Bailey
The minute the master suite door closes, I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s gone. I absolutely can’t stand being in the presence of that man. Everything about him—from his perfectly wavy hair and GQ features to his arrogance sets my teeth grinding together.
I’m new at this job, only at it a few weeks, and cleaning the heir’s penthouse suite for roughly half that, he has yet to say “good morning” back to me when I arrive at his door. I mean… come on, jackass! How hard is it to just say hello to your peon workers?
Freaking one-percenters, entirely out of touch with us little folks.
I take in a deep breath, reach for my feather duster, and let it out slowly. Calm down, Bailey. Declan Blackwood isn’t your enemy, and he’s not the cause of your problems.
Which is true, but it’s just easier to throw my ire his way. I mean, the not replying to my morning greeting is irritating as hell.
Just plain rude.
In my mind, his name isn’t Declan. That first morning he opened the door, barely spared me a glance, and ignored my chirpy, “Good morning,” I’d officially renamed him Dicklan.
I snicker, thinking about it.
Dicklan, Dicklan, Dicklan.
The peeved, scantily dressed blonde with mussed hair that just called him an asshole on her way out the door probably agrees with me.
I had heard that His Highness, Declan Blackwood of Blackwood Hotels and Resorts, was quite the player; rumor down in the bowels of this hotel where the housekeepers had their breaks was he slept with a different woman each night of the week. But today was the first time I’d actually witnessed a woman leaving his suite, so I’m not sure whether it’s true.
Not any of my business, though. His sex life, lack thereof, or overabundance, doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m merely here to do my job, do it well, and collect a paycheck so I can start paying off the gobs of debt my jerk of an ex-husband left me saddled with.
After I work the morning shift here at Blackwood, I’ll drive a few hours for Uber, which is always good for a few bucks down on the Strip. Once finished, I’ll head off to my part-time casino job, waitressing drinks to cheap tippers at the slots. The moderate tippers are at the blackjack tables, thinking they have the right to grab my ass for every ten-spot thrown on my tray.
That’s right… Dicklan would never understand that it’s impossible to keep my head above water on minimum-wage jobs and high housing costs. He’s so out of touch with the common man, from where he rules from his throne atop the Blackwood Vegas, that he’d never understand that a simple ‘good morning’ can mean a lot to someone in my situation.
A woman who has to hold down three jobs to pay off a debt that isn’t even hers while caring for her two disabled parents, I mean. I’d give anything for him to spend five minutes in my shoes. I bet His Royal Prissy Pants would be crying in less than four.
I spend time dusting the expensive furniture, devoid of any personal decorations or knickknacks, which makes my job easier. I’ve heard Dicklan doesn’t stay in one place more than a few years before moving on, ensuring his hotel is in peak condition before turning it over to a manager. I guess it explains the lack of personalization in this penthouse suite. Rumor says it will go for close to four thousand a night after he vacates the premises.
That type of wealth boggles my mind.
Four grand a night to stay in a bed. Have a fancy espresso machine at your fingertips. Have the softest toilet paper to wipe your butt.
I’d kill to be able to make four grand a month at a job. Most people would.
After dusting, I make my way into the kitchen and start to clean. Of course, Dicklan left his dirty dishes out just two feet from the empty dishwasher. I bet he’s never loaded one in his life.
I replace the cover on the fruit bowl before putting it back in the fridge. Nabbing the dirty fork and empty coffee cup, I turn toward the dishwasher.
“You can leave the cup out,” I hear from behind me.
I usually don’t startle easy, but the deep voice that belongs to Declan Blackwood is right behind me. He’s so close I feel his breath on the back of my neck. It’s bare because I pulled my hair into a bun, which the job requires.
I whirl to find six-foot-five inches of solid, practically naked, muscled man. His hair is wet and slicked back, water droplets on his shoulders. As I do a quick rake down past a ridged abdomen, I follow a dark trail of hair starting below his navel and snaking down to a minuscule white towel around his waist.
There is no missing the bulge—not an erection—just a lot of big stuff beneath that towel pressing against the damp confines.
My face flushes hot as I whirl back around. “Of course, Mr. Blackwood.”
Dicklan.
“Can I have my cup please?” he asks. I’m surprised to hear “please” come out of his mouth. He certainly doesn’t have to use it with me.
At that moment, I realize I have the mug and dirty fork clutched to my chest like a maiden who’s never seen a half-naked man before.
Because I have.
But not one like the Blackwood heir.
Holy cow, he’s hot.
Beyond hot.
Is he really packing that much… size… beneath that towel?
I take in a breath, pivot back his way, and hold the cup out while resolving to maintain eye contact.
For a moment, he merely studies me, seeming to pay close attention to my face—surely noting the stain of blush still there—before asking, “What’s your name?”
I try to give the man some credit. My name tag is pinned to my chest. He could have looked himself, but maybe he didn’t want me to think he was staring at my breasts? He could just be lazy, not wanting to make an effort. Perhaps he is just demanding.
“Bailey, sir,” I reply demurely. “Bailey Robbins.”
“Hmm.” Not even a ‘pleased to meet you’. Just a low hum in his throat as if he found my name slightly interesting, but he couldn’t be bothered to form a polite reply.
Finally, he takes the cup out of my hand. I immediately move to the far side of the kitchen to wipe down the counters. Blackwood moves to the espresso machine and brews another cup, but I refuse to look his way. It’s with relief that he takes his brewed cup and moves back into the living room, supposedly on his way back to his bedroom to put on some damn clothes.
I finish scouring down the counters, sink, and stovetop, then wipe the fronts of the cabinets and fridge. Just as I’m finishing, I hear Blackwood on his phone, voice coming from the direction of the living room. I move to the left, enough to see inside, and oh my God… he’s still in a towel, but now sitting on the couch.
And when I say sitting, I actually mean sprawling.
Long, muscular legs stretched out and slightly spread, not enough I can see under that towel, but enough to spot a dark shadow between his legs. If he were to spread them any farther, he’d give me a show. He has one arm casually draped over the back cushions, the other holding his phone before his face.
He has it on speaker, and I recognize the voice of a young woman I’ve heard him converse with before. It’s one of his employees in the executive office.
Just great.
I’m at the point I’m ready to vacuum the living room floors, but I clearly can’t do that while he’s talking on speakerphone. With a sigh, I move my cart back into the living room, unhooking the vacuum from its slot on the side. Because I have other duties to attend to after his suite, I hope my display makes him realize he’s preventing me from doing my duties. Blackwood doesn’t spare me a glance, though.
Dicklan.
Like a dolt, I hover, wondering if I should interrupt him. I’m hesitant to do so because, well… I need this job.
Blackwood issues orders so quickly I feel bad for the woman if she’s taking handwritten notes.
When he finishes, he says, “Is there anything else we need to discuss before my next call?”
After a slight hesitation, the woman finally says, “Um… there is, actually.”
“Make it quick,” Blackwood orders.
“The fundraiser for the Canterbury Art Center this weekend,” she starts. I’m not sure if he hears it in her voice, but I do. She’s terrified to say what she needs to.
Obviously, he has no empathy because he snaps, “Well… what about it?”
“The venue is too small to accommodate all the people who have RSVP’d,” she mumbles.
I’m surprised Blackwood actually allows emotion on his face, but surprise and fury emanate from him. “Let me get this straight… The venue I had you book over two months ago—for a specific number of people—is too small to handle the guests? Why in the hell are you just now telling me this, three days before the event?”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she says. While I can’t see the woman, I guarantee she’s quivering. I can hear it in her voice. “But you specifically requested this venue. And, um, well, I didn’t want to go against you.”
“Fucking great,” Blackwood snaps. “My goddamn assistant can’t manage to think for herself or have an original idea in her air-filled head. Once you realized the problem, did it ever occur to you to bring it to my attention in enough fucking time for me to handle it, since you clearly couldn’t be bothered to do so?”
Ouch. I feel sorry for the woman. She did fuck up, but I suspect Dicklan is such a dick to work for that she was afraid to say anything. Still, she should have pointed it out well before now. He would be pissed, but he’d have had the time to do something about it. Cringing, I wait, already suspecting what he’ll say next.
Declan Blackwood doesn’t disappoint. “Your services are no longer needed at Blackwood Hotels and Resorts. Pack up immediately.”
Without another word, he disconnects the phone. He taps it against his chin, apparently deep in thought. Aloud, he murmurs, “Just where in the hell am I supposed to find a venue in Vegas for a hundred and fifty people with only three days’ notice?”
I have no clue what this fundraiser is for. What I do know is I like Declan Blackwood even less now than I did before that phone call. That was extremely harsh, even if the woman had clearly screwed up.
To my great surprise, I start to speak, though I don’t know why I’m helping this jerk. “The Desert Rose Country Club has more than enough space in their ballroom. They were supposed to have a big legal convention in it this weekend, but it just got canceled.”
Slowly, Blackwood slides his gaze over, pinning it on me. “And you know this how?”
“A couple of nights a week and on the weekend, I’m a blackjack dealer there. At my table last night, a few attorneys who were scheduled to attend were griping about how the event was canceled because the convention’s sponsor had just gotten arrested for tax evasion.”
His eyebrows shoot up. It annoys me how my mind immediately decides they’re great eyebrows. Thick but arched to perfection. On the one hand, they make him look sly. But on the other, they make him appear ridiculously intelligent. It only adds to his overall allure. “They were griping about a boring legal convention getting canceled?”
I shake my head. “They were griping about how the sponsor wouldn’t refund any registration fees, so they were essentially robbed.”
Blackwood surveys me, his bluish-silver eyes seeming to know stuff that I don’t even know about me. It’s like he can see directly into my thoughts, which is ridiculous.
He rises from the couch, managing to do so in an elegant fashion without disturbing the towel around his waist.
Thank God!
He takes a few steps closer to me, crossing his arms as he contemplates before finally saying, “Get on the phone with whoever runs that place. Find out if it’s available. If it’s not, offer to pay double their normal fee. We’ll have to notify the attendees of the venue change, then coordinate with all the suppliers.”
I stare at this man, who just ordered me to do something far outside my job duties. That he’s asking me to do it makes me want to laugh. I need this job, but I also have a backbone.
“With all due respect, Mr. Blackwood,” I say firmly, my chin lifted. “I’m a housekeeper. I have other suites to clean. I simply can’t help you with this.”
“You can’t help me with this?” he repeats a bit tightly. His expression appears curious, but his eyes darken to the color of storm clouds.
“Sir, Blackwood Hotels prides itself on customer experience. I have a tight schedule to complete the other suites I’m in charge of cleaning. Those customers will suffer if I have to drop my duties to attend to your problems.”
At my refusal, his eyes flare. He takes a step closer, dropping his arms. There’s nothing but a wall of naked, muscular chest before me and I have to tip my head back to keep our eye contact.
“You definitely don’t have a problem speaking your mind,” he muses, sounding shocked. “I’m not sure if I respect you for that or if it pisses me off, especially since I just told you to do something and you refused.”
I swallow hard, wondering if I’ll be able to find another job with early day shift hours to accommodate my schedule and jarring need for income.