Xander lounged on the edge of the living room couch, phone pressed lazily to his ear, one arm draped along the backrest. "Look into the new maid. The one my parents dumped here like a stray cat."
His assistant on the other end asked, "Name, sir?"
He blinked. "…Lane."
"First name?"
Silence. Then a sharp breath. "Damn. I don't know."
From behind the hallway wall—bare feet hidden on the marble floor—Erin pressed her ear closer to the slightly ajar bathroom door, a victorious smirk tugging at her lips. Of course he didn't know. He never asked. Typical narcissist.
Xander rubbed his temples. "Just dig up whatever you can with the last name. If she's some crazy stalker sent by the press or worse, my mother's weird idea of a PR patch, I want to know by tonight."
"Yes, sir."
He ended the call with a sigh just as the bathroom door creaked open.
Erin stepped out, a white towel still wrapped around her hair. "Calling in backup already? That was fast. I thought you'd at least wait till I poisoned your tea."
Xander didn't miss a beat. "Trying to figure out if you're more dangerous in heels or with a mop."
She gave him a slow, unimpressed blink. "Neither. But it's cute that you're scared."
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, eyes flickering over her from head to toe. "You know, I was just telling myself you'll probably show up to this event in sneakers and denim. So I did you a favor. Had an outfit picked out."
Her brows rose. "That's adorable. But I've got taste—and dignity. I'll pass."
"Suit yourself," he muttered, shrugging. "I just don't want people to think I dragged in my maid because I lost a bet."
Erin gave a sugar-sweet smile. "And I don't want people to think I follow you around because I'm desperate."
"Tough luck. That's the job."
The evening sun bled amber through the tall windows as the chef served dinner in the sprawling dining room. Xander was already seated at the head of the table, lazily scrolling through his phone.
Erin took her seat without a word, her expression unreadable.
A moment later, the chef returned—placing a plate in front of her with nothing but steamed vegetables and a fillet of grilled fish, while Xander's own plate was loaded with roasted lamb, buttered potatoes, and some ridiculously fancy sauce she couldn't pronounce.
She arched a brow. "A new diet plan I didn't ask for?"
Xander didn't look up. "I have an image to maintain. I don't want to show up with someone waddling beside me."
Her smile was a tight, controlled line. "So, just to confirm… I'm the maid, but also your accessory now?"
He finally glanced up, smirking. "You're catching on."
She stabbed her broccoli like it had personally offended her. "And here I thought you were trying to drive me away by making me cook and clean for you."
"That's still part of the plan. Don't think I forgot. Your duties start tomorrow. I don't even know why you're calling doing your responsibilities me driving you away."
"Maybe because they're not. I was assigned to watch over you and nothing else was included. But it's okay, I'll do it."
Her voice was sweet, calm—deadly. "But careful, Xander. One day, I might take all this personally."
He lifted his glass in mock salute. "Can't wait."
—
Later that night, he waited downstairs near the front door, checking his watch. She was late. Of course she was.
He turned toward the grand staircase just as the first click of heels echoed from above.
And there she was.
Descending one step at a time in a fitted black dress that hugged her curves like it was tailored by the gods themselves, her hair loose, makeup subtle but devastating, Erin Lane looked nothing like the sarcastic housemaid he'd sparred with all week.
She looked like trouble—beautiful, infuriating trouble.
Xander froze, mouth parting ever so slightly. His heart forgot its rhythm for a beat.
She met his eyes and smirked. "You're staring."
"I—" He cleared his throat, adjusting his cufflink like it was suddenly choking him. "Just shocked you didn't wear sneakers."
She stopped two steps from the bottom. "I told you I have taste."
He led her outside to the black limousine parked outside. He opened the door for her, holding it longer than necessary as she walked past, her perfume brushing past his senses. In the car, they sat in silence—her gaze staring blankly out the window, his back glued to the seat like he depended on it..
The ride had barely started, but to him, it already felt like the longest ten seconds of his life. How did he lose his composure easily after seeing her and why?