Page 1 of Maid for My Billionaire Boss
One
Atalie
“Yourworkhistoryonyour résumé is blank, Ms. Pearson.” The woman who identified herself astheMrs. Michael peered over her on-trend glasses while she held my paper like it was an annoying utility bill. I marveled at the way her hair layered in puffed curls, overlapping like a perfectly plotted patchwork quilt on the top of her head. She definitely had her own ozone hole trailing behind her like a sluggish halo from the amount of product she had used to shellac her hair helmet in place. “Forgive me for being so blunt, but what do you do for money?”
My voice snagged in the back of my throat, which astonished me because I had never found a word I didn’t love to express. However, I still didn’t know how to explain to myself the recent oddities of my life. When I didn’t respond, she lowered her brows, and continued, “My apologies. That was terribly rude, but I’m trying to get an understanding of what skills you have.”
“I thought it was an entry-level job.” I managed in a reluctant defense because the truth of why my résumé was blank was far too impossible to explain. Worse than trying to explain differential equations, and it’s not even like I knew what those were.
“Well, it is, but it isn’t.” She set my résumé d own on her desk. “Cleaning isn’t hard, but Trey does have many valuable items in the home—in addition to a rare art collection—so I need character references.” She rotated her swivel chair square with my own. “You want to work for one of the richest men in the city and gave me nothing about your life. No people to call or businesses to reference. This doesn’t give me much to go on for such a delicate job posting.”
I deadpanned, wondering how a simple job interview could make me feel like I’d broken a law. “I assure you, ma’am, that is all I have.”
Motioning to the stack of papers next to her, she went on, “I’ve had so many applicants for this job that I could never interview them all, but I can sort them into two piles.” She flipped one over and read, “College student. Fashion major. No jobs. Hobbies: going to the beach.” She flicked her eyes back to mine. “She’s not applying for a job to clean a house if you know what I mean.” She reached out in the most graceful manner until her arm hovered over the trash can and gingerly dropped the résumé.
Then she returned to the résumé pile and grabbed the next one. “Thirty years of experience in house management and a full list of references. Mom of five. Grandmother of three.” A pleased grin spread on her face, and she neatly set that résumé back in the pile. “She sounds lovely, and I’ll have to call her.”
Retrieving my résumé, she flashed it at me. In a voice so hushed it hinted at an enchantment like a narrator of a children’s storybook, she said, “There’s a story here you aren’t telling me.” She crossed her arms loosely in front of her on the surface of her desk and leaned forward in anticipation.
I let out a secret groan, then grimaced when my secret groan hadn’t exactly been a silent one. My eyes skirted the room, pining for the exit. At this point, she obviously wasn’t giving me the job, which grated my nerves because I really needed money—yesterday!With only thirty-seven bucks left in my bank account—add to that the way she looked at me—I panicked and blurted out, “I was married.” My words came out all on top of one another, making my reply sound like a single, long word.
She tilted her head a-hungry-for-details measure. “Divorced?”
My heart wildly revolted at the mere suggestion of my departed love divorcing me. An illegal interview question on so many levels, but everything about her told me she wasn’t afraid to get personal. I wasn’t trying to be secretive, and I was aware of how shady a blank application looked. I was one of those people who had life experience and not job experience. I didn’t know how to put School of Hard Knocks on paper. Hiding my gaze in the shield of my lap, I replied, “No, ma’am. He passed last year. We managed an art studio together. If you’re worried about the art collection, it would be in good hands with me.”
“I’m sorry about your loss.” Her voice was small but not quiet. In an odd way, I felt like she was confirming something she had already guessed. “So, it’s just you?”
“I have a son.” Blindsided by how hard this felt to say, I forced myself to bravely let my eyes hit hers again. “He’s eight and, to be honest . . .” I sucked in a deep breath as I felt my eyes start to sting. “I applied for this position because I was hoping I could bring him with me to work. He’s no trouble. I promise you won’t even notice him. If anything, I’ll get done faster because he’s a big help.”
Her lips pinched in an untelling way before she reached her arm forward, offering a handshake, and said, “You’re hired.”
My head jolted. “I-I am?”
A spark of victory twinkled in her eye before she spoke in her enchanted narrator voice, “Years ago, I was a single mom who had to start over with a résumé exactly like this one.” Her lips curled into a coy smile. “I knew there was a story here. Forgive me if that seemed derogatory, but I didn’t think I could pass your application up if I hadn’t known the truth.”
I blinked back a tear and quietly nodded, unable to add anything about this uncanny coincidence.
Mrs. Michael switched back to her business tone, pulled out another sheet of paper, and slid it across the desk to me. “This is our nondisclosure agreement. Before I can proceed with telling you about the job and salary, and giving you a tour of the home, I need you to sign on the Xs.” She slid her French-manicured finger to the first line. She held a pen out to me with her free hand. I had wanted to ask some questions, but the way she hovered her finger on the X told me I wasn’t allowed to ask any until after I’d signed the confidentiality agreement. I obediently took the pen and signed on all the lines and set her pen neatly next to the sheet.
“Wonderful.” As soon as the word was out of her mouth, she snatched the sheet and dropped it into a file folder. As she stood, she said, “I’ll give you a tour of the house now.”
She led the way out of her office down the hall, her heels clicking on the wood floors. “This week Trey is in the process of closing his West Coast office but starting next week, he will be working out of his home office full time. To start, you can work full time since the home has been empty for so long and needs more care. Once the home is up to shape, you only need to come as needed but the salary will stay the same.” Stopping in front of a room at the end of the hall, she turned back to me as she pushed the door open. “This is his private office. You should try your best to clean it regularly, and I would prefer you start in here first thing Monday.”
I followed her inside what seemed like a modest office. I could tell by the bare shelves lining the wall, he hardly spent time here. Mrs. Michael ran her hand along one of the shelves, adding a film to her finger. Giving me a wrinkled nose grin, she firmly stated. “This needs a good scrub.” She retrieved a tissue from a nearby box, wiped her finger off, and tossed it into the trash can. When she turned back to me, the only photo on the shelf caught her eye. “Oh, here’s a photo of Trey and me.” She grabbed it, flashing it in my direction. “You can at least see what he looks like since you can’t meet him today.”
Glancing in the direction of the frame, I expected to see a man who matched her in poise. The face smiling back at me was young—obviously physically fit and demurely handsome. I immediately assumed Mrs. Michael must have been the one to bring money into their marriage because there was no way this arrangement would work any other way. She was still beaming back at me, holding the frame like she was expecting me to comment. I closed my stunned jaw. “Uh, lovely couple.”
“Excuse me?” Her brow flattened. “Trey is my son.”
My mouth made a silent oh, while I sucked in an extra breath, and wondered how I was going to take my clumsy foot out of my mouth. Deciding flattery was prime, I was about to tell her there was no way that a grown man could ever be her son because she didn’t look a day over thirty-five, but she broke the silence by inserting her own laughter, and said, “Oh my.” She pressed a flattened palm against her chest. “Pardon me for not being clearer. I had assumed you knew who Trey was. Many of the applicants applied simply because they wanted to meet him. That’s why I did the interviews for him.” She put the frame back on the shelf, and with a smile still dimpling her cheek, she asked, “You must not be from around here, are you?”
“No, I relocated last week.”
“Welcome to the area.” Her eyes steadied on me in a way that was more piercing than comfortable. “What brings you here?”
Before I could hold back, I found my words escaping. “I inherited my mother-in-law’s house here on Long Island. I wanted to . . .”Breathe againis what I felt like saying, but I didn’t want to getthatpersonal.Nor did I want to tell her I had been homeless. I wagged my head, trying to fill in my broken words with something. “Try something different. I’ll admit we’ve had a hard year, but now we’re ready for an adventure.”
“That sounds lovely, and having been in your situation before, I would have to agree that you are doing the right thing.” Her words were soft and warm, like everybody’s favorite Southern grandma. Then she put on a polite smile, walking forward. “Let’s get back to the tour. So, you may think this house is modest for a man like Trey. This is the home he grew up in, and I’ve long since moved into a new condo. However, Trey has always held on to it because of the sentimental elements.” She chatted as she strolled through the long hall. I was eager to get over the personal talk, so I willingly followed her through all the nooks of the home.
