A knock comes, and I stride over to open the door, preparing for some homely young girl with bad teeth and mousy hair. But instead, standing there to my utter surprise, is Trixie Dickson herself! What the hell?
I gawk, taking in her curvy form. She’s dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, but nothing can hide the lushness that I sampled last night. Her curls are tied back tightly in a ponytail, but I know that if they sprang free, they’d be soft and spill over my hands. She’s not wearing makeup, but none of that matters. To me, she looks just as gorgeous as she appeared last night. What did Mickey say her name was again?
Trixie—no, Jolene, stares right back at me like a deer in the headlights. Suddenly, she blinks and steps back into the hallway, as if making a retreat. But it’s too late. I grab her wrist and pull her forcefully into the apartment.
“Oof!” she cries, falling against my chest. Suddenly, it all comes back to me. Her body is soft and plush, beckoning to my stiffness, and her hair still holds that sweet coconut scent. I’m getting aroused all over again.
But Trixie, er Jolene, pushes against my chest and I let her go this time. She takes a few steps back and wraps her arms around herself, trembling.
“Why?” I ask. As happy as I am to see her, I’m still so frustrated that she left so suddenly. “Why did you leave without even saying goodbye?”
Her mouth opens and closes a few times. I wait while she finds the words to explain herself.
“I thought you wouldn’t want me to stick around,” she mumbles. “I figured you wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”
My eyebrow twitches, and my temper flares. “So you decided without consulting me that that’s what I’d want? Why in the hell would you think that?”
Her chin tilts up defiantly, a bit of sass in her expression. “Because we met at a party and hooked up without knowing each other. That’s not exactly the best way to start a long-term relationship is it?” she huffs out an annoyed sigh. “We don’t even know each other’s real names. Come on. I know you’re not Chan.”
I smirk. I have half a mind to tell her how cute she looks when she gets feisty like this, but I settle for, “You’re right, Trixie.”
She glares at me and starts walking toward the elevator again. “You know what? I’ll just tell the employment agency that I can’t take this job. You can find yourself another maid, and we’ll both be happy.” She taps the button, and the elevator doors open. “I’m sure your new cleaner will be happy to take your money.”
But my brows furrow and my hand snaps out to stop the elevator doors from closing.
“Trixie,” I say in a threatening voice. “If you leave now, I’ll call the agency myself and make sure you never work again.”
She gapes at me. “What?”
I smirk again and release the doors, crossing my arms over my chest. “Unless you do what I say, I’ll give you a bad reference, or I’ll put in a complaint against you. I promise you that you do not want that to happen. Not from a client like me.”
She hesitates, searching my eyes for a sign that I’m joking. Unfortunately, I’m not and my expression gives nothing away. If she calls my bluff and walks out of here, of course I wouldn’t give her a bad review. What would I even say? She hasn’t even started working for me yet. But I want her to think that I will so that we can continue our sparring.
Finally, she rolls her eyes and steps out of the elevator.
“Alright fine,” she huffs, pouting at me. “What do you want?”
Relief floods my body, but I don’t let it show.
“You’re to be my live-in maid for the next three months. I expect you to mind my kitchen, my living room, my office, and of course, my bedroom.”
She sputters. “You must be crazy! This was never a live-in position and besides, what does minding your bedroom mean?”
I shrug. “No, I don’t think I’m crazy. In fact, I feel perfectly sane.”
Jolene shakes her head and sashays past me back into the apartment. I like how she’s already treating the place as her own as she steps into the living area before squinting at a plaque sitting off the side. She picks up the wooden decoration and reads it as her eyes widen.
“You’re Channing Saint,” she whispers. “Of Saint Productions.”
I nod. “That’s right, Jolene. Told you I was “Chan.” I make movies for a living, and my family has for a while now.”
She nods.
“And since you’re such a big-time movie producer, unless I become your live-in sex toy, you’ll make sure I never find work again?” she asks archly.