Fake Maid by Cassie Mint
Two
Billie
Coral’s billionaire boss is… kind of a dick.
A hot one, but still. The guy’s wound so tight, so bursting with frustrated energy, he’s spoiling for a fight. Any fight.
I won’t give him one.
I might want to—god, I want to take him on. The thought makes my skin flush hot. But I won’t, not while impersonating my sister. She needs this job. Hell, we need her to have this job, and besides, she likes it. I won’t ruin it for her.
Not while she’s out there today, facing her worst nightmare for my modeling career. I chew on my lip as I wander through the mansion halls, wondering how it’s going for her. Whether Archer Westbrook will give her a hard time.
I picture him scowling at her, making my sweet sister cry, and nerves pinch in my chest. God, what if I’ve hurt her? What if I’ve asked too much?
“There you are.” A steel-hired woman with pursed pink lips emerges from a doorway, taking me by the elbow and steering me down a different corridor. “You’re down for the pool house, Coral. Can you manage with your hand?”
Mr. Koven’s words float through my mind.
“I can manage,” I say, mouth sour.
Even if I have to hold a mop with my teeth, I will manage.
The housekeeper drifts away, bustling off to corral the other maids, and I peer through the nearest doorways. Look up and down the corridor.
Where would a person hide a swimming pool?
“Need some help?”
His deep voice makes my heart skitter. I turn to face him, leaning in yet another doorway, his long legs stretching on forever in his faded jeans. His dark hair is messy, curling under his ears, and his pale gray eyes sparkle with amusement. He doesn’t look like a billionaire, but then I suppose he’s on sick leave.
Maybe that’s why he’s so bitter. I’m working with a busted arm while he’s not.
“No, thank you.” I pick a direction at random, plunging down a hallway. I don’t need to look back to know that Mr. Koven follows me, his strides languid.
“The pool is the other way.”
Shit. My footsteps slow to a halt. I clear my throat.
“It’s a big house. I get lost sometimes.”
“Naturally.” The master of the mansion doesn’t look suspicious when he stops at my side. If anything, he seems amused. Eager for another spat. He offers me the crook of his arm, his muscles bulging beneath his black long-sleeved shirt. “Allow me to escort you.”
I eye him doubtfully.
He smiles and shrugs, the picture of innocence.
“Why do I feel like I’m cuddling up to a pit viper?” I tuck my good hand in his elbow. He tosses his head back and laughs, delighted, the rich sound bouncing off the walls. God, this mansion is so quiet. No wonder he’s clearly gone mad.
“What a terrible way to speak of your boss.”
I roll my eyes, not worried. The warm, teasing note is back in his voice. It affects me more than I’d like to admit. And the hard muscles under my fingertips, the clean, masculine scent drifting off him… I swallow.
“Lead the way, Mr. Koven.”
The mansion is a rabbit warren. I don’t know how Coral finds her way around. I half expect a Minotaur to burst out of a drawing room, we go through so many winding corridors. Coral’s boss peppers me with questions as we walk, asking about my life, my hobbies, my dreams. I try my best to answer for Coral, giving the answers that might be hers, but I can feel the frustration mounting in the man at my side.
“Why are you lying?” he spits at last, yanking us to a stop. “You clearly do not just sit at home and bake.”
I tear my hand away. “How the hell would you know?”
He levels me a look.
“These are not a baker’s muscles.” He squeezes my bare upper arm. “These are not a homebody’s tan lines.” He tugs my collar an inch to the side. The pale stripe of my bikini tie glows against my collarbone. I blink at him, lips parted, as he runs his analytical eye over my body. He catalogues everything: my toned muscles, the sun-kissed tint to my skin, the old mountain biking scar on my elbow.
He lays me bare with a single glance.
I shove away from him, stumbling back, and for a split second I think I see regret in his eyes. Then his face shutters, and he crosses his arms over his broad chest. Those shoulders—they’re definitely the kind of shoulders that can scale cliffs.
“I don’t tolerate liars on my staff, Coral.”
“Miss Walsh,” I hiss. His eyes darken.
“If you don’t—”
“Don’t what?” I give a harsh laugh. “Tell you about my private life? Reread your employment contracts, Mr. Koven. You have no right to these questions.”
Forget the stupid pool. I wheel around and stalk away, back rigid and arms stiff at my sides.
I’ll find it my own damn self.
