“Holy. Mother. Of God!” I gasp, throwing the door open.

I’m too intimidated at first to even step through the front door. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Normally, I clean homes around North Jersey, the sort of places one would expect mobsters like the ones on TV to live in. Maybe they do, I don’t know. I never see the owners. I’m always there while the house is empty, as though the home’s owners don’t want to risk exposure to the person who cleans up after them. It might break some fragile cosmic balance.

But nothing I’ve seen in those McMansions can touch what stretches out before me.

One person needs all this space?

I don’t take my eyes off the living room as I stretch the plastic covers over my sneakers, then pick up the caddy which holds my cleaning tools—including the required cleaning solvents and two brand-new toothbrushes for cleaning the grout in the showers. One room, one toothbrush.

Yeah, unreal.

But then, the entire situation is unreal or close to it. In a daze, I walk through the door and close it behind me. I can’t help but forget about the cleaning for a moment as I walk straight to the plate-glass windows which stretch from one end of the large, open room to the other and look out over half of New York. I’m so high up, the people down in the park look like ants.

I can barely think straight, it’s all so beautiful. I can’t help but remember the girl I used to be—still am in a deep, secret part of my heart. The girl who only wore the hand-me-downs of strangers. Granted, I’m only in this apartment because I’m supposed to clean it. I don’t live here. It’s not mine and it never will be.

But I’m here. That’s something, anyway.

“Oh, hell.” I catch my reflection in the window, the curve-hugging tank top under a bleach-splotched hoodie, the yoga pants and covered sneakers, and I realize I haven’t covered my hair yet. I couldn’t find a hairnet so I just bought a shower cap. I pull my long, chocolate locks into a high ponytail and stuff it into the cap while rolling my eyes. What a weirdo this guy must be.

He has taste, though. I’ll give him that.

I would never know how to begin decorating a place this big, this exquisite. The dark, polished wood floors gleam in the clear light flooding through the windows. The sleek leather furniture could be mistaken for art pieces.

I look around for photos, but there are none. Not surprising, considering the list of dos and don’ts I’ve got tucked into my pocket. He probably considers all other people unhygienic. It must be hard to have sex with a woman while she is wearing a hair net and shoe covers.

There’s a long bar along one side of the room, fully stocked. Black leather bar stools line up before it. A glass-enclosed fireplace makes it possible to enjoy a cozy fire from both the living room and formal dining room, with its long table and many chairs. The center piece is an intricate glass sculpture.

Every room is like this, I realize as I take a brief tour.

I could probably hide out in this place and the owner would never find me. It’s that big. There’s a greenhouse with a glass roof and hundreds of plants. A chef’s kitchen that looks like it has never been used. There is even a butler pantry. The media room, complete with reclining chairs that face a massive flat screen panel. Just when I thought I knew everything about this cold ordered house, I come across a popcorn machine that I’m just aching to test out. Better not. Something tells me my client would clue into the scent of popcorn in the air.

I can’t waste time forever, so I pop in my earbuds and start up an audiobook on personal development. Some people work to music, and I can completely relate to that, but I find that listening to a guru as they urge me to take control of my life and climb toward a better future is particularly inspiring when I’m scrubbing a toilet.

It won’t be like this forever.

Hours pass with Antony Robinson whispering in my ear. By the time I finish toothbrushing the grout, washing and polishing the hardwood floors of the entire first floor by hand, and using an extendable duster to reach the corners between the walls and fifteen-foot ceilings, my back, shoulders and knees are killing me.

And I still have to do the second floor.

At least two of the rooms are unused guest rooms, and one of the bathrooms is also unused. I wipe that one down with my spray bottle of vinegar and lemon—he’s so generous, letting me get away with only wiping the room down—before changing the linens.

Even unused, they must be changed. Who is this person?

I notice Lisa’s attention to detail when it came to hospital corners and I make a mental note to do the same, even as the wicked voice in the back of my mind tells me he’d never know if I change the sheets or not. They haven’t even been slept in, and all the others in the linen closet are exactly the same.

But a sane little voice in my head says he’ll know. I don’t even know who this crusty old dude is, but I just know in my bones, he’ll know.

By the time I’m finished with everything but the master bedroom and bathroom suite, it’s been seven hours and I can’t even get excited about the money because holy crap, I’m going to die of exhaustion. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Killing myself to make his apartment perfectly clean? Then dying in the middle of it, lying there for two days? Mr. Demanding would probably move out.

I text Helen to let her know I’m finished because damn it, I need a short break, but I don’t feel right relaxing on the client’s dime. I’ll do these last two rooms off the clock—after all, a thousand dollars minus Helen’s ten percent is nothing to sneeze at. For me, it’s nearly half a month of work. I can almost pay the rent on my little Red Bank studio apartment or the entire month’s bills. Maybe I can take a little time to focus on my schoolwork. As exhausting as this day has been, it’s also been a godsend. I can’t pretend it hasn’t.

The fact that the bed is so huge and so darn comfy looking isn’t helping. All right. I’ll do the bathroom, then take a break before changing the bed and dusting everything. It’s a very masculine suite—the entire apartment is masculine, but this even more so. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I’d know in a heartbeat that this room belongs to a man.

The bathroom, with its sunken marble tub large enough for four people, heated floors and ten-jet shower is my idea of heaven. It is also roughly the size of my entire apartment. If it were mine, I would never leave. I’d just soak in the tub until my skin pruned and eventually fell off entirely. I’d be that deeply committed.

Another hour and another room finished. He’s a neat freak, for sure. His toiletries are lined up perfectly, and they’re all ultra-expensive brands in sleek, sexy packaging. I’m such a sucker for things like that. A salesperson’s dream come true.

It’s six o’clock now and I’ve been cleaning for seven hours. I need a rest. I look longingly at the big bed. I have to change the sheets anyway, so it won’t matter if I take a tiny little rest at the foot of the bed, will it? I sure hope not, because oh, look, I’m already sinking down onto it and the silk slides against my bare arms, and I’m more comfortable than I’ve been in a long time. My entire body is singing right now.

Singing a lullaby.

My eyelids slide shut.