“Hi, Mr. Danforth, Mr. Lee,” Sierra greets.
Mr. Danforth frowns at her. She hasn’t gotten the memo that housekeeping isn’t to be seen or heard.
Mr. Lee doesn’t acknow
ledge Sierra, though he seems to see her. Me, too. Though it’s hard to tell through his sunglasses, our gazes meet briefly and his feels intense. It seems as if he stares at me several beats longer than what I would consider normal. I lower my eyes and oddly feel like I need to bob a curtsy. When I look back up, the men have entered the suite and closed the doors behind them.
“Omigod, he’s so much hotter in person,” Sierra exhales, fanning herself.
“Was that Mr. Lee?” I ask.
She nods.
“Is he some famous businessman?”
She stares at me, “That’s Tony Lee. The Lees own The Montclair, dipshit.”
BETWEEN STUDYING AND working, I haven’t had a chance to replace my broken umbrella, so of course it rains. And it’s not just a drizzle but the steady kind that comes in at an angle and gets your feet wet even if you’re under an umbrella.
As I stand under the canopy of the entrance to The Montclair, I do my best to consolidate my backpack, a copy of Fifty Shades Darker that I checked out from the library to read on the MUNI ride back to my apartment, and a water bottle underneath my jacket. It’s too dark to tell if there’s any break in the rainclouds, so I step out from beneath the canopy, ready to rush as fast as I can to the MUNI station, and promptly slip on the wet pavement.
The ground is even harder than I expected, and I lay there, stunned.
Within seconds, firm arms lift me up, and I’m cradled in security before being set back on my feet beneath the canopy. Embarrassed, I turn around to thank whoever assisted me.
Only it’s him. And the words get stuck in my throat. I’m not sure why I find the guy a touch intimidating. So his family owns the hotel. That doesn’t necessarily affect me. Mrs. Ruiz knows I’m a good employee. And it’s not like I haven’t come across rich or famous people working at the hotel before. People dressed every bit as nice as Tony Lee, though this man rocks a suit and trench coat like no one else.
“They’re regular people who piss in a toilet just like everybody else,” I recall Lila, my adoptive mother, once saying, “and their shit stinks just as bad.”
Finding my nerves, I say, “Thanks. Guess I shouldn’t be in such a hurry.”
He picks up the water bottle and Fifty Shades from where they fell. Noting the barcode and ripped plastic wrap on the book, he says, “Didn’t know people still used libraries.”
He’s got an accent I can’t place, though he speaks English in a relaxed manner.
“You like the book?”
“I haven’t gotten very far,” I reply as I brush the dampness from my back, hoping there’s not a big wet spot on my behind, before receiving the items from him.
“But you’ve read the first one.”
I blush, realizing he knows about Fifty Shades. It’s not exactly the kind of book I would trumpet in front of my boss’ boss’ boss—or whatever he is in relation to a maid. I mean, the book’s not Brontë or Dickens.
“I did,” I admit and get ready to take my leave. “Thanks again.”
“Wait.”
He spoke in a low easy tone, but it was a command he expected would be followed.
“You don’t have an umbrella.”
“Mine broke yesterday.”
Last time I buy a three-dollar umbrella from the drugstore.
“Where are you headed?”
“Just to the MUNI station,” I answer.