano. She’d studied up on both men and had found herself inexplicably lured into the compositions she’d randomly downloaded—though, admittedly, she hadn’t been nearly as moved as several minutes ago with that entrancing violin.
That sort of raw emotion had not been captured in the music she’d listened to prior to coming to the estate. There was a poignant sense of yearning behind this particular arrangement that had drawn her in. And left her longing for more. But no sound came from the music room now.
Pulling herself together, Lily gathered up the tray and said, “I’ll return shortly with fresh tea and leave it on the table.”
“Don’t bother. We’ll take a pass this afternoon. Jax and I are headed into the city. We won’t be back to the estate until one or two, so we won’t be in need of your services this evening.”
“Cocktails and dinner before the opera and then a VIP party afterward,” she recited. “Greta informed me of the events. Your tuxedos, overcoats, and scarves were delivered from the cleaners this morning and I’ve hung them in your dressing rooms. Shined your shoes. If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to ring me. Even when you return. I’m available to you both twenty-four seven.”
That was a huge commitment, but not uncommon for a live-in butler. And for what they were paying her . . . Christ. She wouldn’t sleep for the entire two-month assignment if that was required of her.
Her father had instilled a sense of duty in her from a young age, but the dollar signs were also flashing in her eyes. Lily had a grand plan for the money she’d make before spring rolled around, and she wouldn’t let anything derail her fully plotted-out adventure.
Making it imperative she do a top-notch job here—and not lust after her boss. Or bosses. Because if Jackson Sterling was as striking in real life as Lexington Alexander . . .
Oh, good Lord.
She bit back a moan.
Didn’t help matters that Alexander’s penetrating blue gaze slid over her a bit too slowly, a bit too suggestively. A spark between her legs was the absolute last sensation she needed to feel. But she did—and it rocked her to the core.
She barely contained a gasp.
He said, “We’re happy to have you on board, Lily.” There was a playful glint in his eyes as he added, “Don’t let Jax rattle you, all right? He slams a lot of doors. You’ll get used to it.”
Alexander turned on his heels and sauntered off toward his suite at the opposite end of the hallway.
Lily stared after him, thinking she might have gotten in over her head with this job.
Because even though one employer had affected her deeply without so much as showing his face and the other had already disappeared behind his bedroom door, she continued to experience the aftershocks of Sterling’s taunting music and Alexander’s tantalizing gaze.
All bad and wrong.
She tried to shake off the scintillating sensations as she bypassed the sweeping grand staircase and instead took the discreetly tucked-away service elevator directly to the kitchen.
The second she entered the enormous room with its comforting hustle and bustle, Greta descended upon her. No doubt anxiously awaiting Lily’s return from setting the tea. How disappointed the older woman was going to be.
Greta took one look at the travesty that was Lily’s tray and exclaimed, “What the bloody hell happened!”
“Little accident.” Lily skirted the slender, stylishly coiffed salt-and-pepper-haired woman and put the tray on a sidebar.
Between clenched teeth, Greta said in her thick British accent, “You told me you don’t have ‘accidents.’ You were a server at the famed Cliff House in San Francisco for nine years. One of the reasons I recommended you for hire.”
“Everyone has accidents, Greta. Mine are just typically out of my customers’ view—you know, like slicing my finger open on the foil of a Merlot bottle I’m uncorking in the cellar to decant or knocking over a bowl of clam chowder while expediting an order. I don’t tend to just lose my concentration and drop a tray, because, because . . . fuck.” She mumbled the last word.
Greta’s brow crooked.
Lily had already discerned that behind the very uptight appearance, Greta Hamlin had a keen and feisty wit. It jumped out from time to time, though she clearly worked hard to keep it under wraps.
Thus far, Lily hadn’t seen or heard her slip in front of the other staff, the very stoic, singularly focused legion of chefs, servants, housekeepers, and landscapers. But for whatever reason, Greta had apparently taken a liking to the newest, youngest addition to the crew, and on occasion she let her innate sarcasm break through.
