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It’s all very confusing.
After patting my skin dry, I put on some mascara and colored lip gloss, brush out my hair and go get dressed. Again, I surprise myself. When I normally would have put on a sensible pair of pants and a sweater, I opt for a short, clingy dress with a daisy pattern, buttons running up the center and stopping right between my breasts. Looking in the mirror, I turn to the side and smooth my hands down the slopes of my cleavage, over my hardening nipples. I continue moving south, scrubbing my palms low, across my hips, lower into the V of my thighs.
I’m gathering the hem of my dress in one hand, sliding the fingers of my opposite hand into my panties when I hear footsteps approaching. Familiar ones. They belong to my mother.
Quickly, I try to appear normal. And not like I was about to touch myself.
“Maisy?” She opens my door without knocking and leans her head in, her expression weary as usual. “I’m leaving for the day. You can fix yourself dinner later before your shift?”
“Yes, Mom.”
She turns to leave.
I chew my lip for a moment, then follow her.
There is something that has been bothering me since Friday night. In addition to this whole awakened hormones business, it’s another reason I’ve been staring up at my ceiling all night when I should be sleeping.
My mother has been cleaning the Lincoln estate for over a year. She’s been complaining about her salary equally as long. But try as I might, I can’t seem to imagine Lincoln being stingy. And I really want to believe he’s a miserly employer, because it will give me more reasons to be angry with him, but somehow penny pinching just doesn’t fit with his personality. Throw in the fact that he dropped ten million dollars for my company and something doesn’t seem right.
Right before my mother can walk out the door, I stop her. “Mom?”
She pauses with one foot over the threshold. “Yes?”
“Um…” I pick imaginary lint off my dress. “I’m just curious. How much did you say Jack Lincoln pays you?”
A corner of her mouth ticks down. “Why?”
“No reason. Just…” I think fast. “Wondering if it would be more profitable if I cleaned residences, instead of the school and offices.”
“Oh.” She relaxes a little, but still hedges when it comes to giving me a figure. “Let’s just say he pays me a lot less than I’m worth.”
With a quick smile, she’s out the door. But my sixth sense continues to buzz.
I hesitate only a moment before sitting down at the kitchen table and firing up my mother’s laptop. It takes me three guesses to come up with the password to her online bank accounts…
…and the numbers in front of my eyes, the amount of the deposits, namely, make my head spin. No, this can’t be true. This can’t—
There’s a knock on the door.
Thinking it’s my mother, I almost hit the ceiling, but of course it’s not her. She wouldn’t be knocking. After a deep breath to calm my nerves, I log out of her online bank accounts, erase the browsing history and get up to go answer the door. Halfway there, though, I start to wonder if it could be Lincoln on the other side. I’m still not sure how he plans on finding me, since I never told him my last name, thus he never made the connection between me and his cleaning lady. But he seemed so confident he’d locate me.
Slowly, I rise up on my toes and look through the peephole.
It’s not Lincoln. It’s an older man in a smart, navy suit, wearing an earpiece.
I drop back down to flat feet and try to convince myself I’m not disappointed.
“Who is it?”
“Your driver, Miss Whitaker,” he responds, tone official. “I’m here to bring you to Lincoln Management for your appointment with Mr. Lincoln.”
A fluttering kicks up in my belly. “Right.” Why am I shaking? I knew this was coming. “I’ll just grab my purse and be right out.”
“Excellent, miss.”
I jog to my room and throw my small, heart-shaped satchel across my body, preparing to slide my feet into sandals. At the last second, I switch them for a pair of naughty red heels instead, wondering for the hundredth time this morning who I am anymore. And a minute later, I’m speeding down the parkway toward the city in the back of a sleek black limousine.
* * *
When I follow my driver—and apparent bodyguard—into the black marble elevator and see that Lincoln Management takes up the top five floors of the skyscraper, I start to get nervous. Suddenly I feel naked in my daisy-patterned dress and cheap red heels. Naked and defenseless. Once the silver doors slide open, however, I realize there is nothing in my closet that would have prepared me for this place. It’s a palace of glass and chrome and white.
