I pull up the long driveway to Mr. King’s house and breathe out a long, shaky breath. My fingertips brush down my neck and clutch the necklace at my throat. That man.

It’s hard to believe I didn’t dream up the man from Toby’s. He certainly looked like he could’ve walked right out of my imagination. Tall, dark hair, shockingly green eyes that brought images of silken bedsheets and bare flesh to my mind. He had it all. Sexuality, power, charm. He wore what looked like a very expensive suit but somehow it didn’t seem stiff on him. He wore it casually and comfortably, as if he was as at home in a suit as most men are in a t-shirt.

I’m still mentally smacking myself for walking away, but the moment he talked about blowing off my job, I knew I had to walk away. I knew a man like him could probably override my better sense and make me do something dumb enough to risk losing my job, which I absolutely can’t afford to do.

Still, he was so insanely handsome. I head inside Mr. King’s house, barely noticing how massive it is anymore. I remember I thought I had the wrong address on my first day. As an in-home caretaker, I’ve worked a handful of jobs since graduating college two years ago, and they’ve all been in a similar type of house--old, dusty, and cramped.

Mr. King’s house, if I can even call something so big a house, couldn’t be farther from those places.

For starters, there are three main buildings. There’s the main house, which is broken into three wings, each of which is a sort of home within the home for Mr. King, his daughter, and his mother. There are also a central cluster of rooms with everything from indoor swimming pools, a cinema, a fitness center, an art gallery, and even a small garden room filled with natural light. The room where I sleep is tucked in beside all the other rooms presumably built for Mr. King’s personal enjoyment, which struck me as slightly odd when I saw where I was staying. Living in his cluster of “fun” rooms made me wonder if he thought I was here for his enjoyment too.

The thought makes me shiver with the creeps. He’s probably some old, crusty man who’s arrogant and abrasive. Yeah, no thanks. If he wants to try coming into my room, I’ll introduce his crotch to my knee. Except I’d probably be too chicken to actually do that. But he can bet his butt I’d at least firmly tell him to leave. Okay, I’d ask him to leave, but it’s basically the same thing.

There’s also an auxiliary building a few dozen yards to the west of the gardens where Mr. King has accountants, investors, and bankers working full-time to manage his ever-growing fortune. And then there’s the separate training facility in addition to the smaller fitness center in the main house, where there is every type of exercise equipment imaginable, a boxing ring, a tennis court, swimming pool, and even a smoothie bar inside the gym.

It’s the definition of excessive, and I’ve spent my two months here wondering what a man who can afford all of this luxury would be like. Probably overweight, underslept, and an asshole. But I don’t have to wonder much longer, because he’s supposed to arriving home today.

I enter the house and pass through the foyer toward the kitchen. Floor to ceiling windows give a full view of the patio, which is walled in by rock formations and waterfalls that surround a small swimming pool styled after a grotto.

Mr. King’s daughter is lying face down beside the pool in a swimsuit. When I see it, I drop my bags and rush outside, nearly breaking the glass doors in my hurry to open them.

“Sophie!” I shout, heart beating out of my chest. My instructions said it was okay to leave Sophie home alone as long as it wasn’t for more than an hour, but I should’ve--

She rolls her head to the side, smooshing her cheek against the ground and giving me a blank look. “Aubrey!” she yells back at me in the same tone of voice I just used.

I plant my hands on my hips, giving her my best glare. “Sophie King, so help me. I’m too young to have a heart attack. What are you trying to do? Kill me? I thought you were dead or something.”

Sophie turns her head so her forehead is resting on the ground again, answering me in her usual, dry monotone. “I’m tanning.”

I look at the dozens of perfectly good lounge chairs scattered across the patio. “On the ground?” I ask.

“Aubrey,” she says in a level voice. “I know you think I’m just a simple-minded child, but I’m actually a very grounded young woman.”

I close my eyes, sighing when I realize what this is.

Sophie sits up, mouth quirking up in the faintest smile. “Get it?”

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head and laughing. “How long were you lying there just so you could say that?”

“Not sure,” she says, brushing dirt from her stomach as she stands. “I didn’t want to risk checking my phone to see the time in case you came back. You get it though, right? Grounded?”

“Yeah, four out of ten stars. Weak pun,” I say.

She growls. “Lame.”

“You didn’t think seeing if your grandmother needed anything might be a better use of your time?” I ask.

Sophie folds her arms. “She knows how to yell for me.”

“Aubrey, is that you?” calls Roxanne from somewhere deeper in the house. “If you forgot the Crisco again I swear I will end you!”

“See?” asks Sophie.

“Would you go inside and put on some clothes, sweetie. Your father is coming home soon, remember?”

Sophie is a very, very dry and sarcastic little girl, so getting a smile out of her is about as rare as me getting the evening off. But despite all the times I’ve imagined her father as some grim business tycoon who rules his family with an iron fist, the happiest I’ve seen Sophie is when we talk about him coming home. She hurries off to her room, hopefully to change out of the bathing suit and into something presentable.

I head toward the wing of the house where Roxanne can generally be found. I turn the corner to the main hallway and nearly get run over by her wheelchair as she comes speeding--relatively speaking, that is--out of the hallway. She sees me and points a wrinkled finger, narrowing her eyes.

“Don’t even say you forgot it. Don’t you dare,” she warns.

I move behind her chair, smiling as I wheel her to where I dropped the groceries just outside the foyer. I find the bag with Crisco and hold it out. She reaches to snatch it from me, examining the label. “Not that low fat garbage, is it?”

“It’s exactly what you wanted, Roxanne. Trust me, I learned my lesson about trying to sneak healthier ingredients into your food.”

“Damn right you did,” she agrees, nodding with satisfaction. She flashes a quick grin in my direction. “What do you say we break this can open? Maybe we can whip up some apple fritters or maybe even some quiche?”

“You could pick one,” I suggest carefully.

She scowls at me, but doesn’t protest. “Apple fritters sound good. Hot damn do they sound good. C’mon little missy! We don’t pay you to stand around and look pretty.” She makes a sad attempt at swatting for my rear end.

I laugh, hurrying off to the kitchen to get the food started. Just as I step into the kitchen, I hear the front door open and the sound of suitcases dropping.

“Daddy!” yells Sophie from the top of the stairs. Her footsteps come rapidly as she charges down toward him.

“Soph,” says a deep, oddly familiar voice. “I’ve missed you so much, honey.” He sounds younger than I expected, too. Hotter. I mentally laugh at myself. Really? Am I so desperate for a guy in my life that I’m trying to convince myself he sounds hot?

“Daddy,” says Sophie in a thick voice. It’s more emotion than I’ve ever heard from her. She sounds genuinely happy to see him. It warms my heart to hear her so happy after months of seeing her calm, collected little fifth grader-self.

“It’s about time, Liam,” says Roxanne.

“Don’t tell me,” I hear him say. “You want me to fire the help again?”

The help? I think, clenching my teeth. What does he think I am, a servant?

“Fire her?” asks Roxanne. “Hell no! I want you to marry her. She’s the first person you’ve ever hired who understands the difference between olive oil and extra virgin olive oil. She learns fast, too. You try to fire her and I’ll make you pay,” she adds in a deep, threatening voice.

The man chuckles.

I decide this is only going to get more awkward the longer I wait to introduce myself. I brush the wrinkles from my clothes, set my jaw and walk out into the main gathering room. “Hi, I’m--” I stop short when I see the man.

The man from Toby’s. It’s the guy who was hitting on me. The one who was trying to get me to dip out of work.

He makes the connection at the same time I do and raises his eyebrows. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” he says smoothly, slipping away from his daughter to come toward me. He extends a hand.

I shake the offered hand, looking up into those piercing green eyes. I can’t say exactly how I know, but I see something churning behind them. “Mr. King,” I say stiffly.

“Aubrey, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He quirks a brow, turning to look at his mother. “She has the personality of a plank of wood. You sure you don’t want me to fire her?”

“Excuse me?” I ask, voice shaking.

“I mean, look at this place,” he says, running a finger along the crown molding. “Dusty. Stale. You call yourself a maid?”

I clench my teeth, balling my fists at my side and trying not to say something that is going to get me fired. “I’m a caretaker, Mr. King. It’s not my job to take care of the house. I’m here for your mother. That’s all.”

I don’t mention the fact that his mother barely needs a caretaker. I think she only insists on it because she wants someone at arm’s length to bully and make uncomfortable, but as crazy as it sounds, I love being that person. My mother was the exact same way, and I know just like my mom, it’s Roxanne’s way of enjoying my company, so I don’t mind it at all.

He smirks, leaning close so only I can hear him. “That’s a shame. Cause you’d look damn cute in a maid’s uniform.”

My hand itches to slap him but I hold it tightly to my side. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. King. I was about to get started in the kitchen.”

I don’t wait for him to respond before turning on my heel and storming back into the kitchen. The nerve of that man. I rip open the flour and start prepping to make apple fritters in jerky, fast movements. I spin to grab the Crisco and accidentally knock the entire bag of flour on the ground, which puffs up in a cloud of white that immediately settles on all the appliances, counters, and cabinets. I sink down to my knees and do my best silent rendition of Charlton Heston’s “you maniacs!” line--the part where he sees the statue of liberty on the beach and the truth hits him. It’s my go-to anger release when I do something stupid.

I’m pounding my fist on the flour-caked ground and mouthing, “You blew it all to hell” when a voice startles me.

“Planet of the Apes?” asks Mr. King, who’s leaning against the pantry and watching me in amusement.

I freeze, fist half-raised and eyes wide as I look up at him. I must look like the craziest, most immature woman in the world right now, and I’m just glad there’s so much flour on me that he can’t see me blush. “It was a mistake.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “They never should’ve given the apes so much power.”

A surprised laugh slips out of me.

Mr. King grins. “Want some help?”

“You don’t have to. You’ll get your suit all--”

He pulls a broom and dustpan from the pantry and starts sweeping up the flour, not seeming to care that it’s floating up and settling in his expensive clothes. I lose myself watching him for a moment. In the grocery store I was so startled I hardly had time to register a thought any deeper than “mmm, sexy man. Would bang. Ten out of ten.” Now I have time to take in his features and his build, from the powerful cheek bones, the thick eyelashes, and his perfectly defined jaw-line, not to mention his lean, athletic build.

His attractiveness goes deeper than physicality though. There’s an aura about the man, as if he’s some larger-than-life legend, ripped out of fantasy and thrust in front of me. I don’t know what he did to make his billions, but looking at him now, it’s clear that he commands men and women. He can rule with an iron fist or a charming smile, and he’s equally proficient in both. Fire and ice. He has both. Liam King could be your worst enemy or your best friend. Every last bit of that is written in the expression on his face and the way he carries himself.

I’ve never seen a man more plainly and effortlessly powerful, and--

“You know, when I said I’d help, I kind of thought it’d be fifty-fifty,” says Mr. King.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, scooping flour into small piles with my hands, still on the ground and on my knees.

He laughs. “You want to borrow this?” he asks, handing me the broom.

“Y-yes. Thank you,” I say, wondering if I could even have embarrassed myself this badly and this fast on purpose. Probably not.

He wets a towel and starts clearing the flour from the countertops. “So, my offer still stands, you know.”

“Which one?” I ask.

“Well, I seem to remember you saying your boss was an asshole. I said fuck him,” Mr. King says, pausing and waiting for his full meaning to sink in. I’m just about to sputter out a response that’s equal parts nervous and embarrassed when he continues. “Then I said I’d take you out and show you around town.”

I clear my throat, keeping my eyes on the broom and flour I’m sweeping up. “I don’t know if that would be appropriate,” I say hesitantly.

He moves closer. I don’t see it, but I feel it. I feel him just inches from me and I’m too scared to look. Too scared of what seeing a man like him so close to me might do. I can smell his cologne. He even smells expensive, like what I always imagined those Ralph Lauren models riding horses would smell like. Manly, crisp, sexual.

“Given that I’m your boss. I’d say whether it’s appropriate or not is kind of my call, wouldn’t you?”

I deliberately keep my eyes down, finding it easier to talk sense without looking at him. “I need this job, Mr. King.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he says, suddenly cheery. He raps his knuckles on the counter twice and grins. “I’ll take you out sometime tomorrow. Once I’ve settled in.”

With that, he leaves the kitchen, and me, still in a complete tizzy. He didn’t really do much to help me clean, but I can’t really complain. At least he kind of tried, I guess. I sweep up and wipe down the rest of the mess in a mental haze of confusion. I may lack experience, but I’ve watched enough movies and read enough books to know where this goes. The sexy, billionaire boss has a thing for the woman who works under him. They get involved. There’s a big breakup, and the woman is never welcome in the house again.

The problem is I can’t risk that. It’s not just the money. It’s… I clutch the necklace at my throat and breathe out a long sigh, closing my eyes and whispering a silent prayer for strength. I can’t let myself get involved with Mr. King. No matter how much the thought of it gets my heartbeat pounding. No matter what. I’ll just go along with him for now. Just enough to keep him happy and to avoid being defiant, but I can’t let the small fire growing in my chest for him get out of control. I can’t afford to.

There may be other jobs, but there aren’t other Roxannes or other Sophies. I need them more than they need me, and if I do something selfish that jeopardizes that, I’ll never forgive myself.

Roxanne wheels into the kitchen when I’ve just finished cleaning. “What the hell, Aubrey?” she snaps. “No wonder your fritters always taste funky, you’ve been rolling the dough on the floor.” Her eyes wander around the kitchen. “And on top of the fridge, and inside the microwave…”

“Sorry, Roxanne,” I say, grabbing ingredients from the pantry. “Mr. King just got me a little out of sorts.”

Roxanne narrows her eyes, smiling crookedly. “It’s because he wants to jump your jammies.”

I nearly drop the can of Crisco and make a fresh mess. “Jump my--what?”

“He likes you,” says Roxanne. “I know my boy. He always picked on the girls he liked. It’s his way. Just don’t make it too easy for him. All the other women seem to roll over for Liam, but you’re not like them. You’re smarter,” she says, wheeling close enough to tap the side of my head. She lowers her voice to a barely audible whisper, so Sophie can’t hear as she wanders in the kitchen. “You can roll over for him, but make him work for it, if you catch my meaning.”

Unfortunately, I do catch her meaning, and wonder if I may be on the verge of discovering the cause of spontaneous combustion--when people just apparently explode in a whirlwind of fire and leave behind burn marks and ashes. I think a human being can only handle so much embarrassment in a short span of time, and if one more little thing pushes me over the edge, I might just burst into flames. It’d almost be a relief at this point.

Roxanne seems to think sleeping with a guy is no big deal to me, but the truth is I’m still a virgin. I know it’s pathetic to be twenty-four years old and still a virgin, but it wasn’t exactly a choice. I just always romanticized the idea of saving myself for the guy I knew I’d marry. I thought it’d be so clear. I’d see him and know it. I’d know it with the certainty of a thunderbolt.

But that guy never came along, and I kept holding that part of myself back, leading to a long line of bitter, angry ex-boyfriends in my past, the most recent of which made me swear off men for the foreseeable future.

“Smart?” asks Sophie thoughtfully as she wanders through the kitchen, dragging a finger along the counter tops. “You know, Aubrey. Your shirt is on inside out.”

I look down and nod, because why wouldn’t it be? Of course my shirt is on inside out and of course I spilled flour to make a perfect first impression with Mr. King. Because if I didn’t do things like that, I’d be a normal person, which I’ve unfortunately never been.

“Oh, by the way,” says Roxanne. “I’d like a tiramisu from that little Italian place. I forget the name. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Yeah, Enzino’s, I think,” I say distractedly. “I can do that tomorrow night.”

Roxanne taps her chin. “As long as these fritters are better than the last batch.” She jabs a finger in my direction, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t think I won’t know if you try to skimp on the Crisco again, young lady. I’ll know.”

I smirk. “I know you will. I wouldn’t dare.”