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German has his hand on the knob when I clear my throat. “Book the flights to Los Angeles,” I say without looking up from my desk. “Tomorrow.”
I can tell by the slope of his shoulders that German is pleased, but he has the good sense not to be smug about it. He gives me a single nod and slips out of the room.
2
RAYNE
I’m tucking the mop into the linen closet when I hear the back door open. “The floor might be slippery,” I call out. “I just finished mopping.”
“Can I still come inside?” Steven Linley asks. “Or should I walk around to the front door?”
I smile to myself. I’m the only housekeeper I know who could order her boss to walk around his own house so he doesn’t ruin my cleaning job.
“No, no, come on, you’re fine. I just don’t want you to slip.”
I close the closet and move into the kitchen just in time to see Steven step out of his shoes and leap from the welcome mat in front of the back door to the mat in front of the kitchen sink.
I hold up ten fingers. “Ten out of ten. You stuck the landing.”
“Those ballet classes I was forced to take in college paid off, I guess,” he chuckles.
My eyes widen in disbelief. “Excuse me? You took ballet?”
“For football,” he declares loudly. “Coach ordered all of us to take a few classes to improve our balance.”
“Do you know first position?”
“Doyou?” he asks. He eyes me up and down. “You could be a ballerina. You have the build for it.”
As we speak, the closet behind me rattles as the mop falls over, taking half of the contents from the shelf with it. I wince. “Maybe I have the build, but I lack the coordination. Balance is not my strength, clearly.”
“Between the two of us, balance ain’t exactly mine, either. I’ve always been the big, dumb muscle-head. Some women hate that. Others… love it.”
His eyes glimmer, just for a moment, in a really strange way. I chuckle nervously, suddenly worried this conversation has spiraled way out of my control. I’m not sure how to rein it back into a more neutral, less innuendo-ey place.
Thankfully, I don’t have to, because Steven’s wife, Martha, chooses that moment to walk through the back door.
“Oh, Rayne! You’re still here.” She checks her thin gold watch. “You should have left ten minutes ago, sweetheart.”
“I’m almost done. Watch the slippery floor,” I tell her.
Steven extends a hand and helps his wife jump to his carpeted island. She lands gracefully on her stilettos and he hugs her close and kisses her cheek. The ball of tension in my chest loosens.
I’ve never met a couple more in love than Steven and Martha. Of course he wasn’t trying to hit on me. Who would, with a polished, successful woman like Martha around? Honestly, he should be worried about me trying to hit on her.
“My wife, everyone,” he announces fondly to the empty room. “Managing her schedule and everyone else’s at the same time. I’d expect nothing less.”
“Well, it’s early pick-up day, isn’t it?” Martha asks, even though I know she knows the answer. Steven isn’t wrong—Martha knows everything.
“I had a fight with the drain in the butcher’s pantry that slowed me down, but yeah, I need to go.” I tiptoe across the wet floor and grab my jacket and purse from the hooks by the back door. As I’m slipping into my sneakers, I snap my fingers. “Oh, and don’t open that closet or you’ll be buried under cleaning supplies. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
Martha waves me out the door. “Go get Yuliana. I will not be the one responsible for that beautiful little girl missing her mama at daycare pick-up.”
My heart warms at how fondly Martha talks about my daughter. Every parent thinks their kid is the best thing since sliced bread, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it’s pure parental bias.
Obviously, I’m the lucky one percent. Everyone who meets Yuliana loves her. The killer set of wide, green eyes she sports don’t hurt at all.
She can thank her dad for those.
