Maid for Each Other

1

waking up in the bed
of a millionaire

Abi

Is it wrong that a tiny part of me is happy to have an infestation at my apartment?

Of course it is, I thought as I sat up and stretched in the decadently soft king-size bed. But who could blame me? The luxuriousness of the million-thread-count sheets alone made it way less of a hardship, not to mention the frothy memory foam pillows. Honestly, I wasn't sure how the wealthy ever dragged themselves out of bed in the morning when it felt so good to just lie there, cocooned in expensive linens.

But I didn't have time to languish in the opulence. I needed to get the hell out of there and get to work before Benny fired me.

I carefully made the bed, ensuring it was impossible to tell I'd ever been there. I was going to wash the sheets after I came back later because I wasn't some kind of psychotic Goldilocks-coded monster who'd secretly sleep in someone else's bed without laundering away my DNA, but just in case someone happened to show up in the meantime, I wanted to remove all traces of the uninvited Abi Mariano.

I'd showered last night, just to ensure I had time to clean every square inch of the bathroom (a lot of square inches, for the record), so I quickly changed and pulled my hair into a ponytail. Five minutes later, everything I brought with me was jammed and zipped into my backpack as I reached for the doorknob and opened the bedroom door.

"Well, good morning!"

I gasped and my hands flew to my heart as I looked to my right.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

Standing there, in the enormous kitchen of the fancy penthouse, was a silver-haired man and a woman with a sleek black bob. They were smiling, but that didn't make me feel any better.

I was completely, totally, absolutely screwed.

The guy was wearing a flawless navy suit that was definitely not off-the-rack (hello, rich dude with the pocket square), and the woman was in one of those it's-just-an-oxford-and-white-jeans-but-they-cost-a-thousand-bucks ensembles. They looked like beautiful royals on retirement, perfectly put together, and they looked like they belonged in the upscale residence where I'd been squatting.

But they didn't look surprised to see me.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," the man said, stepping forward to extend his hand while he smiled warmly. "I'm Charles, and this is Elaine."

"Abi," I mumbled in shock as King Charles wrapped his big hand around mine and shook it confidently, as if this was okay and I was supposed to be there.

Way to give them your real name, dipshit!

"Abi!" The woman-Elaine, apparently-beamed at me like she'd been breathlessly anticipating my arrival. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Yeah, um, same," I said, unsure of what she could possibly mean by finally.

Am I in an episode of some pranking show?

Are the cops on their way and the Chuck/Lainey duo before me is simply a distraction to keep me from getting away?

"I, um-"

"We helped ourselves to your muffins, by the way." Charles pointed toward the cooling rack on the center island, where the six face-size blueberry muffins I'd painstakingly made from scratch in that glorious gourmet kitchen the night before had now been reduced by two.

THEY. ATE. MY. MUFFINS.

I had bigger problems at the moment, but a tiny part of me wanted to rage because those muffins had been the most delicious things I'd ever tasted. They were supposed to be my amazing breakfast for the next week. I'd planned to devour one perfect little pastry every morning before embarking upon my far-from-perfect life.

Only now, two resided in the digestive tracts of these two beaming socialites.

RIP, decadent pastries, and a plague on the house of Charles and Elaine.

"They were so delicious," Elaine gushed, then added, "Declan never told us you were a pastry chef."

"Well," I said, my heart pounding out of my chest as I tried to play along, "you know Declan."

They laughed like that made sense-what in the ever-loving hell?-and I needed to go. I pulled my car keys out of my backpack and pasted on a huge smile. "Listen, it was so nice to meet you and I'd love to chat more but I have to get to work."

"Typical Abi," Charles said in a she's-so-adorable tone, giving me just the nicest grin. "Will you be at the Hathaway party tonight?"

Typical Abi?

"I'm, uh, I'm not sure," I stammered, doing a sideways walk in the direction of the front door, desperate to escape. Because the quicker I got out of there, the better my odds were of not being arrested for trespassing. "Probably . . . ?"

"We won't take 'probably' for an answer, Abi," Elaine said, running a manicured hand-holy shit that's a huge diamond-over her perfectly coiffed hair. "No going to work until you say yes. We're dying to get to know you."

"Um, yes, then." Relief shot through me when I reached the front door and felt the cool metal knob in my palm. Almost there. "I will definitely be at the party."

I would say anything to escape at that moment.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Elaine said emphatically.

"Fantastic," Charles agreed.

"I have to go now," I managed, pulling open the door and giving them what I hoped was a charming smile. "It was lovely meeting you."

The second I was in the hall and the door clicked shut behind me, I made a beeline for the stairs, ignoring the elevator completely. I wasn't usually a fan of exercise, but I full-on sprinted down all twenty flights of stairs, wanting to put as much distance as possible between me and whatever the hell that whole scene just was.

I had no idea why those strangers thought they knew me, but I definitely wasn't going to stick around to find out.

2

discovering the
real-life existence of
an imaginary friend

Declan

"Good morning, darling."

"Mom." I leaned down and kissed her cheek before taking a seat between her and my dad at the round banquet table. They'd flown in late last night, so I hadn't had a chance to talk to them before giving my little welcome presentation to the Hathaway VIPs. "How was the flight?"

"Delayed," my dad said, lifting a piece of bacon to his mouth. "But uneventful. Great speech, by the way."

"Thanks." He was right-I'd fucking nailed it-but I still had the entire shareholder weekend in front of me so I wasn't about to get cocky.

The Hathaway Annual Shareholder Meeting, for which thousands of investors trekked to Omaha for a week of feeling like stock-owning rock stars, always kicked off with a Friday-morning breakfast meeting that was just for the VIPs; there was another one tomorrow morning for everyone else.

This year I'd been tapped to do the welcome address at both.

"He didn't even bore me while I ate my eggs," Warren said from the other side of the table, picking up his coffee cup. "The kid's okay."

The kid's okay.

Warren Hathaway, the richest man in America and long-term CEO of Hathaway Holdings, had just spoken those words about me. The guy had a genius brain for business and had been my hero for as long as I could remember, so I'd be lying if I said his praise didn't mean a lot.

Right after I graduated from college, Hathaway offered my family (who'd taken my great-grandmother's tiny sofa business and turned it into CrashPad, the nation's largest furniture store) a multimillion-dollar buyout. It'd been a dream come true because not only could my parents retire early and travel the world, but I was absorbed into the Hathaway enterprise and given the opportunity to work my way up in a much larger corporation.

Suddenly the MBA that my uncles had called a waste (You don't need college to work in the family business) was guiding me toward the career I'd always wanted.

I'd been an EVP at Hathaway for two years now, but moving higher had been proving difficult. No matter how hard I worked, the guys at the top still saw me as a "young kid," even though I was thirty.

But a disagreement at the QBR last month-where I was right and CFO Marty Mueller was nearly catastrophically wrong-put me on the map with Warren, and suddenly my career was in new territory.

The old guy and his inner circle seemed to be forgetting about my age and inexperience and actually trusting my knowledge.

Fucking huge.

"We finally met his girlfriend this morning," my mom said to Warren, and it took me a minute to catch up.

What?

"You met his Abby?" Warren set down his cup and gave my mom a grin of commiseration. "I was starting to wonder if she's real, because no one's ever seen her."

"Right?" My mom laughed in agreement.

What. The. Fuck?

She wasn't real.

Abby was the name I'd given to my nonexistent girlfriend.

So how had my mother met her?

For what it's worth, I never meant to make up a girlfriend. I wasn't some adolescent who was too scared of women to date, for God's sake; I was actually a big fan. But I didn't have any time to commit to all the bullshit that went along with relationships. Work was my focus for now, and I'd worry about things like settling down after I turned forty.

But when everyone in leadership had a significant other, well . . . desperate times called for desperate measures. I needed the powers that be to think I was settled and grounded and ready to lead the company, so when my personal life became a topic of conversation at the quarterly retreat, I might've offhandedly mentioned my down-to-earth-and-wanting-a-family-right-away angelic girlfriend.

Abby.

I'd literally looked at the server's name tag-Abby-and named my imaginary girlfriend after her; not a lot of forethought went into it.

I hadn't intended on keeping the Abby thing going, but it was convenient. It made my parents happy, my co-workers, my nana; everyone seemed to take comfort in the fact that I had an Abby in my life.

Only I didn't.

She didn't exist.

So what was my mother talking about?

"She's coming to the party tonight," my dad said to Warren, who'd become his pal over the past few years. "So you can meet her then."

"She . . . ," I said, squeezing the bridge of my nose as my brain ran wild trying to figure out what the hell could be happening. "She, uh, told you she's coming tonight?"

"Yes," my mom said, turning in her seat to scrutinize me. "But she looked surprised to see us in the kitchen when she woke up, Dex; did you forget to tell her we'd be staying at your place?"

"Oh," I managed, trying my best to not look shocked that a stranger had actually been in my apartment. "Ah, I didn't think she'd be there last night. I thought she-"

"I'm so glad she was," she continued, as if I hadn't even spoken. "She's the most adorable little redhead and she baked a kitchen full of muffins that were to die for."

So this was real. Someone named Abby had slept in my apartment and made fucking muffins.

"Abby can cook, that's for sure," I muttered as my mind whirled. What the hell was going on? I lived in a secured building with a doorman. I had locks on my doors and a security system.

How could this have happened?

Who the fuck was Abby?

"I haven't had a good muffin since Ethel passed," Warren murmured, setting down his coffee. "Have your little Abby bring one tonight, okay, Dex?"

"Of course," I said, hearing a roaring in my ears as I gave him what I hoped was a casual smile. "Will you excuse me for a moment? I have to step out and make a call."

"Calling Abby?" my mother asked in a singsong voice.

"I'm definitely going to try and track her down," I said before turning away from the table full of watchful eyes and charging for the door. "Excuse me."

3

the millionaire meets his maid

Abi

"Would you like your receipt?"

"No," the woman said, grabbing her Lululemon tote bag and heading for the exit of Benny's Natural Grocers without giving me a second glance.

"Have a good day," I yelled before turning to ring up the next customer in line.

I hated this job, this perfectly easy and mind-numbing job. I'd worked at Benny's since high school, so it was comfortable, not to mention necessary because it supplied me with my health insurance, but every shift just reminded me that my life was stuck in quicksand that I might never get out of.

Hence my second go-round of college.

Hence my need for this job and my three-times-a-week overnight job.

Hence my propensity for thinking stupid words like hence.

"Hi," I said robotically to the next customer, my mouth on autopilot before I noticed the person in line didn't have anything on the belt. I raised my eyes to the customer's face but then-wow.

I might've actually gasped aloud.

There were a lot of attractive men out there, but this man had to be The One they were inspired by.

He was tall-like six and a half feet of tall-but no one would call him lanky. They would never. Broad shoulders filled out the impeccably tailored suit, and he reminded me of a professional football player when they did the long walk from the bus to the locker room.

Expensive.

Built.

Perfect.

And not to be messed with.

His face made that point even more than his impressive physique, actually.

He had brown eyes-no, green-that were trained on me and absolutely butterfly-inducing with their directness. It was like the man was staring into my soul, I swear to God, and his lips were turned up like he wanted to smile.

I usually didn't notice mouths on men, to be honest, but the bow on his top lip-or maybe it was the fullness of the bottom-drew my eyes downward as if it were a magnet and my irises were flecked with steel.

I could picture that mouth speaking French. Or Italian. I forced my eyes back up and offhandedly thought that this well-dressed man could actually be the cover model for any romance novel about mob bosses, racecar drivers, or grumpy billionaires.

I opened my smitten mouth to say "How can I help you?" without drooling when he said in a midnight-rich voice, "Hello, Abi with an i."