Maid by Mistake

by Miley Maine

  I filled my dog’s water dish up but I had nothing to feed her. I opened my cabinets and they were empty too. I felt like a real asshole as I drove to the grocery store. The dog deserved better. She hadn't been able to help with the nightmares, but sometimes she helped with the insomnia.

  That night I typed up an ad for a maid and put it in the paper and online.

  Immediately I had applicants. I set up a round of interviews, but the first three applicants didn't show up. The fourth applicant showed up, and I hired her. She seemed like a sweet girl. Like a moron, I didn't do a background check.

  I knew better. I was just so freaking exhausted. It took all of my energy to make it through the day. I put everything I had into the job, and at night I had nothing left.

  I was desperate so I hired her. On her first day, I came home to find the dishes still piled up in the sink. She’d bought groceries, but left them on the table without putting them away. The cheese was already warm and soggy. I tossed it in the trash.

  I noticed the drawer where I kept pens and paper, and a little bit of cash -- a few tens and twenties -- was ajar. I pulled it open and the money was gone. I was pretty sure I smelled marijuana too. What the hell was wrong with this girl?

  I doubted I was going to have to fire her because it looked like she wasn't coming back. I decided to give the search for a maid one more shot. If I didn't find someone suitable by the end of the week, I was going to have to seriously consider selling the house. The dog was doing fine coming to work with me part of the day, and Barrett would be here soon to take on some of the workload, but the house was too much.

  Some people might say I should quit being Sheriff instead. I hadn't wanted the job, that was true. I still wasn't sure that I wanted it. But there was a part of me that felt more fulfilled and I had in a long time. If I could just figure out the nightmares, then I'd be set.

  They had gotten a little better over the last week. I used to stay up half the night, and then once I fell asleep, I had nightmares for the second half.

  But now that I was sheriff, they had tapered off. Was it the exhaustion? Was it having a purpose again, and not dwelling on the past? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to be the asshole that ran from my problems. But I also didn’t want to borrow trouble either.

  If overworking myself kept them at bay, then I’d take it.

  These days, I didn’t have to overthink my bedtime. I didn’t dread it in the same way. I knew I’d go to sleep.

  The nightmares weren’t certain now. I could go three, sometimes even four nights without one.

  That day, I spent the morning at the school district volunteering with kids, and in the afternoon, I helped the fire chief clear some debris from a barn that had burned. One of his firefighters had a new baby and was out on paternity leave. So I stepped in. The hard physical labor definitely wore me out. I still worked out and kept myself in shape, but I wasn't as fit as I was during my SEAL days.

  That night I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  Screaming. Ashes. Fire. I was standing with the fire chief in the burned-out husk of the barn. But instead of burned-out ceiling beams, all I could see was a pile of bodies.

  I woke up screaming. I sat up and rubbed my face.

  Bile rose in my throat but I didn't vomit. Somehow in my dream, the past had gotten mixed up with the present. It must have been the smell of the charred wood from the barn that set me off. I liked to pretend that I could keep my military service in a neat box, but obviously it had found a way to creep into my dreams and mix in with my current day.

  Once my heart stopped pounding I went into the bathroom to rinse my face off with cold water. I reached for a hand towel but there wasn't one there. Right. I hadn't done laundry all week. I hadn't been home long enough to even start the washer. I really had to find someone to help. I knew that anyone in my family would try to force me to work fewer hours. They'd say I was just running from my memories, working myself into the ground until I passed out.

  But at least I was doing something worthwhile with my time. No one could argue with that.

  Chapter Five

  Ava

  I drove without stopping for hours. Several times I almost had to pull over because I was breathing so hard I hyperventilated. I turned the radio up really loud, and tried to drown out the sound of my own thundering heartbeat.

  Before I knew it, I'd nearly reached the northern border of Arkansas. While I was still in Missouri, I slowed down and decided to take the next exit, wherever that might lead.

  When I ran away, I'd only had my real clothes with me and not my street clothes. If I put on my designer outfits here, I was going to stick out like a sore thumb. I had a feeling that my street clothes would be taking it a little too far -- I wanted to blend in, not be memorable. A girl with an addiction problem might not stand out in Chicago, but it probably would in the small towns that dotted the road here.

  I reached a small town called Pine Hills. At that point the adrenaline from leaving behind the only life I’d ever known, and being terrified I’d be murdered by my own father’s business partners had faded enough that I couldn't stay awake anymore.

  I pulled into a very dingy motel and slept for eight hours straight. After I woke up, I stopped by a large department store and bought several outfits. I saw a few women who looked my age walk by, and they had on shorts and t-shirts or sundresses, so I copied what they had on.

  I got back in my car and drove. Pine Hills looked cozy. Maybe I could stay there for a while. My father's partners would never expect me to be here. They would assume I was just like the rest of our family and would never consider lowering myself to stay in a country town. They’d look in Manhattan, Beverly Hills, or Milan, Italy.

  Sure enough, the person next to me was driving a pickup truck with the windows down. Country music blasted from the inside of the cab. It was the perfect disguise for me.

  After driving around for a few minutes, I spotted a public library. Maybe they’d have an opening there. I had some cash, but I couldn't use a credit card if I wanted to hide. Soon enough I’d need money. The library was cool and dark and the walls were covered in wood paneling that looked thirty-years-old.

  The woman at the desk wore a name tag said ‘Abigail’

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a slow, drawling, southern voice. I could listen to her talk all day.

  “I'm looking for a job,” I said. “Do you have any openings?”

  She laughed. But it wasn't cruel or mocking. It had a soft gentle sound to it. “Oh man, our funding has been cut, they barely have enough to pay me and I have a library science degree. But the sheriff in town is looking for help. Would you be interested in that?”

  I assumed she meant he was looking for an administrative assistant. Because I sure wasn't qualified to be a sheriff’s deputy, but it was worth a shot. It seemed likely that the same skills that I use as a reporter could be used as an office manager or a secretary, or whatever it was that he wanted.

  Anything would be better than posing as a drug addict on the streets of Chicago, so I could definitely do the work he needed. My perspective on the kinds of work I would do had definitely changed during the course of the last month. I didn't have a lot of choices either. Eventually my cash would run out.

  “That sounds wonderful. Where should I apply?”

  “Go on over to the sheriff’s office. It’s on Cedar Street. I’ll show you,” she said.

  I expected her to open an app on her phone, or even pull out a paper map, but instead she came out from behind her desk and tugged on my elbow. I followed her outside, and she pointed to the left.

  “Turn down there, and it’s the big brick building. You can’t miss it.”

  In Chicago this would have never happened. No one that I’d just met would have given me this kind of help. And directions weren't that simple in the city. Having always lived in cities, being able to walk a few blocks to my destination was a novelty.

  I pulled o
pen the heavy glass door, reminding myself that I no longer was posing as a drug addict. For the last few weeks I've been hyper-vigilant, always watching out for law enforcement. When I’d been with Jenny, part of me even wondered if I’d get swept up in an underground FBI sting. But that hadn’t happened.

  But now part of me was just permanently on edge, from my time on the streets, and from last night, and overhearing Christopher and Carl’s discussion this morning. I was far more afraid of my father's partners than I was of any of the people I’d met on the street.

  Inside the sheriff’s office, a matronly woman sat at the reception style desk in the front. She barely glanced at me when I said I needed to see the sheriff. She merely waved her hand pointing in the direction of his office.

  That was another thing that never would have happened in Chicago. Someone off the street didn't just walk in to see the chief of police, not even if they had an appointment. She didn’t even ask my name, much less to see my ID.

  The door where she pointed was open, and the door read ‘sheriff’ so I had to assume I was in the right place. I fervently hoped the person who was supposed to be here at this time wasn’t going to come rushing in, ready to interview for the job.

  I peeked around the corner of the door.

  A man sat behind the desk.

  I froze. I’d expected a grumpy old sheriff, like something out of a television show. I’d expected him to have gray hair and a grizzled face.

  He was not old. And he was definitely not grizzled.

  This man was a gorgeous hunk. He didn’t look up as I stood there, gaping at him. He kept his eyes focused on his computer, reading with the same kind of intensity I felt when I worked on a story.

  I didn’t want to interrupt him. I just kept staring at him, taking in his broad shoulders and his sandy blonde hair and his strong jawline. Under his bland sheriff’s uniform, his muscles were clearly defined. He had to be in his early thirties, at the most.

  I was surprised at myself. I wouldn't have expected to notice a man while I was running for my life, but this guy’s looks overpowered even my strong survival instincts.

  He looked up at me but didn’t smile. “Are you here to interview for the job?” he asked.

  Even his deep voice was sexy.

  I nodded. I hadn’t set up an interview. But it was 4:10, so maybe whoever was supposed to come had scheduled a 4:00 appointment. I hoped he or she was a no-show.

  I’d gotten in the habit of lying lately. It still didn’t come easily, thank God.

  He didn’t offer me a seat, but instead he stood up, showing off the rest of his body, which looked just as good. His waist was narrow, and he was tall, at least 6’2”.

  “So how much experience do you have? Have you cleaned houses before?” he asked.

  Cleaned houses? What the hell? I was sitting in a law enforcement office.

  Then it dawned on me that he wasn’t looking for an administrative assistant. He already had one. He wanted a maid.

  And while I was probably somewhat qualified to work as a secretary, I had never cleaned a house in my life. I hadn’t even cleaned my own room. It sounded pathetic, but anytime I’d even tried, one of my parents’ staff had brushed me aside and insisted that it would be better if I didn’t try to clean and mess something up.

  Apparently my mother had once tried to clean the crystal with wood polish while she was drunk, and the staff banned all of us from the cleaning supplies after that incident.

  This was my chance to stay here in this small town, working for a sheriff. A young, really gorgeous sheriff. It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best one I had.

  “A year,” I said. Which was how long I’d been working as a journalist.

  He looked at me for a minute and then stood. “I’ll show you the house.”

  Was that it? No paperwork? No questions? I’d expected to be interrogated before a sheriff let me into his house.

  He gestured for me to go through the door ahead of him into the hallway, and when we got to the outside door, he pulled it open for me, waiting for me to step through.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked in a gruff voice.

  I swallowed hard. “At the library.”

  He nodded. “Follow me.”

  Lovely. He wasn’t old and grouchy. He was young and grouchy.

  I walked quickly to my car. By the time I was in the driver’s seat, a sheriff’s car pulled up next to me. He didn’t say a word.

  I followed him for a few miles to the outskirts of town. Eventually we turned onto a gravel driveway and pulled up to a rambling farmhouse. It looked like something out of a movie set to me. It was large and white with a wrap-around front porch. There was even a set of rocking chairs on the porch near the stairs. On the other side of the stairs there was a wooden swing.

  I looked around warily. The house was huge.

  I parked my car on the other side of his. He stepped out of his car. He took one look at mine and raised his eyebrows. “Nice car.”

  Shit. I'd known better than to drive my BMW in inner-city Chicago. But I hadn't thought about how much it would stand out in rural Missouri. That was clearly a big mistake. I was going to have to get a little bit more savvy about small-town rural life.

  “I recently had a change in my circumstances,” I said, hoping to explain why I was desperate for a job as a maid.

  He didn't say anything. He just turned and walked up the porch steps toward his house. His uniform was the same khaki color that any sheriff might wear, but his ass looked amazing.

  In another life I wouldn't mind putting my hands on it. But anything like that was going to have to wait, far into the future when I was past all of this business with my dad's partners.

  Once again he waited for me at the top of the stairs. He held the screen door open and then opened the inside storm door. I wasn't used to having men open doors for me, especially if we weren’t on a date. I'd always heard it was a southern thing.

  I can't say that I minded one bit.

  “The number one thing I need you to take care of is my dog. Her name's Sadie. She's a rescue and she doesn't like to be alone too long. I don't leave her outside unless I'm outside too. Sometimes she goes to work with me, the other times she'll be here. Are you good with dogs?”

  I've never had a pet before, but I did like dogs. I'd had plenty of friends talk about the best way to interact with them. I crouched down and held out my hand. “Hi Sadie.” She glanced up at her owner and then slowly crept toward me.

  When she was in front of me, I petted her on the side of her chest. She seemed to accept me, so I moved my hand to rub her head, and then I rubbed between her ears.

  “Good,” he said. “She likes you. What I need next is groceries. I'll leave you a list and I'll need to go to the store. I don't expect you to cook.”

  “I can do that.” So far this didn’t sound so bad.

  “And after that, I need the dishes done. I'm not home much, so things tend to pile up.”

  Right. Housekeeping. I had transformed myself to fit into the underbelly of Chicago. Surely I could be someone's maid.

  He hadn't mentioned vacuuming or dusting or mopping. I didn't know much about how to do those things, but I had seen our staff do them over the years.

  Jesus, I sounded like a spoiled brat.

  This was going to suck. I was well aware of that. But this guy seemed upstanding, so I was going to do my best to clean his house and buy his groceries.

  And in the meantime, I wouldn't mind staring at his ass.

  Chapter Six

  Tyler

  The girl who showed up at my office was stunning.

  She was maybe the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen, but I had to wonder if she had any sense at all. She'd shown up to the Sheriff's office instead of my house, two hours late for the interview. At first I considered telling her to go away. If she couldn't even read directions well enough to know where the interview was being held, much less the time of the interview,
what good would she be as a maid?

  And there was another red flag. Her car. That BMW was worth a lot of money. We didn't see cars like that around here too often, certainly not from a young woman applying to work as a maid.

  But I was desperate.

  I tried to concentrate on the job at hand, and not the way she looked. Her delicate beauty caught me off guard. I could have stared at her all day.

  Her long dark hair was glossy. I wanted to run my hands through it immediately. Her dark eyes were clear, and so was her skin. She didn't have the vacant look of the last maid.

  Obviously, I kept my hands to myself.

  I watched closely as I introduced Ava to Sadie.People say dogs are a good judge of character. But Sadie liked the last maid, the one who brought drugs in the house and stole my cash. So maybe Sadie just liked anyone who paid attention to her. But I had to admit that Ava was good with her. She bent down and held her hand out in just the right way, and she gave Sadie time to get used to her.

  I told her what I needed from my maid, and she didn't protest. She didn't argue about doing the grocery shopping or taking care of the dog. After I showed her the kitchen I took her into the living area.

  I had an image of her bending over to dust the coffee table. Her cute little ass was adorable in the pants she had on. That would be a nice sight to come home to.

  Tyler, get a hold of yourself. This young woman needs a job. She doesn't need you to leer at her.

  “What would you like me to do in this room?” she asked.

  “Just the basics.”

  She nodded. “I'm happy to do the basics, but that means different things to different people.”

  She had a good point. “I'm not too picky. As long as it looks presentable I'm fine.” Maybe it was a mistake to be that honest. My sister would have said I should never admit that my standards were low.

  Next, I pointed at my office. “I work from home in there, so don't touch anything except the floor. You can vacuum that.”