Chapter Four
Dani
I felt like I was living inside a book, The Secret Garden. I was alone in this big house that came with a whole bunch of rules and a mysterious boy I wasn’t supposed to talk to.
On my first full day as housekeeper for M.C. Bradford, his assistant, Jane, laid down the law as she took me on a tour of the house. “Mr. Bradford is on a tight deadline. He is not to be disturbed.” She closed the door to his office, which he’d left slightly ajar.
“Got it.” I glanced back at the shut door, through which I could hear the click-clacking of keys. Una had told me that was the deal, and I would stick to it.
Jane showed me his bedroom and master bath, just down the hall from the room he was using as an office. “These will need to be cleaned daily, and the laundry done. Don’t worry about the other bedrooms until we get closer to the premiere party.”
I tried to suppress a blush as I noted the rumpled sheets on M.C. Bradford’s bed. That was where this famous author person slept. Though I didn’t know M.C. Bradford or anything about his books, the intimacy of the situation embarrassed me a bit. I supposed this was the kind of thing hotel housekeepers dealt with all the time—seeing people’s most private lives on display. I’d have to get used to it, view the scene dispassionately, like a doctor doing an examination.
The bed also made me think about the little private moment I had last night with a complete stranger on the road. I kissed a man I’d just met. I hadn’t done anything like that since back in college. I—
“Are you okay?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” I said, recovering. “Premiere party, you were saying?”
“Mr. Bradford is throwing a big The Saga viewing here at the house for the season premiere on the twenty-third.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, he’s not throwing it. I am, I suppose.” She shook her head. “It was all his publicist’s idea. She thought it’d be a great opportunity, a chance to show real team unity between Mr. Bradford and the TV folks, dragging them out to the middle of nowhere during the holidays to watch one hour of television. She’s hoping they’ll post all over social media about it and make everyone look like one big happy family.”
Since Jane looked about to spiral out, I quickly let her off the hook. “I’m happy to do whatever you need to make the premiere a success.”
“Great.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Seriously. Thank you.” She glanced at the door for a second and then whispered, “He’d been dead set against bringing in someone to help, but honestly, I can’t do this alone.”
“Now you don’t have to.”
She smiled behind her thick, geeky glasses. “Maybe, since it’s already your domain, you can handle food?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll set you up with Gerald. He works for the resort and is handling the party planning,” she said. “You’ll just have to discuss the menu with him, and he’ll tell the caterers.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll work with Gerald on all of this.”
“Some of the guests will be staying here for the premiere, so we’ll need to freshen up the rooms before then.”
“Freshen up the guest rooms,” I said. “Check.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Again, if you have any questions, ask me—”
“And don’t bother Mr. Bradford,” I said.
“Exactly.” She breathed a sigh of relief.
Jane led me back down to the kitchen. “When it’s time for him to eat, text me.” She wrote down her phone number on a pad of paper on the counter. “I’ll take the food up to him myself.” Yesterday afternoon, when I came over to meet Jane, I’d brought dinner already made—turkey chili and millionaire’s shortbread. I’d made sure to have enough food for two. Jane needed to eat, as well.
“Any questions?”
I glanced around the massive kitchen, all stark and white with its gleaming cabinets and countertops. The kitchen in my old house had been cozy but small. I’d embellished it with weird but functional pieces, like old fashioned cake plates and teacups. This room, and most of the others in this house, was sterile, cold, and impersonal, which made sense, since it was a rental. “With it being December and all, can I decorate for the holidays—hang up some snowflakes or pine garlands or something?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” But before she made it out of the room, she turned around and said, “Actually, it might not be a bad idea to make this place more festive for the premiere. The rental agent said there might be some decorations hiding somewhere. Feel free to look around, but again—”
“Don’t bother Mr. Bradford,” I said. “Got it.”
Alone in the kitchen, I let out a sigh. Time to get to work. I glanced at my watch. Only nine thirty. I’d brought with me overnight oats for breakfast this morning, and I planned to make my version of bibimbap for lunch, which wouldn’t take too long. The shrimp was already defrosted in the fridge. I wouldn’t need to start the rice until around eleven.
I tiptoed up the stairs, pausing for a second to listen at the office door. Silence. But when Mr. Bradford bellowed a booming and frustrated, “Aaaarrrggh!” I scurried the rest of the way down the hall and into his bedroom. Letting out a shaky breath, I started removing the pillows from the bed.
I glanced out the window, which looked onto the front lawn of the house and the long, winding drive up to the main road. Though this house was technically next door to my parents’, you’d never know it, it was set so far back from the end of the cul-de-sac. The amount of land belonging to this place was unbelievable. If I’d lived here as a kid, my brother and I would’ve played some epic games of hide and seek. If Matt and I were to run into each other again, we could probably sneak onto this property and make out behind a couple trees, and no one would be the wiser.
Maybe that could be arranged. He’d said he’d keep an eye out for me.
I reached down and absentmindedly picked up one of the decorative pillows from the floor next to the dresser. There was something underneath it. I leaned down to get a better look at what the object was, and my hand immediately clamped over my mouth, to muffle my childish yelp. There, lying crumpled on the plush cream carpet, was a pair of M.C. Bradford’s dirty underwear.
“Okay…” I backed up several feet, leaned at my waist, and plucked the soiled boxer briefs from the ground, careful to touch only the waistband. I wasn’t some naïf who’d never been around a guy’s skivvies before, but these weren’t just anyone’s dirty undies. These were my mysterious boss’s dirty undies.