Fake Maid by Cassie Mint

One

Eli

Bed rest.

Bed rest.

What am I, one thousand years old? Bed rest is for the elderly and infirm; for feverish children who can’t lift their limbs. Not a thirty-one year old man who climbs mountains and runs ultra-marathons to relax. Who has taken more spills on the cliff than most people take on the stairs.

Bed rest. Please. If I weren’t so insulted, I’d find it funny.

Of course, the problem with hiring the best surgeons in the land is that they have egos to match. And that was the devil’s bargain I struck in my desperation to get better quickly: Doctor Price would fix my mangled hand, but only if I followed his instructions to the letter. And when he reluctantly agreed that ‘bed rest’ could mean ‘house rest’…

In hindsight, after three days trapped in my mansion, it was not worth it. Better to have chanced it with any old doctor. Hell—better to have splinted the damn thing myself.

This is a lesson. Next time I break my bones on the rock face, I’ll remember this and choose differently.

“Mr Koven? Is there something I can fetch for you?”

One of my many housekeepers smooths her manicured hands over her dress, her painted face betraying no hint of alarm that I’ve burst in on her in the library. No hint, except the thrum of her pulse in her throat.

What’s her name again?

God. This is awkward. I should remember my own staff. But I’m so rarely at home, I’d have more chance of recognizing a stranger in the street.

“No,” I tell her, voice hoarse from the way my throat has clenched tight with frustration. Two whole weeks of being trapped at home—and I’m going mad after only three days. “No, thank you. I came to find a book.”

Despite the natural stillness of reading, I’m a lifelong bookworm. I always have been. So this will be my saving grace over the next weeks—a chance to work through my rather ridiculous collection. There are first editions and rare books in this mansion that I’ve never even cracked open, to my great shame.

The housekeeper nods and plasters a smile over her face, then turns and marches swiftly for the doorway. Whatever she was doing in here, I suppose she won’t continue while I’m near.

It’s probably a manners thing. Something they learn in housekeeper school.

So why does that make me feel so damn lonely?

My library is a cavernous room, lined with floor to ceiling shelves crammed with book spines. A large desk worthy of a war general stands beside sparkling glass windows, prepped with a fountain pen and sheets of paper but—to my knowledge—never written on. I do all my own work at the much smaller desk in my office, safely away from distractions, and besides—the desk looks like an antique. I’d rather not scratch a piece of history.

A ladder leans against one of the bookshelves, taunting me and my busted hand, and a slew of squashy armchairs and reading tables are scattered through the room. The air is thick with the smell of paper and varnished wood. Why have I barely stepped foot in this room?

I suppose I’ve barely stepped foot in most of my rooms, always preferring to be outside. This mansion is wasted on me.

My footsteps echo over the floorboards as I stroll to the nearest shelf. I came here looking for a book, any book, but now that I’m here, the choice is almost overwhelming. I pluck the nearest hardback from the shelf with my good hand, flipping it over to read the cover.

Atomic Computing: the Implications.

Rolling my eyes, I slide it back on the shelf.

“Not a page turner?”

I jerk around at the voice. A maid stands in the doorway, a feather duster in one hand and an amused smile curling her mouth. She’s wearing the normal uniform—a black tunic over dark pants, but something about the way she wears it is downright irreverent. Like she’s just strolled off a catwalk, not come in here to clean.

When she shifts against the doorway, I notice the cast on her arm. It’s larger than mine, and more crudely done.

I unstick my jaw.

“I’ve read it before.”

She chuckles, running the feather duster over her tunic absentmindedly. I watch the motion, transfixed. Her nails are clean cut but unpainted on the handle, her hands pale and slender.

“I’m more of an eReader kind of girl.”

“And what do you read on your eReader?”

She smirks, the expression sending a bolt of heat down my spine.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Yes. God, yes. Desperately. I consider ordering her to tell me. She’s my employee, is she not? But something tells me throwing my weight around this girl won’t bring me answers—only her censure.

I don’t want her censure. I want her silky red hair wrapped around my cock. I want to sink my thumb into the wet heat of her mouth, and I want her to moan around my knuckle.

Fuck. Who is this girl? I peer at her, mind racing as I try to put a face to the name. I glance over the resume and background check of every member of staff in this mansion; surely I’d remember a face like hers.

I snap my fingers. “Coral! You’re Coral Walsh.” Never have I been so pleased with my memory.

Just like that, the maid frosts over. The warm openness fades away, and she draws herself up. Her posture stiffens, and her smile turns polite.

“That’s right, Mr. Koven.”

“Call me Eli.”

She tilts her head. “Do the other maids call you that?”

“No.” I’ve barely exchanged two words with the other maids.

“Then I’d rather not, thank you, sir.”

Her words are polite but cold, and I don’t understand. Where has the teasing warmth of a few seconds ago gone? I frown at her, but she nods at me, unbowed, and crosses to the desk where she drifts the duster over the polished wood.

I clear my throat.

“What happened to your hand?”

She glances over at me, eyes quick, then looks back at her work.

“A cyclist came onto the sidewalk. And you?”

I look down at the plaster cast and snowy white bandages on my left hand. With her in the room, I’d almost forgotten its dull ache.

“A rock climbing accident.”

Coral hums, smile wicked. “Self inflicted, then.”

Yes.She’s back with me.

“Guilty, your honor.”

“Do you often bash yourself against rocks?” The teasing lilt to her voice has returned, and I can’t help myself. I wander closer, eager to be near her. As near as she’ll allow.

“At least once a day. Twice on Sundays.”

“Ah.” She nods sagely. “So it’s not for fun. You’re repenting your sins.”

I actually consider that for all of a moment before I dismiss it as a joke. I don’t climb to repent; I climb for the thrill. Everything I do—my work, my hobbies, my life—comes down to seeking that electric crackle of excitement.

That’s why I build the best tech. Drive the fastest cars. Jump out of planes and eat the spiciest food I can order.

“It’s true. I am a sinner down to my bones.”

She bites her lip as she looks down, plump mouth curled in a faint smile, her uninjured arm sweeping over the surface of the desk. It must be the least dusty surface in all existence by now, but neither of us are in a hurry to move.

A thought occurs to me, and I stiffen.

“Do you always work when you’re hurt? I know for a fact that I offer paid sick leave.” My voice has come out too harsh, too clipped, and I know I’ve gone wrong again when she straightens up.

“Very good of you,” Coral murmurs, turning away and wandering to the windows. “But I’m not sick. I can clean just fine.”

“Not with both hands.” I’m not making this better, but I can’t seem to stop myself once I settle into an argument. “If you needed to lift something, or move a piece of furniture, you’d have to call someone away from their own work.”

I don’t care about that. So why do I feel the need to win this? To win everything, even as her pretty face clouds over and her eyes narrow at me over her shoulder. She sweeps the corners of the window panes, searching for non-existent cobwebs.

“I’ll be sure not to disturb the other staff members, sir.”

I clench my jaw, but keep going. God help me, I keep on pushing.

“Don’t you see how that’s more selfish than calling in sick? Everyone else will have to pick up your slack.”

Her heels smack against the floorboards as she rocks down from her toes. And even though I’m her boss, even though I could fire her in a second, Coral Walsh strides from the room without another word. Her dismissal is clear, her reproach echoing in the silence, and I clench my uninjured fist as I watch her leave.

Fuck.

I could fire her.

But I’d never be able to look at myself in the mirror again. Not when, by the churning in my gut, I know I’m in the wrong. And besides—if I fired her, there would never be any hope of stumbling upon her in my library again.

Instead, I suck in a deep breath, counting to five before gusting it out.

This was not an argument worth having. And now the first distraction I’ve had since my fall is gone.

I rub my clenched fist over my sternum.

Well, she can run. But this is my house.

Coral Walsh can’t hide from me.