The alarm blares like a siren in the small confines of my cabin. I get tangled in the blankets trying to reach it to turn off the offending noise. Gah, I’m sure they can hear the stupid thing in the next cabin over. I finally break free, but the room is still dark since the curtains are closed. I feel around the bedside table until I have the clock in my grasp and then for a few more seconds until I find the snooze button. Okay, that was annoying. I don’t want to be traumatized every morning by that thing. Last night, I purposely set it a couple of hours earlier than I’m scheduled to meet with this Tory person. I want to see the indoor pool we can use on the third floor, but I also want to watch the sun rise.
I push the blankets back and make my way to the light switch near the door. I forgot there was an electronic button by the bedside table to operate the lights and the curtains. Oh well, I had to get up anyway. The room is bathed in light, which reflects off all the cherry wood furniture in the room. It’s so pretty. I love my new space. It’s better than my room at the Neumann’s, hands down. No expense was spared on décor or comfort. The mattress and bedding alone feel like they were made for a princess. I slept like a baby after I decided to have dinner in my room last night—well, until that alarm clock ruined my slumber. I didn’t even get a chance to try out the fancy flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, but I’ll remedy that tonight. Aside from the pool, I have everything I need right in here.
For now, though, I need to get a move on if I want to check out this pool. I quickly throw my midnight black, waist-length hair into the bun I usually wear. The mere thickness of it is too much of a hassle to do anything else with it. I’ve contemplated just cutting it all off, but I chicken out every time. The bun is not very stylish, but it’s convenient. If I cut it, I may have to actually style it. I throw on a hooded long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants. I’ll shower and get dressed for work after I get back. It’s nearly 6:15, so I need to hurry.
It’s only a couple of flights up, so I don’t bother with the elevator. I haven’t walked far before the indoor pool comes into sight. The water sloshes against the sides with each sway of the boat. The ocean must be rough this morning. The curtains are already pulled back to give a panoramic view through the floor-to-ceiling windows that look through to a spa of some sort.
It’s not as deep as the Neumann’s twelve-foot pool, but I can definitely swim laps with the eight feet of this one. I’ll have to find out what time is acceptable to avoid another fiasco. I follow the winding staircase off to the right that leads to yet another level. Surprisingly, this level is open to the outside where you can walk out to the railing of the boat and look out at the ocean. The waves and the salty smell in the air are very soothing. I watch as the sun peeks from behind the clouds, bringing with it an array of yellow and orange hues. It’s synonymous with my new start.
“Enjoying the view?” a male voice asks from behind me. Startled, I spin around on my heels, and the vision in front of me causes my breath to catch. A gorgeous man stands before me, not even two feet away. His piercing blue eyes hold me captive, and I can’t look away. Definitely no man who looked like him existed back at the mansion. Aside from his striking, gorgeous eyes, his brown with a hint of sun kissed hair is absolutely yankable. Shorter on the sides with considerable length on top for a woman to hold on to—just rolled out of bed tousled hair looks good on him. His mustache and beard contain just the right amount of facial hair without being too much.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Seems like you are enjoying the view very much,” he continues with a smirk. His dimples and perfect kiss-worthy lips add to this visual indulgence until he opens his mouth.
And just like that, the trance is broken. Smug fucker. He’s obviously talking about himself now because I’m sure I look like a staring idiot. It’s not my fault I have minimal exposure to hot guys—like none!
“Well, I was enjoying the ocean view and sunrise until I was interrupted,” I lie. The truth is, I was enjoying both views—him and the other stuff I mentioned—until he opened that conceited trap of his. “Do you work here?” I need to get the subject off his handsomely good looks.
Mr. Smug raises his perfect eyebrows at me in amusement. “What do you mean?”
“You know? The thing people do to earn money—work? It’s also known as a job. Do you work on this boat?”
Although I can’t picture Mr. Smug Hottie being part of the help, I secretly hope so. Otherwise, it means he’s a guest and off-limits. Who am I kidding? I could never pull a guy like him anyway, but it doesn’t stop my vagina from reacting to this manly specimen. She perked up the minute his eyes met mine.
He seems to be a bit self-absorbed, so it cancels out his handsome sex appeal. I’ll just keep telling myself that.
“No. I don’t work on this boat then.” Mr. Smug Hottie grins. “What about you? Do you work on this boat?”
“Yes. I’m the new maid … um, housekeeper. Today is my first day, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be out here.”
“Why is that?” He steps closer, and my breath hitches for the second time. I stupidly look into those blue eyes again, and I’m rendered speechless. When I’m finally able to string together a coherent sentence, I stutter like a babbling idiot.
“This area, the … the … the forward of the boat is for the … the … employees. The guests have their own pool,” I finally get out.
“Ah, too bad. I happen to like this one,” he taunts. “I guess that makes me a rebel. Although, technically, the pool is down there,” he says, pointing at the pool one level below. He’s got me there.
“Look. I’m not going to snitch on you, but you can’t be on the forward of the ship. Guests are only supposed to be on the midship or aft. I don’t want to be caught with you out here. I need this job,” I almost plead. He’s right about the pool thing, but this area is still off-limits.
“Yeah, that wouldn’t be good. After all, snitches get stitches.” He lets out the most infectious laugh I’ve ever heard, and those dimples are so damn enthralling. I want to yell at him because he is not taking me seriously, but I can’t. I try to hold it in, and then I finally crack.
“Who in the hell even says that?” I giggle.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve never heard that saying?” he teases. “It’s street slang. A reference about not snitching to the cops?”
“Well, surprise, I wasn’t raised in the streets.”
I take a really good look at him now. He’s wearing joggers and a t-shirt that clings to his chiseled chest and abs. He runs a hand through his already tousled hair, and my eyes follow. I cross one leg over the other to encourage my vagina to settle down. He looks down at my crossed legs momentarily before his sinful lips curve upward. Does he realize the effect he is having on me? I give him another once-over, perusing the god-like body his attire is doing so little to hide. Only sexual perfection, nothing that screams he was raised in the streets either.
“And from the looks of it, you weren’t either,” I add sarcastically, hoping he doesn’t see through my lustful thoughts.
“Ah, but you don’t have to be raised in the streets to have street smarts.” He winks at me, and I swear my stupid vagina winks her approval. “It was nice talking to you, Miss. I’ll get going before you’re seen with me. Wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble on my account.”
That sexy grin is back. It hints at an underlying meaning, and I wish I knew what. He probably knows that he’ll make an appearance in my next get myself off session.
“Hey! Quick question before you go,” I rush out like I wasn’t just mentally cataloging him for later. He turns back slowly to face me, and I have to force myself to continue. It’s not fair for one man to be this sexy. Now his stride toward me is turning me into mush. “Um, where can I get a camera? Do you know if there is a shop to buy that sort of thing on this boat?”
“There is a small gift shop amidship, but I don’t think you’ll find a camera in there. What kind were you looking for?” he asks.
“Just a digital one. One that doesn’t need film.” He bellows out a laugh; only this time, it’s not so funny. He tapers it off after he realizes I’m serious.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that …Well, do those film based cameras even still exist? Unless you need one of those fancy cameras for something specific, why can’t you just use the camera on your phone? Most phones nowadays come with decent megapixels. What kind of phone do you have?”
The pregnant pause between us is awkward. “I don’t have one,” I finally admit.
“What happened to it?” he pushes.
“I’ve never owned one.” More silence. “I’ve never needed one.” He shakes his head as if to clear it.
“Well, I’d better get going. Maybe you can get one at our first stop. Hopefully, you’ll find one,” he says. “It was nice meeting you … I don’t even know your name. What is it?”
“Brennan,” I reply simply.
“Hmmm. That’s a guy’s name, but it somehow fits you. Take care, Brennan. I’m sure we’ll see each other again real soon.”
“Wait. You didn’t tell me your name,” I blurt out, stopping him for the second time.
“You’re right. Where are my manners? My name is Silas.” He winks. I guess that is his signature move to make the panties wet because he definitely has it mastered. “Can I share an observation with you, Brennan?”
“Shoot,” I encourage.
“I think you secretly want to get caught out here with me.” With that bomb, he turns and walks away, chuckling to himself.
He stirs so much in me. So much so that I’m surprised by my body’s reaction to him. I don’t know what he meant about seeing me again real soon, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it. So what if he’s off-limits? I couldn’t have him anyway. Whatever, it doesn’t hurt to look and maybe get off to thoughts of him. I wonder what kind of kinky experience he’s here for. Chances are, he is already here with someone. Anyway, the moment is over. I stayed out here longer than I’d anticipated talking to the handsome, smug stranger. Now I have to forgo a shower in order to meet with Tory on time.
There is an unexpected knock on my door. I give myself one more look over in the mirror before I open it. A blonde bombshell stands before me wearing a black pants suit that hugs her every curve. The buttons on her white button-down shirt strain against her bosom. It is obviously part of a uniform since the breast pocket of the jacket is embroidered with The Playboy’s Lair logo. The blonde looks me up and down, and I can see the silent judgment in her narrowing eyes. I’m wearing a suit too; only mine is a mustard-colored skirt combination and about two sizes too big. It was my mother’s.
“Hi. I’m Tory. You’ll be shadowing me for your initial training today. I’ve come to get you fitted for your uniform before we go topside, and it would appear I’m here not a moment too soon.” I bite my tongue at her obvious insult. So she’s Tory? She doesn’t look like any housekeeper I’ve ever seen.
“Can I come in?” she asks when I don’t respond right away.
“Sure,” I say, stepping aside. She wheels in a rack of uniforms. They are all collared, button-down gray shirts and black pants. The shirts bear the same logo as her jacket, but nothing remotely close to the sexy sophistication she’s wearing.
“What size are you?” she asks. There is no friendliness in her tone.
“I’m a size six.” I keep my tone just as dry. The employees didn’t have to wear uniforms at the Neumann’s unless they were frontline employees, meaning they were going to be in proximity with their guests—basically for entertaining purposes.
“Hmmm. We have a few size fours and a couple of eights. No way you could squeeze into a four, though.” She winces while looking at my backside. My ass isn’t exactly small and perky.
“I’m a size four, I mean,” she adds as if that justifies her below the belt insult. “We’ll put you in the eight. With a belt, you’ll be fine. I’ll fit you with a large shirt to make sure it fits over the girls,” she says, pointing at my more than a handful boobs.
“Okay.”
Suddenly, my optimism is sucked right out of me. I’m the outsider—the new girl. To make matters worse, I have Barbie here making me self-conscious about my considerable assets. We all can’t have long legs, a lithe, tight body, and huge boobs. Well, I have the boobs part, but I’d kill for her proportions. She’s every man’s fantasy. She’s the kind of woman who Mr. Smug Hottie would notice.
Will all the staff be this condescending? Will they all have the “just stepped off the runway” good looks like she does? Maybe Mr. Lair only employs gorgeous people like Tory for his sex ship, and I’m the anomaly—the favor. I enter the bathroom to put on the uniform while she waits. Just as I thought, it hangs on me without any type of shape. Not a curve to be seen. Not that I could hold a candle to her body. But it doesn’t matter; this is how most of my clothes fit anyway since I wear a lot of my mother’s things. I blow out a much-needed breath and rejoin Tory.
“Perfect,” she exclaims. “It’s a little big, but once you start cleaning, you’ll appreciate the extra breathing room.”
“How do you clean in that?” I foolishly ask. She’s wearing hot pink “fuck me” stilettos, for God’s sake. They’re a far cry from the slip-resistant clogs that were issued to me last night.
“Oh, honey, I don’t clean anymore. I supervise. Those days are behind me.” She flips her bottled blond locks for added emphasis. “We have to get going. There’s been a slight change to our schedule. Mr. Lair has called an impromptu meeting on some changes we need to know about.”
I look at my naked face once more in the mirror and make sure my bun is securely bobby pinned in place. Standing next to Tory is giving me a complex, and I’ve never been one to care about makeup and crappy glamour girl stuff.
“I’m ready,” I lie effortlessly. My feelings have been all over the place since I got here. Bosom Barbie sure as hell isn’t making things any better. I wish Atticus was training me. Wonder if he’ll be at this meeting?
I walk into the same conference room where I signed the NDA yesterday. The room is filled with people wearing uniforms similar to mine with slight style variations. Aside from Tory, they all seem like regular working people—not a single glamour bot in the bunch. I can feel their stares on me as I stand and wait for Tory to finish her conversation with the wiry, short-haired woman who has stopped us. She doesn’t seem too pleased with Tory’s response to her issue is all I can really piece together. They’re in deep discussion about it, but I try not to eavesdrop. A quick scan around the room when we first walked in gives me an idea of who I’ll be working with. It looks like mostly an older crowd, so that’s a plus. If I had to guess, I’d say their ages range from late thirties to maybe early sixties, which is the same demographic I’m used to working with. Tory must have been the youngest before I arrived. I would guess her to be mid-twenties. I’m just glad she is the outlier. I don’t think I could work with a bunch of people who looked and acted like her.
“Oh, you don’t have to wait on me, Brennan. I’ll catch up with you after the meeting,” Tory says when she notices me still standing there.
A fake smile is plastered on her overly made-up face, but I’m not fooled. Not sure what her deal is, but whatever. I don’t even bother to acknowledge her dismissal. Instead, I look around the room to find an available seat. A couple of seats are available closest to the entrance, but it’s at the head of the table. I’m guessing Mr. Lair may take one of those seats when he arrives, and I don’t want to be in the front.
I make my way to the back of the room to take the last available seat before someone snags it. The voices that were once barely above a whisper around the table come to a complete pause when I pull out the chair. You could literally hear a pin drop if someone would. The guy whose back was originally turned to me slowly turns to see what caused the interruption. I nearly tip the chair over as I sit down. He’s wearing a hunter green Henley shirt and jeans now, but it’s him. Mr. Smug Hottie.
“Pardon me?”
Holy shit! I totally just said that last part out loud. I can feel the heat creeping up my skin, so I put my hands over my eyes and let my elbows keep me from face planting on the table.
“I can still see you, Brennan,” he teases.
“What are you doing here? I thought you said you didn’t work here!” I squeak. My attempt to change the course of this disaster is futile.
“Mr. Smug Hottie, huh?” My hands are still covering my eyes, but I can feel his stupid smirk. “We meet once, and you already give me a nickname. That’s cute.”
I wish the floor would just swallow me. Any moment now would be great. I know all eyes are really on me, so I need to shake this embarrassment off. I have to turn this around. I can’t let this be how my new co-workers get introduced to me. I remove my hands and put on the best brave face I could muster.
“Well, I had changed my mind about the hottie part after you opened your smug trap, so now I just call you Mr. Smug,” I huff. An audible gasp is heard through the silence.
“And here I thought we had gotten off to a good start.” He tsks. “I didn’t even get you caught being out there with me,” he adds in a whisper. He looks around the room, and suddenly, everyone busies themselves with carrying on like before. I know they’re still listening, though.
“So you never answered my question. I thought you said you didn’t work here,” I push, desperate to get the attention off me.
“I don’t. I’m just here for the meeting.”
He shrugs like it’s the most logical answer ever. I was about to question him further, but I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Tory, and she doesn’t look very happy with me. Then again, what else is new? Her forehead has creases that threaten to crack all that foundation she’s wearing. I hope she has stock in that stuff because I swear she has a department full on her face. She is about to tell me something, but then she looks over my shoulder and backs away. What the hell was that about? Why the sudden change in her pursuit to fuck with me? I was bracing myself for it. I’m not responsible for the shit that comes out of my mouth sometimes, especially when backed into a corner. I blame it on the flight or fight response. She doesn’t know I’ve verbally sliced her tens ways from Sunday already within my internal monologue. My “IM” has saved my job many times at the Neumanns. It’s my defense mechanism until you unleash my “zero fucks” mode.
I see Atticus for the first time today as he closes the conference room door and nods in this direction. Mr. Smug adjusts a black clip on his shirt that I haven’t noticed until now, and an echo sounds through the room.
“Now that everyone is here, I’ll get started,” he announces. Get started? What the hell is he going on about?
“We have a new housekeeper here among us. I would like you all to give a warm welcome to Miss Brennan Delavan. Brennan, can you stand please, so those at the other end can see you?”
I swear my jaw would have hit the floor if it wasn’t attached. Of course. Why didn’t I figure this out sooner? He’s about twenty-five, walks around like he owns the place, and the workers respect him because of who he is. That’s why they went back to minding their business with a single look from him. He’s the owner’s son! Geesh. And I called him Mr. Smug to his face. He just let me dig my own grave. I bet he’s going to tell his father on me. It’s a prime example of how my mouth gets me into trouble.