Page 113 of Faking Cinderella
BUBBLES ARE THE NEW BLACK
Margot
I never knewI could be grateful for not having a penis, but here I am, massively relieved that no one can outwardly tell how turned on I am after that discussion with Rhys.
For the past four years, anytime anyone would ask me what I was looking for in a man now that I was single, I’d say the same thing.
Someone pliable who takes orders well.
I like them meek and subservient.
But here I am, lusting after a giant of a former military man who’s both vulnerable and dangerous, agreeable but only to a point, with a strong mind of his own and the added bonus of a massive case of the grumpies.
Grumpy has always been inconvenient to me. There’s an extra layer of work to manage someone who’s grumpy.
But Rhys’s brand of grumpy—it’s understandable.
Sympathetic, even.
I was a bear that first year after being single again, when I was also absurdly worried about Daphne, who was refusing all of my attempts to help her get set up after the disinheriting.
That’s what I’m contemplating—how much I like Rhys and how turned on I am by him admitting he wants justice in his life—when I walk into the laundry room.
And gasp.
No, I choke on a gasp.
A knee-deep ocean of bubbles has flowed almost to the doorway, stretching across the room, the occasional sud-peak piled as high as the countertops where we fold the towels and sheets. A thin line still drizzles out of the open washing machine.
Cynthia, my boss, rounds the corner to the laundry room and shoves a mop at me. “Do this again, and you’re fired.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, despite every instinct yelling at me to deny that this was my doing.
I wouldnever.
Neverever.
But when my options are being blamed for a room of suds or getting made by Jonas Rutherford, I’ll take responsibility for the suds.
And for real—my lady boner isn’t getting any smaller at the respect growing for how large of an issue Rhys managed to cause me.
He hasn’t followed me down here, so I don’t know where he is, but I get to work, head down, apologizing anytime any other staff attempts to enter the room while I’m cleaning.
Playing the part.
Equally impressed with how Rhys saved me and irritated at the pile of work he made for me.
We owe each other payback.
I’ll take mine in bed. With his sweaty, broad body over mine, his beard tickling my skin while he?—
“You know not to put the sheets back in the washing machine, right?” Louisa, one of my fellow housekeepers, says to me from the doorway, pulling me out of my fantasy.
I stifle a shriek and feel my cheeks heat. “Yes. Rinse them in the sink until they’re not soapy anymore, then wash them the right way.”
She points to a pile of white towels. “Those too.” Her brow wrinkles. “I haven’t known you long, but I thought you knew better.”
Thank you. OfcourseI wouldn’t do this.
