He sips his scotch and rolls his eyes. “My mother put the ad in with the agency.”
“Your mother?” I frown.
He smirks around his glass. “You seem surprised.”
“Well, I didn’t take you as a mummy’s boy.”
He laughs that velvety laugh again, and I feel it deep in the pit of my stomach. “Not by any means. But she is concerned about Willow, and she wanted to take care of this placement and for us to try something different.”
I smile goofily. “Well…I am different.”
“That you are.”
“Just give me another chance, please?” I plead. “We got off on the wrong foot, sure, but I promise you I will turn this around.”
His eyes hold mine.
“If, in three weeks, you’re still not happy, I’ll get another job in a bar or something, but please don’t get me deported before I have a chance to find another job. I’ve been saving for this trip for twelve months.”
He watches me.
“Please…”
He inhales sharply. “Fine, you have twenty one days. But next time I fire you, don’t beg me to stay.”
I shake my head. “I won’t.”
“Because next time I won’t be pushed over so easily.”
I nod. “Fine, but you have to promise not to give me this truth serum again.” I hold up my glass of scotch.
“Truth serum?”
“I’m quite sure if you asked me anything right now, I would have no choice but to give it to you straight.”
His eyes dance in delight. “Ask me anything,” he whispers darkly.
“What?” I frown.
“Go on. What do you want to know about me?” He raises a single brow. “Off the record, of course.”
I bite my bottom lip to bite back my goofy smile. I like this game. “Okay.” I pause for a moment as I think. “Do you like your women wholesome and pure, or dirty and slutty?”
Satisfaction flashes across his face, and I realize that I just played straight into his hands. He used the truth serum tactic to see what I really wanted to know: his taste in women.
Shit, I need to up my game if I’m going to keep up with this master manipulator.
He sips his scotch and the air swirls between us. “I like the first to act like the latter… but only for me.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. God, good answer. What would he be like in bed with all this dominant power? “Oh,” I mumble. I get a vision of him naked, and suddenly, I can’t think of an intelligent reply.
Think…
Think…
Say something intelligent.
“Wholesome sluts must be hard to find these days,” is all I manage to come up with.
He throws his head back and laughs deeply, I find myself smiling like an idiot. Then his face falls serious. “Go to bed, Miss Brielle, before this game of truth or dare turns sour.”
I drain my glass and stand. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Masters. I really do appreciate you giving me another chance. You will never find me in your bedroom again.”
He licks his bottom lip as he watches me intently. Sitting on the stool, in his suit with his just fucked hair, he looks nothing short of dreamy.
Electricity zaps between us, and we stare at each other for an extended moment.
Abort mission. He’s old…er… he’s your boss, and you are obviously intoxicated.
Truth serum may also be code for fuck serum.
I stand abruptly. “Thank you, I’ll leave you in peace. Enjoy your night, sir.”
Without looking back, I scurry to my bedroom. Once inside, I lean on the back of the closed door.
My heart is pounding in my chest
Thank God my job is safe.
I have twenty-one days left to secure it.
Don’t blow this, Brielle.
I wake to a thudding sound outside. My room is still somewhat dark, although the sun is trying to rise outside.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
What is that noise? I remain still for a while longer, until I hear it again.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
I get up and go to the window. Willow is down below, dressed in a bright blue and white sports uniform She’s kicking a ball into some nets. Oh, she plays soccer. I wonder why she’s up practicing so early. Maybe she plays this time every week? It’s Saturday. I’m going to go and investigate.
I pull on my robe and make my way up into the house. Mr. Masters is sitting at the table reading the paper, and Samuel is eating his porridge.
“Brelly,” Samuel squeals as he jumps down from his chair to hug me.
“Hello, cutie pie.” I smile as I hug him back. My eyes eventually rise to glance at Mr. Masters, and I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I can’t believe I asked him what type of woman he likes. What was I thinking?
Mental note: don’t drink straight scotch ever again. Hardened criminals don’t even drink that shit. No wonder my head is pounding.
Suddenly, I feel underdressed and over daggy. I run my fingers through my rat’s nest hair as Mr. Masters appears to study me. “What are you guys doing up and dressed so early?” I ask.
“Willow plays soccer this morning,” he replies.
“What time will we leave.”
Mr. Masters’ face falls. “You don’t work weekends, Brielle. That isn’t necessary.”
“I know.” I take Samuel’s hand in mine. “I’d like to come and support Willow, if that’s okay.”
He frowns, just as Willow walks through the door with her ball tucked under her arm.
“Willow, give me a minute and I’ll just get dressed,” I say. “I’ll be five minutes, tops.”
She scowls. “What for?”
“I want to come and watch you play soccer.”
“What? You’re not coming, and it’s football. Stay at home and paint your nails or something.”
“Willow,” Mr. Masters chastises. “Where are your manners?”
I raise an eyebrow. “To be honest, football isn’t my thing, but coffee vans and sunlight are, so I would like to come.”
She glares at me, and I smile sarcastically, my eyes wide and waiting. “Besides, my nails are already painted.” I hold my hand up and wiggle my fingers. Willow rolls her eyes in disgust.
“Come on, Sammy, you can help me find some clothes.” I smile at the cute little boy holding my hand.
“Please don’t call him Sammy,” Mr. Masters interrupts. “His name is Samuel. Sammy is a seal’s name.”
“Oh.” I frown down at Samuel. “Is Sammy the Seal a thing?” I think for a moment. “I don’t know about that, I’ve never heard of a seal called Sammy.”
“That’s because even seals don’t like the name Sammy,” Mr. Masters says flatly.
Samuel swings my hand in his and I smile down at him. “What would you like me to call you?” I ask.
He glances at his father nervously before he brings his attention back to me. “I like it when you call me Sammy,” he whispers.
My eyes rise to meet Mr. Masters, and I raise my eyebrow sarcastically.
Willow folds her arms over her chest in disgust. “Didn’t you hear what Dad said? He doesn’t like it.”
“Then I won’t call your father Sammy,” I reply. “Easily fixed.”
Mr. Masters drops his head, resigned, and I turn my attention to Willow. “What would you like me to call you?” I ask sweetly.
She narrows her eyes in contempt. “Stupid.” She sneers.
“Willow,” Mr. Masters growls. “Cut. It. Out. Immediately.”
I smile. “Now, I know for certain your dad wouldn’t like me calling you stupid, but if you insist, I’ll call you Queen B.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fucking unbelievable,” she mutters under her breath,
“When you two are quite finished,” Mr. Masters snaps, interrupting our quarrel. “Willow, mind your language and show Miss Brielle some respect.”
“But I don’t want her to come to football.” She pouts.
“Too bad.” I smile. “I’ll be five minutes. Come on, Sammy, let’s go find me some clothes.”
The walk across the fields to the soccer game is awkward for two reasons. Firstly, Willow hasn’t talked to me at all since we left the house, and I feel I may have made a mistake pushing my way here. Secondly, the mothers that are now staring right at me. Holy hell on a broomstick. Every millionaire mummy in the world must be here, looking like they’ve just stepped out of a photo shoot, yet all eyes are now fixed firmly on me. The women are literally pausing their conversations to stare at me. Mr. Masters must be the topic of a lot of conversation around here. And why wouldn’t he be? They probably all want to bang him.
I really didn’t think this through very well, and I most definitely didn’t think about my outfit. I’m wearing tight denim jeans, a white T-shirt, with a large army green jacket over the top. My long, dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and I have white runners on, with gold Ray Ban aviator sunglasses framing my face. I must look eighteen at most.
Mr. Masters and Willow are walking in front of Sammy and me, the two of us holding hands. We walk past at least twenty people standing on the sideline, and I can almost hear the whispers of judgement as we pass.
“Did your other nannies ever come to watch, Willow?” I ask Sammy.
“Nope.”
“Has your father ever brought someone else to a soccer game?”
“Like who?” Sam frowns.
“Like, one of his lady friends, perhaps?”
He shrugs. “Dad doesn’t have lady friends, just man friends.”
“He’s never had a lady friend?” I ask, surprised.
Sam shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Oh.”
Willow waves to her friends before she runs off to the dressing shed.
Mr. Masters chooses a spot and puts down three fold-up chairs. “Here, Miss Brielle.” He gestures to my chair.
“Thank you.” I smile before I fall into it awkwardly. I really should have stayed home. I’m feeling very uncomfortable.
“Dad, do you want to kick?” Sam asks as he throws the spare soccer ball to his father.
“Sure thing.” He takes Sam over to the other field, where they begin to kick the ball to each other. I watch on, and if I was a nice person I would tell you I am watching Samuel playing happily with his father. But, because I’m a dirty pervert, I can openly admit that I’m watching Mr. Masters, and nobody else.