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Not exactly what I had in mind when I broke into the mansion tonight. Whipping off my hood so my long, wavy hair can breathe, I follow her.
The kitchen at The Pleiades can probably fit the cottage that I live in three times over. It’s a large circular room with industrial lights and steel countertops. It’s more or less like the kitchen of a very posh restaurant, complete with a walk-in freezer and high-end grills and whatnot.
Maggie gestures at me to take a seat in a nook with a little dining table by the window, overlooking the night.
She’s in her robe, meaning she was on call tonight, and I know that she’s a light sleeper. Just my luck.
I watch her as she scurries back and forth, collecting dishes and forks, and getting the blueberry pie out of the little fridge off to the side.
Maggie is super cute. Short and plump with a mop of curly honey blonde hair, peppered with gray.
She cuts us each a piece and sets one of the dishes in front of me before taking a seat.
“Eat,” she tells me, her motherly face stern.
I shoot her a small smile. She knows how much I love blueberry pie – actually, I love all sweet things – and she always makes sure to save a few pieces for me.
Sliding the dish close to me, I dig in. “Thanks.”
She grunts and my smile gets bigger.
Maggie points a finger at me. “Don’t. Don’t you smile at me. You’re not off the hook yet.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling and mouth sorry.
She cuts a piece of her own pie. “Now, is this about that guest, Mr. Grayson?”
I gulp the bite I had in my mouth and Maggie raises her eyebrows.
Clearing my throat, I whisper, “Maybe.”
“I told you to stay out of that.”
“Stay out of it?” I ask in disbelief. “Do you even know me? I can’t stay out of it. I won’t stay out of it. He groped Grace. Groped her. He practically groped me.” I gesture to my boobs. “And you don’t grope these without consequences.”
Grace is one of the girls on the cleaning staff. She’s shy and doesn’t like confrontation. So when I caught her crying in the staff room, I forced her to spill her story. Apparently, Mr. Grayson has been harassing her, making lewd comments and patting her butt whenever she walks by.
Motherfucking asshole.
A couple days ago when I felt a brush across my chest while I served him breakfast in bed, I thought I’d imagined it. But Grace’s story had me re-evaluating things.
So I acted. Someone had to.
Maggie studies me shrewdly and I feel my cheeks flushing with warmth.
“And that’s the only reason?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I shift in my seat. “What else could it be?”
Shrugging, she eats a bite of her pie. “I don’t know. Maybe something to do with the fact that you hate this job.”
“I don’t hate this job.”
“Really?”
I slide the pie away. “Yes. I mean, do I like cleaning up vomit when the guests go wild and finding used condoms on the floor? No, I don’t. Do I like dusting off the windows or mopping up the floor until I can see my face on the tiles? Nope. But it’s a job and you know I need it. I need it more than anything else in the world right now.”
Maggie was the one who got this job for me.
