I only get up at 5 a. m. if I’m setting off on an early walk of shame or need to catch a flight. Mondays are hard enough without adding unnecessary torture. Billionaire brains must be wired differently than a normal working-class person’s.
Teagan wakes up at 7 a. m., and I need to have breakfast ready at 7:20 so she can leave by 7:45. I prepare a healthy snack box for her to take to school.
So father and daughter don’t even get to see each other in the mornings.
I slowly scan pages and pages of granular details with everything planned out for the Quinn family.
Everything is planned to a T. Every breakfast, dinner, evening, activity.
Teagan does so many after-school activities that I hardly have to nanny her. I have to make sure she does her homework before dinner and check it when she’s done. Blah. I wasn’t great in school the first time around.
What about the days when Quinn’s had too much to drink and his head’s hanging out his asshole? Or when it’s pouring rain outside, and he’s not willing to brave a run?
Those days don’t exist. Not on paper, anyway.
Teagan stays at her grandmother’s some Tuesday nights when Mr. Quinn may have female guests stay over. Sounds transactional.
Discretion is expected when Mr. Quinn’s guests are visiting.
“Jesus,” I say aloud, blinking. Everything is laid out for Quinn, even sex. Is he ever spontaneous?
I wonder what his Tuesday lady friends are like. They’re probably high-flying executives who only have time for sex once a week. Like the beautiful one he was with in the hotel.
The company credit card will be used for all purchases. Domestic staff have a personal allowance of $1500 per week for food, clothes, and entertainment. Any increase must be approved by Mr. Quinn.
I read it again.
And again.
Then flop about on the mattress, thrashing my legs about the bed like I’m doing a backstroke.
The sound that erupts from me is pure, raw hysteria.
The next section really has my eyes hanging out of my head.
Off-limits areas.
The following areas are off-limits unless you have specific permission from Mr. Quinn. Off-limits areas are marked in red on the floor plan.
Sure enough, she has included a floor plan breakdown with red circles. I feel like I’m studying for a master’s program in maidhood.
Cabinets in his office. His bedside cabinet. The attic.
She shouldn’t have included this section. That’s all I can think about now.
What’s Quinn hiding in the attic? What a perfect horror movie. Nanny maid creates a manual with cryptic help messages. The new maid finds her dead body in the attic.
I blow out a long breath.
This is not conducive.
The wall clock chimes eleven o’clock, making me jump. My alarm goes off in five hours. I’m giving myself extra time tomorrow morning before Quinn wakes up. I’ve only plowed through a small part of the manual so far. People don’t get that sometimes my brain has to work twice as hard and it’s draining.
Staring at the clock, I get pangs of insecurity.
I’m living in a central New York townhouse with the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever clapped eyes on with all my food and bills paid for. Living in Manhattan, legally, is my dream.
But in Queens, I’m in my comfort zone. Working at the bar, living with Orla, teaching yoga in the park, bagels with the amazing crisp crust and lashings of cream cheese from Tony’s. There’s always “craic” there.
Quinn puts me on high alert, ready to pee my pants at any moment. Or cream them.
It’s weird to think he’s a few floors above me. His daughter must be in bed too.
I stare up at the ceiling, willing myself to go to sleep. I wonder if Quinn is in bed doing the same thing.
His bed looks massive on the floor plan. Not surprising, considering the size of the body it needs to house. As uncomfortable as I was meeting him, I couldn’t help but notice how his T-shirt strained over his upper body.
He’s probably sprawled out on his bed right now, naked. Does sleep come easy to a man like him? Maybe he rubs one out to knock himself out.
Maybe he’s rubbing one out right now.
Why am I going there? Thoughts like that aren’t conducive, either.
Except it’s hard not to.
When I close my eyes, I can’t unsee the image of Killian Quinn’s disapproving gaze sweeping over me, the rough gravel in his distinctive voice, the icy steel in his eyes…
Miss Kelly.
My hands drift down under the lace rim of my underwear.
Does he ever thaw? I bet his orgasm face looks angry.
Nope, thinking about my scowling boss’ face as he lies on top of me is not conducive.
Clodagh
This is not the city that never sleeps. The only two people awake are Quinn and me. The rest of Manhattan is asleep.
The manual didn’t mention a dress code. I expected a control freak like Quinn to have uniform requirements, like a Victorian maid outfit with an apron.
Perhaps I’m being harsh, but it’s hard not to curse the guy after wrestling a fancy coffee machine with thirty different settings for twenty minutes when it’s still pitch-black outside.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss at the stupid machine. It gurgles loudly back at me in defiance.
I let out a defeated breath. I might cry. I failed at the first task. Making coffee.
“Morning,” a rough drawl comes from behind me. “I hope that wasn’t directed at me.”
“Mr. Quinn!” I squeak, nearly jumping out of my skin. I spin around to face him, feeling the blood rushing to my face. Why am I so damn skittish? I know he lives here, for God’s sake.
It’s just…
His frame fills the doorway, blocking off the oxygen supply in the kitchen.