by Lee Savino
“Parrot tikka masala!” I reach the perch. Ignoring my threats, the parrot scoots closer and cranes its head under my outstretched finger, begging me to scratch its neck. With a sigh, I oblige.
After a few seconds, the parrot lets out a crackly, “Oh yeah.”
“You just can’t help yourself,” I mutter, massaging the grey parrot’s feathered neck until bits of white fluff waft around us.
Instead of answering, the parrot angles his head the opposite direction, pushing on my hand when I hesitate to keep scratching.
“Enough with the commentary while I’m drinking my coffee. I don’t know what idiot let you watch porn.” Actually, I do. It was probably the parrot’s owner, who by my guess is a little old lady. Never married, no children, and overly endowed in the bank account, with a passion for French revival furniture and garden topiaries. Oh, and for Elvis. The Pompadour-haired singer, and the parrot she named after him.
“Are you going to be good?” I ask Elvis, who is practically crooning in pleasure as I scratch his scrawny neck.
“Oh yeah.” The parrot ruffles his feathers, sending out a fresh wave of dander to float in the sun. I back away, grab a hand vacuum and clean up a little. At least the bird poops in one place. Either that, or the army of cleaners that comes in once a week spends most of their time in here, washing and buffing the glossy leaves of the banana tree plants.
“Fine. I’ll play you some music.” A few feet away from the perch is a sleek console containing a vintage record player and records in sleeves. The room is rigged with state-of-the-art speakers. No expense spared for Elvis the bird.
“All shook up, all shook up,” the parrot whistles as I load a record.
I leave him bobbing his head in time to “Blue Suede Shoes” and hope the neighbors have sound proofed their own breakfast nook. At this rate, Elvis will be singing all day, with angry porn-tastic narrative in between whenever the record turns over.
By the time I traverse the mile back to the kitchen, my latte is cold. I drink it anyway.
I knew this pet sitting job would be different from my usual, but this is another dimension. Lately most of my clients have been well off, wealthy enough to hire someone to care for their pet while they’re traveling for months at a time.
But there’s wealth and then there’s wealth. The fact impressed upon me when I went to rap on the door to Elvis’ home, and the door opened before I could touch it. I promptly overbalanced and fell over, right at the butler’s feet. A butler. In this day and age! I gaped at him from the polished floor. He looked at me like I was a bit of muck stuck to his shiny shoe.
That’s when I knew I wasn’t being hired to watch a parrot for a year. I was being paid to nanny a bird the owner loved more than a child. A child you left at home while you traveled the world for a year, but apparently rich people do that.
Elvis came with a ninety-five-page handwritten manual, which is one page shorter than the manual issued with the space age espresso maker built into the kitchen wall. But the job comes with a free stay in a nine thousand square foot mansion. No gardening or house-cleaning required—the owner has separate staff for that.
And she’s gone for a “grand tour” which includes several continents and traveling by planes, trains, boats, and automobiles.
Luckily, the butler isn’t around to look down his nose at me. Once he let me in and gave me a tour, he left to catch up with his employer. Lady Drey is paying him and a maid to travel with her.
Leaving me and her espresso machine to live happily ever after. Or at least, for another ten months.
I finish a second latte—I deserve it—and stretch. My agenda for the day: Coffee, check on Elvis, take a long bath, check on Elvis, watch a movie in the theater room. Maybe I’ll let Elvis watch with me. He loves Vin Diesel.
My room is in the east wing, near to Elvis’ jungle room. But it’s no servant’s quarters. I have a private bathroom and a walk in closet bigger than the bedroom at my old apartment. The bathroom has a bathtub in the corner, with windows overlooking the garden and the Tudor style mansion next door. A lot of windows for a bathroom, but okay. I shrug off my robe and fill the bath, adding a generous amount of bubble wash. I don’t bother with modesty—even if someone wanted to spy through the second story windows, I’ve never seen a neighbor. Once in a while there’s a car in the drive, but they probably avoid the side of their house closest to Elvis. I can hear faint strains of Blue Suede Shoes from here, along with the occasional shriek from the parrot.
I sink into the bath and prop my feet up.
“A bath at ten in the morning. So leisurely.” I do my best Katherine Hepburn impression. One must always talk like Katherine Hepburn when one stays in a mansion. “If I’m lucky I will find a rich man to marry and keep me in the style of which I’ve been accustomed.” Going back to my postage stamp sized apartment after this year is going to hurt. Maybe I can add mansion-sitting to my resume. Find another lady on grand tour, with a house full of antiques and a garden full of topiaries and a parrot perched in a tree—
“Elvis,” I gasp, jolting up in the bath. I lose my balance and fall back. A tsunami of soapy water hits me in the face.
“Shit!” I sputter and haul myself out, my feet threatening to slide on the soaked floor. I grab my robe and pelt downstairs, wet hair flying. I pause before the door to the garden to put on the garment, and spot Elvis perched on a Japanese maple.
“How did you get out?” I cry and throw open the door. My exit startles the bird, who flaps away, over the low stone wall dividing Lady’s Dreys’ property from her neighbor’s. Ducking low, in my own version of stealth mode, I scramble over the wall and sneak through boxwoods and rhododendron, stopping frequently to keep my robe from snagging on a manicured branch.
The grey parrot lands above me, on the rail of the large deck.
“Elvis,” I hiss. I’ve got to trap him, but all I have is my robe. I tug it off and sneak around to the deck stairs where I pause to say a prayer to St. Francis, patron saint of animals. Surely, he’s also the patron saint of pet sitters.
Elvis glides down to the deck, four feet in front of me.
Thank you, I mouth, and stalk forward, bare-assed, robe outstretched between two hands. I’m just about to snag the escapee bird when the deck door glides open and a tall, dark haired man steps through, mug in hand, undoubtedly to enjoy his coffee while looking over his garden on this fine, quiet morning.
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Also by Lee Savino
Contemporary Romance
Beauty & The Lumberjacks
After this logging season, I’m giving up sex. For…reasons.
Her Marine Daddy
My hot Marine hero wants me to call him daddy…
Her Dueling Daddies
Two daddies are better than one.
Innocence: dark mafia romance with Stasia Black
I’m the king of the criminal underworld. I always get what I want.
And she is my obsession.
Beauty’s Beast: a dark romance with Stasia Black
Years ago, Daphne's father stole from me.
Now it's time for her to pay her family’s debt…with her body.
Paranormal romance
The Berserker Saga and Berserker Brides (menage werewolves)
These fierce warriors will stop at nothing to claim their mates.
Draekons (Dragons in Exile) with Lili Zander (menage alien dragons)
Crashed spaceship. Prison planet. Two big, hulking, bronzed aliens who turn into dragons. The best part? The dragons insist I’m their mate.
Bad Boy Alphas with Renee Rose (bad boy werewolves)
Never ever date a werewolf.
About the Author
Lee Savino has plans to take over the world, but most days can’t find her keys or her phone, so she just stays home and writes smexy (smart + sexy) romance. She loves chocolate, lives in yoga pants, and looks great in hats.
For tons of crazy fun, join her
Goddess Group on Facebook or visit www.leesavino.com to sign up for her mailing list and get a free book.
Website: www.leesavino.com
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Text copyright © 2017 Lee Savino
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover model used with permission from Michelle Lancaster at @lanefotograf or www.michellelancaster.com
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