Maid for Each Other(5)
“Me!” He barked out a mirthless laugh and said, “Now my parents and my colleagues all think Abby is coming to the most important event of my life tonight because Abi told them she was.”
“Why can’t you just tell them Abi’s not going?” I paused, frowning. “And why did they act like they knew me in the first place?”
“Because they think I have a girlfriend named Abby, for Christ’s sake,” he snapped, his voice full of frustration. “What are the odds my maid would have the same damn name?”
“So…” I was missing something, something that had nothing to do with my sleepover at his penthouse. “You don’t actually have a girlfriend named Abby?”
“I do not,” he said through gritted teeth, his eyes on the alley just beyond my shoulder, his thoughts no longer on me but on his apparently stressful situation.
“What did you do,” I said, watching him attempt to mentally formulate a plan, “make her up or something?”
His intense gaze snapped back to me and I regretted the question immediately. His voice was dangerously quiet when he asked, “Have you ever been arrested, Abi Mariano?”
“Of course not!” My cheeks were hot even though I deserved the inquiry.
“So if I ran a background check, you would—”
“Call the authorities on you for stalking? Yes,” I said in a near yell, frustrated he was treating me like a criminal after I’d explained the situation. Not everyone had piles of money for hotel stays or multiple residences, damn it, and it stung that my tiny questionable decision made him behave as if I’d stolen the family jewels.
But then he smiled at me.
He smiled, and whoa—it was something.
That grin packed a punch, sexy and dirty from the slide of his lips to the squint of his very green eyes. Declan’s voice was silky smooth when he stepped closer, so he was towering over me. “But you can’t do that because you’ve been trespassing, remember?”
“Stop playing with me.” I swallowed hard and crossed my arms. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m still working it out,” he replied as his eyes went down to my chest. “What does that mean?”
“What?”
His eyebrows went down and he gestured to my shirt with his chin. “Your shirt. I don’t get it.”
Of course you don’t. The custom T-shirt shop behind my apartment had a clearance rack where all their mistakes were 80 percent off, so my wardrobe was full of tops that were off-center, riddled with misspellings, or downright stupid.
I didn’t care when I could get a shirt for two bucks, but I’m sure that wouldn’t make sense to someone like him. I raised my chin and said, “What exactly don’t you get?”
The shirt—my favorite shirt, actually—had a picture of a squirrel wearing underpants. The letters above it read Hamilton Won Chip, and the letters below it read Working for Underwear. I couldn’t even fathom what the attempt had been, but it made me smile every time I pulled it out of the dryer.
“Does it mean something?” he asked, seeming irritated that he didn’t understand.
I made a face like he was an idiot for being confused and said, “Obviously.”
“I don’t have time for this today.” Those green eyes moved all over my face before he said, “I’ll be in touch. Answer my call.”
And then he just turned and started walking away from me like a freaking king who had no more time for peasant interaction. I wanted to throw a rock at his perfect suit as he strode toward the parking lot in gorgeous leather shoes that surely cost more than my car.
“What are you going to do? What does ‘I’ll be in touch’ mean?” I yelled, wanting to chase after him and force him to put me out of my misery. “You don’t even have my number.”
“I’ll get it from Carl,” he yelled, not even looking back at me.
“Who the hell is Carl?” I said to myself, frustration filling every molecule in my body. I didn’t need this; I had enough problems, for the love of God.
“My doorman,” he replied, apparently in possession of both supersonic hearing and privileged arrogance. “According to him, you two are thick as thieves.”
Damn it, Carl.
I sighed and watched him disappear, my stomach sinking with dread as I wondered how long I had before the millionaire jerk destroyed my life.
4
Wherein a Deal Is Arranged
Declan
I cannot believe I’m doing this.
I sat in my car—my parents were clearing their stuff out of my place so I’d been relegated to my vehicle for privacy—and pulled her up in my contact list.
Abi Mariano.
After utilizing Google to （a） make sure she wasn’t an actual criminal （I believed her about the infestation）， （b） ascertain whether or not she was a functioning member of society （she’d graduated with honors from UNO and had a LinkedIn profile）， and （c） determine her sketchiness factor, I consulted with my buddy Roman, who convinced me to take a huge-ass gamble.
I hit the FaceTime button and waited while it rang.
And then she answered. “Hello?”
Her face popped up, her eyebrows all scrunched together like she was confused by the call. Which, I supposed, was fair since she didn’t know my number and we weren’t friends.