Rescued By the Billionaire by Lisa Kaatz

5

His kitchen was enormous. Large, solid marble counters. Huge gas range that had to be worth, again, more than my car. A kitchen island that was bigger than my bedroom. An espresso station that rivaled the industrial one from the coffee shop. Two microwaves. Who the hell needed two microwaves?

I located the cleaning supplies underneath the sink and was relieved to find something ordinary in an otherwise extraordinary home. He might live in the closest thing to a mansion that the Upper East Side could afford, but he still had regular old Clorox underneath the counter.

Rich guys, they’re just like you!

The point of trading my labor for the money instead of just taking it from him was so that this didn’t feel like charity. But Lincoln’s kitchen was spotless. I looked for the usual offenders. The ceiling of the microwave, where even the cleanest people often missed a spot. Underneath the ventilation hood, where grease accumulated no matter how often you scrubbed. The underside of the cabinets, where cobwebs and dust liked to linger.

Not a damn thing.

Lincoln’s kitchen was spotless, save for a single mug in the sink, which I assumed he’d used today for his morning cup of coffee. Finding myself unable to come up with anything to do, I settled on washing out the mug, taking much longer than was necessary to wash it by hand, drying it with careful precision.

I looked at the clock. It was only half past six, and I was supposed to be here until nine. What on earth was I supposed to be cleaning until then?

It took me some time to find the refrigerator. It was camouflaged, its doors built in to look like another set of extra large cabinet doors. I thought of my own refrigerator at home, which wasn’t even full sized, but instead was a small mini-fridge that a college student had left by the curb one morning.

I’d grabbed it, scrubbed it down (it smelled of beer and cigarettes and the top was covered in a sticky film of uncertain origins) and hauled it up to my apartment, and celebrated by treating myself to a cup of cheap, boxed wine. That had been just after I’d signed my lease, finally moving from the shelter in Queens to my tiny studio apartment - if you could even call it that.

I looked inside the fridge to see what I had to work with. I was a decent cook. Before Dad remarried, I did the cooking for the two of us. But Lincoln’s fridge didn’t have much to offer me in terms of supplies.

I examined the milk carton, the only item in there aside from salad dressings and a take out container. It was expired by three days. I frowned and put it back. Then I looked in the freezer.

A bottle of vodka and a freezer-burned frozen pizza.

Not exactly a gourmet meal. I frowned. Surely this isn’t what Lincoln meant by cooking. Was he really so helpless that he couldn’t put a pizza into the oven by himself?

I closed the freezer door and turned, crossing the kitchen and then the main room. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs that I’d seen Lincoln climb.

“Lincoln?” I called up them.

There was no answer. I looked around, considered leaving for a moment, and then thought better of it. Leaving without saying goodbye would look like I had just taken his money and bounced.

Besides, I needed an explanation for this spotless kitchen. Something wasn’t right with this situation.

I ascended the stairs two steps at a time, making as much noise as I could on my way up. I could hear classical music playing, piano keys weaving through the air towards me. Following the noise, I stopped in front of a large wooden door at the end of the hall.

I knocked.

“Lincoln?”

No answer.

I sighed. Last chance to just leave. But then I wouldn’t get my explanation. And for whatever reason, I really needed one.

I knocked one more time, giving him one last chance to answer me. The piano reached a crescendo. I opened the door.

“What the fuck?”

Lincoln jumped out of his seat behind a large oak desk. A sleek silver laptop sat on top of it, the source of the music.

He looked guilty, as though I’d just caught him in the middle of something wrong. Masturbating? Without thinking about it, my gaze flickered to his groin, looking for a telltale sign.

Nothing.

“Shouldn’t you knock?” he barked.

“I did,” I called over the din. “You didn’t hear me. Probably has something to do with you blaring Mozart like you’re at a rock concert.”

He pushed a button on his laptop and the noise was instantly sucked out the room, leaving behind a deafening silence. My ears were ringing.

“Are you done with the kitchen already?” he asked, still fuming.

“Yeah, I’m done,” I said, folding my arms. “First, I wiped down the spotless counter. Then I wiped down the spotless range. Then I wiped down the spotless sink and washed your single coffee mug that had been in there.”

“And the floors?” he asked.

I raised a brow.

“So the spotless floors aren’t to your liking? What do you want to do, eat off of them?” I asked.

“I hired you to clean, didn’t I?” he said, falling back into his chair and sighing.

“I’m not so sure,” I tilted my head. “Come on, Lincoln. Give up the act. You’re obviously a neat freak and don’t need any help in that department. Also, your refrigerator is completely empty.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Fine,” he said, pulling his phone out. “Let’s just order takeout.”

“And you need my presence while you order take out because…?” I asked.

“Look,” he said, looking up from his phone and staring into my eyes with a fierce look that threatened to push me backwards with its force. That glassy blue gaze could look warm or cold depending on the way he used it. Right now, it was cold.

“You’re the one,” he said. “Who insisted that you earn the money. I told you, I just want to help you get another job. That’s it. You didn’t have to come here, you didn’t have to do anything.”

“Why do you want to help me?” I asked.

“I got you fired,” he said, exhaling through his nose slowly. “We’ve been over this.”

“You know that’s not true,” I said, staring at him. “You know it.”

“I just want to help you,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t a man want to help a woman without having his motives questioned?”

I bit my lip and leaned against the doorframe. I couldn’t look at him. I looked everywhere but at him. I expected his walls to be lined with awards and degrees from Ivy League universities. Instead, they were mostly bare. There were what looked to be family photos, old and new, pinned to the wall with thumb tacks. Him with his arm around a man whose eyes were the same icy blue as his. His brother?

“Look,” I said softly. “I appreciate your help. Really. I do.”

“But?” he asked.

“But don’t give me some bullshit job,” I said. “I need something real. This just feels like more charity.”

“I don’t really have anything else I need help with,” he shrugged.

“Your house is immaculate. It looks like you had a maid come through just yesterday,” I said.

He looked away.

“Isn’t there some paperwork I could help you with? An errand I could run?” I asked hopefully.

He thought about it.

“Just have dinner with me,” he sighed.

“Dinner,” I repeated. “I know. You want me to cook.”

“Not cook,”  he shook his head. “I mean, unless you just want to. If I’m being honest with you, I don’t usually eat at home. I work late a lot. I get takeout.”

“Right,” I said, thinking of the freezer burned pizza. “That makes sense.”

“But I could use a distraction,” he leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at me appraisingly. “Conversation, I guess. Like last night. Last night was the first time I had dinner with someone who wasn’t my brother in weeks.”

I stared at him, looking for a sign that he was lying to me. Humoring me again, making up labor so that I’d feel useful. He was looking down at his hands, shoulders slumped. Looking broken.

Was he lonely? Was that it?

“You know,” I said. “A guy like you could find someone pretty easily.”

“You’re talking about women,” he said with bitterness.

“Well, maybe,” I said, blushing. “Or men. Whatever your preference is.”

“I’m straight,” he said, staring at the wall.

“Okay, then women,” I said. “Yeah, I mean women. I mean, how old are you? Thirty?”

“Thirty-one,” he said.

Six years older than me, I thought.

“Well, you seem like a catch, is all I meant,” I said with a shrug. “I mean, you seem fairly successful. Friendly enough - usually. And handsome.”

I nearly choked on the last word. I hadn’t mean to say that part aloud. But it was already out there. No way to back down now.

“I don’t really date anymore,” he said, looking up at me. “Too messy.”

“Messy how?” I asked. I took a few steps into his office now, coming closer, sitting down in the armchair he had near his desk.

“Just...messy,” he waved a hand in the air vague and rolled his eyes. “Women are more trouble than they’re worth, Abby.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly. “You know, men can be a pain in the ass, too.”

“Oh?”

“Like right now,” I said.

He looked away.

“Some people,” he said slowly. “Aren’t who they say they are.”

I didn’t say anything. Just watched his profile. The sun had nearly set, and the dim purple light that spilling through the window lit up the stubble on his chin, his eyelashes, the edge of his jaw. He looked older in this light. Tired.

“Everyone,” he continued. “Has a motive. Everyone. Even you. Even me. You want to know why I want to help you. Why? Why can’t you just accept that I want to do something nice?”

“Because people don’t just do nice things,” I whispered.

Lincoln stood and walked over to me.

“Some people do,” he said, leaning in close. “I do. But you don’t believe me. Why? Because you’ve been hurt before, Abby. You know better. You know that some people aren’t who they seem to be.”

My throat was tight. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. He was so close. Too close.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I know.”

“I get it. But I need you to trust me,” he said softly. “When I say I want to help you, I want to help you. I insist on helping you. But you’ve got to let me do that.”

I couldn’t look at him. I knew if I looked up, I’d see those piercing blue eyes looking down at me, and then I’d be a goner.

“Abby,” he said. He gripped my chin in his hands and pulled it up, forcing me to look at him. To confront that searing stare. His eyes had gone dark and hungry. He looked down at my mouth, leaned in closer. So close that I was pinned against the wall. We were chest to chest now. I felt something at his waist, hard and firm, pressing against me. Urgent, needy, so immediate and demanding.

I couldn’t breathe. He leaned down slowly and I closed my eyes. Maybe this is what I’d wanted the whole time. Maybe somewhere, deep down, I knew that this would happen. That it was inevitable. Lincoln didn’t date. But maybe he invited women to his house and kissed them against the doorframe.

His lips were soft against mine at first, barely a whisper of contact. Shivers ran down my spine, and the scent of his aftershave filled my nostrils, evergreen and woodsy like fallen pine needles. And so, so good.

Then he became more urgent. Suddenly he was pressed up against me, grinding his cock against my stomach while his hands wandered. His mouth pressed up against me, kissing me with passion and abandon, as though he’d completely lost control. His hands ran from my hips, over my rib cage, and finally to my breasts, where he squeezed and massaged me over my shirt.

I moaned against his lips, squirming between the weight of his body and the hard wall behind me. He took my wrists and tugged them upwards, pinning them against the wall with one hand while the other slid beneath my shirt, stroking the cleavage that spilled from the top of my push up bra, sliding fingers beneath the cups to graze against hard nipples below.

Involuntarily, I struggled against his grip on my hands, squirming and moaning against his mouth as he pulled the cups of my bra down, under my breasts, pushing them up and out and towards his eager hand. His tongue pressed against my mouth, parting my lips, and explored while his fingers did the same, pinching and flicking and tugging on my nipples beneath my shirt. His knee pushed against me, parting my legs.

I knew I was wet. I’d never reacted to a man like this before. Had never been touched in this way. He was demanding yet yielding, hard and soft at the same time. And experienced. He touched me with certainty. As though he knew exactly what my weaknesses were, as though he knew exactly where to go to pull the loudest moans out of me. I thought I would fall to my knees if he wasn’t holding me in place.

Legs parted, arms pinned against the wall, he took my mouth with his and his hand traveled downward, leaving a line of goosebumps down my torso and to the waistband of my jeans. He ripped the button open and tugged the zipper down and I squirmed against him.

“Lincoln,” I gasped against his lips.

His hand dove beneath my underwear, and when he reached my wet slit, he groaned against my mouth.

“Lincoln, wait,” I gasped. I pushed against his firm chest and he pulled away, breathing heavily, looking around as though he’d just woken up from a dream, hardly aware of where he was or what he had been doing just moments before.

It took me a few beats to realize that I was still leaning against the wall, shirt pulled up, bra pulled down with my breasts exposed, pants unbuttoned and sitting low on my hips, the top of of my lacy black thong exposed. I covered myself quickly, turning away from him to fix my bra and button my pants. My cheeks were burning.

When I turned back around, Lincoln was staring at me.

“What the hell was that?” I asked. I’d meant to sound light-hearted, but the words came out accusingly.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. His eyes didn’t leave me. He seemed conflicted. Like he was trying to make a decision, and was looking for the answers within me.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, and finally had to look away. Back to his sparsely decorated office walls. It occured to me how different looking this room was from the rest of his house. The rest of his house looked like it belonged to some rich Wall Street banker. But this room looked more on par with a college dorm room.

And what we’d just done was more on par with what would happen in a college dorm room,I thought, remembering the way his large hands had groped my breasts greedily over my shirt.

He sat back on the edge of his desk and folded his arms, looking up at me.

“Abby,” he said, voice still low. He looked pained.

He was going to tell me to leave. I just knew it. To leave, and that he couldn’t help me find a job anymore. He had that look in his eye. The look people gave me when they were ready for me to go away. To leave and not turn back. The look that said “I’m done with you.”

“What do you think of my house?” he asked finally.

“What?” I asked.

“My house,” he waved toward the door. “What do you think of it?”

“Um,” I bit my lip. “I don’t really know what you mean. It’s nice, I guess? It seems kind of cold, though.”

“Cold,” he repeated.

“Like inhuman, I guess,” I shrugged. Why the hell was he asking me what I thought of his house? Was he wanting interior decorating tips?

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, turning his head.

“I don’t know, like do you even live here?” I laughed. “This room is the only room that looks like a person has lived in it. Your kitchen, that living room with ridiculous bookshelves. I mean, who has that many books? Have you even read them?”

“Some of them,” he said quietly.

“And the rest, you’ll get around to someday?” I asked. “All four thousand of them?”

“So you don’t like my house,” he said.

“I don’t dislike it,” I said. “It’s just not my thing, I guess. It feels lonely. You couldn’t pay me to live in a place like this.”

“Really?” he raised a brow. “You wouldn’t like living here more than...where you live now?”

My cheeks colored again, but for new reasons now. So he was criticizing my lifestyle now? Was that what he got out of this arrangement? Feeling superior?

“There’s nothing wrong with where I live,” I said, my eyes flashing. “It’s not the nicest place, but it’s home for now.”

“I’m surprised it passes the building code,” he commented.

I lost it.

“What is your deal?” I asked. “You’re the one who brought up your house! Why do you care what I think of your place? And now you’re knocking my place? Is this some kind of power move, Lincoln? You kiss me, strip me naked, then point out that you live in a nicer apartment than I do? Is this some kind of strategy?”

“I’m just surprised you don’t mind your place, that’s all,” he said, holding up a hand. “It’s a little unsafe looking. Those guys hanging out at the entrance, and the elevator doesn’t seem like it’s up to standards at all.”

“It’s fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “And again, I have no idea why you’re bringing this up. Is this your idea? Does this make you feel like some kind of hero? Swooping in and giving me a pile of money and offering to help me? Are you getting off on this or something?”

“Abby, I’m sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean it like this at all. I just - ”

“You know what,” I said, opening the door. “I think I’m done here. Clearly you don’t need your house cleaned, so I’m not really sure why I’m still here.”

I turned and ran down the hallway. Back down the stairs. Where had I left my coat? My stupid coat.

“Abby, wait.”

His hand was on my shoulder and I felt the familiar electricity between us, even now, when I was so angry I was sure I hated him. Wanted to punch him. Yet one hand on my skin and I thought I was going to melt into the ground.

I whirled around, throwing his hand off of me.

“I don’t know what this is,” I said. “But I’m starting to think you’re playing head games with me.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not like that. Not at all.”

“So rubbing it in that you live here,” I waved an arm around. “And that I live over there was just, what? Casual conversation?”

“Abby, no,” he said. “It’s hard to explain. I just...I put my foot in my mouth.”

I stared at him. Maybe he was being honest. But then I thought back to his words. About how sometimes some people just want to help you out, no motive, no strings attached. But everyone had motives. Even Lincoln. He’d said so himself. And I didn’t want to think about the kind of motives he might have, a man who had brought me here to clean a spotless house and then kissed me passionately up against the wall. I felt like a prostitute, not a maid.

“I have to go,” I whispered.

He didn’t stop me. So I fled. As the elevator descended, taking me away from there, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.