Oh, Jesus. It’s another one of her emergencies. They come like clockwork. At least twice a week somebody calls out for the day and she flies into a panic and calls me. If I survive the stress of night school and working for her agency, I’ll be thankful for every last damn hair on my head. I stayed up all last night studying because I thought I had today off and could sleep in. Of course, I should know better by now.
“What time is it?” I groan.
It must be really early, because she doesn’t answer my question. “Lisa fell and sprained her ankle last night,” she frets instead.
“You don’t say!” I mutter, turning from my side to my back, and knocking over the pile of books I’d left lying beside me in bed. Of course, Lisa and her accidents! This time, it’s an ankle sprain. A couple of weeks ago, it was a sprained wrist. Before that, a bruised tailbone. A pinched nerve. Always things no one can follow up on since she can’t be expected to prove that any of it is true. The bruised tailbone is my favorite, supposedly the result of slipping down the stairs onto her ass. God, I really hope that one, at least, was true.
“You don’t need to sound so sarcastic.” Helen tuts. “Some people can’t help it. They’re just accident prone.”
I wish I could say, stop with the bullshit, but I know what she’s doing. She’s making excuses because she doesn’t want to lose Lisa, since Lisa handles some of her best clients. I squint at my alarm clock. “I’m sorry, Helen, I really am, but don’t you think this is getting a little ridiculous? This was supposed to be my first day off in two weeks, and I’m seriously behind in my Psych homework. I was up studying until four this morning. And according to my clock, it’s only freaking six-thirty now.”
Helen chuckles, apparently unconcerned by the extent of my sleep deprivation. “If it were anybody else handing me that line, I’d say they were lying.”
“But you believe Lisa’s lying ass every time,” I mutter.
“You, on the other hand,” she continues, like she didn’t just hear my quip. “Are the one person I can believe is pushing herself that hard. I don’t know how you do it.”
“Yeah, well, a lot of coffee.” I sit up. I need a brain reboot, which always involves a pot of coffee.
“Just for this, and because you’re such a terrific sport and somebody I can always count on, I’m giving you Lisa’s most prized account. I mean, you’re gonna love this. It pays a fortune.”
My ears perk up. Well, that’s different! “Just how much is a fortune?”
“A thousand dollars,” she announces smugly.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. Whoa? That kind of money for one day of work? “Do I have to give someone a blowjob after I finish cleaning?”
“I know you’re joking, so I’ll let that go.” Her voice is dry. “It’s a 4,600 square-foot penthouse. Belongs to some crusty old billionaire, but I’ll doubt you’ll even see him. Lisa never has.”
“You want me to clean a 4600 square foot penthouse in a day?”
“It’s in tip-top condition. Hardly any scrubbing. Lisa normally finishes it all in a day. I think he just likes having someone come out to give it the royal treatment before he gets back from his business trips. His secretary said that he won’t be back for another two days, but Lisa is booked solid for the rest of the week, so I had to schedule his place today.” She pauses while her words sink in. “Any of the other girls would have bitten my hand off for this job, but it’s yours, if you want it.”
“Yes, I’ll take it,” I snap, launching myself out of bed, and switching on the coffee maker. The royal treatment simply means a deep clean. I can do a tip-top apartment that size in seven maybe eight hours. A thousand smackers for nine hours work tops. Holy crap. Where do I sign?
“That’s wonderful news,” she gushes, like she didn’t know I would accept even if it had only paid the usual rates. I’m such a sucker, and she knows it. “Now, there are specifics we’ll have to go through first.”
I pause in the middle of pouring my coffee into my mug. I knew it was too good to be true. “Specifics?”
“Specifics. He’s a very specific type of person. Dani, he’s paying a thousand bucks. I think we can give in to a few demands.”
I breathe in the fragrant aroma coming from my coffee mug. “Demands. First it was specifics, now it’s demands. Should I start getting nervous?”
“If you don’t think you can handle them…”
Sometimes I hate Helen. She’s more manipulative than a doe-eyed two-year old. I look down at the chipped Formica counter, heavy with unpaid bills. “No, I can handle them,” I say, before pouring a half-mug of coffee down my throat. Something tells me I’m going to need it today.
“Great,” she coos happily.
“Where is it, by the way?”
“Central Park West.”
“Naturally.” If he could afford to pay that much for a cleaning service…
“Do you have a pen handy?”
Jeez. How long is this list of specifics and demands? I scramble back to bed and grab my pen. I open my notebook. “Right. Shoot.”
“First, you have to wear shoe covers the moment you walk inside. He doesn’t like the carpets getting dirty.”
“I thought that was why people took their shoes off before entering a home.”
“He doesn’t want that. No socks or tights, nothing like that on his floors.”
“Wow! He sounds like a party animal.” I write it down. “Where would I even get them?”
“I don’t know. Walmart, probably. If Lisa can find them…”
“Right, right. Next?”
“A hair net, too.”
“Am I cleaning his bathroom, or cooking his food?”
She snorts. “We’ll get to the bathrooms in a minute.”
I exhale. Suck it up, Dani. It’s not every day you get to make a thousand for a day’s work.
“You can’t use bleach. Fresh lemon or orange juice, white vinegar and baking soda only.”
I scribble it down. “Hmm…that’s interesting. Do you know why?”
“He hates the smell and it’s unhealthy,” she explained.
“Is he a germaphobe?”
“No. Just very particular, and very health-conscious.”
“Okay. That, I can get behind.” Even if my treadmill makes a better clothes hanger than it does a means of exercise.
By the time we finish, I’ve filled out two pages. Both sides. “This is a lot, Helen. And Lisa does this on her own?”
“She does, though she’ll sometimes split the job between two days when there’s a decent amount of time before the client gets back to town. Though, we don’t have two days. You’re booked tomorrow at Mrs. Sheldon’s.”
“True.” And I’m not about to split the work with anybody else and let them cut in on my payday. “It’s okay. I can handle it. It’ll just take a good part of the day.”
“Let me know if you run into any problems.” Now that she knows I’ll take care of the job, she’s all light and breezy.
“You mean, if I open the wrong closet door and find dead bodies hanging from hooks?”
“Lisa told me she cleaned those up last time, and he has promised he’d never leave them out again.”
I gulp the rest of my coffee. It’s already cold. “Famous last words.”
Chapter 2
Dani
“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 do
n’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.
Chapter 3
Brock
“Truthfully, I don’t give a damn what you tell them. They don’t deserve an explanation. They weren’t there on time. I don’t wait for anyone. They can fly up to New York to see me if they really want this deal.”
“But, Mr. Garret—”
“Are you questioning my decision, Sarah?” I ask, my voice bristling with impatience.
“No, of course, not,” Sarah gasps, horrified to have pissed me off. “I’m sorry, sir. My only concern is for you.”
A twinge of guilt touches my heart. She’s a kind soul and old enough to be my grandmother. She should be treated a little gentler than the many PAs who’ve come and gone over the years. There were times when it felt like they were coming in through a revolving door. They were in and out so quickly. One of them lasted all of two hours. One moment she was trying to get my coffee order correctly, the next, she fled out of the doors in tears.
But not Sarah.
She’s hung in with me for the last 2 years, is excellent at her job, and shows no signs of going anywhere. I’ve even started to rely on her, which would make it extremely unfortunate if she left.
“I realize that, Sarah…I shouldn’t have been so sharp, and I’m sorry.” I’m rarely in the wrong, but admitting when I am, has never been a problem for me.
“I completely understand, sir. I’ll tell the investors that you had an emergency at home which needed attending to immediately.”
“Tell
them whatever makes you feel happy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It’s extremely late. Shouldn’t you have left the office hours ago?”
“You know how it is, sir. There’s nothing for me at home but my cats, and half the time, they act as though they were happier before I got home.”
I chuckle, though I do wish I could do something more for her than giving her a salary that puts her in the category of most highly paid PA in the world. She’s too valuable a person, and not just an assistant, but a person, to be left living alone with her cats. Funny thing is she doesn’t strike me as a cat lady. Her clothing is always impeccably free of hair. Lucky her, because I’m allergic to cats, dogs, birds, reptiles, people…
“Right. Good night, Sarah. See you at work tomorrow.”
“Have a safe trip, sir.”
I hang up with a slight smile, satisfied in the knowledge that there will never be repercussions as a result of doing as I damn well please. The unfathomably solid returns I’ve generated over the past seven quarters for Garret Industries has become a phenomenon. The kind that’s gotten my picture on the cover of every financial magazine since I took over what used to be a struggling parts manufacturer and turned it around.
I lean back against the leather seats of the car carrying me towards the airplane hangar where my jet is housed. To be honest, I’m actually glad I’m leaving LA two days early.
I could never understand why it’s such a big draw for people. I hate it. Sure, the weather’s nice, but underneath the glitz, glamour, and tanned bodies, it’s just hollow. New York is much more my speed. Sophisticated and stylish, but gritty. Real. Willing to come to blows if need be and crack open a beer once the fight is over.
My phone buzzes.
“Are you sitting down?” my best friend, Mark asks.
I frown. “Yes. Why?”
“Charlotte is getting married.”
“Why do I need to be sitting down for that? I’m not the poor bastard she’s marrying.”
The Promise Page 15
