Page 21 of Flirtatious

As I wrap the towel around my waist, I mull over what I have planned for today. I need to move the rest of my things to this new room on this side of the house, and then I need to speak to Andrea about who handles the security on Mia’s tours since she’s scheduled to go on the road in less than a month. I would have liked more time to prepare, but her mother’s kept putting me off, saying we could talk the next day.

Of course, the next day came and went over and over, and still we haven’t discussed plans I need to know in order to effectively keep her daughter protected.

But first, I need coffee. Caffeine then work.

The scent of that delicious blend from Sumatra that everyone here loves beckons me down the stairs. I have to admit, while much of this job is less than wonderful, the extra benefits of what I get to enjoy for meals makes up for a lot of it, and that coffee Andrea raves about is the best I’ve ever had, now that I asked the cook to make me my own pot that doesn’t resemble hot beige water.

I pour myself a mug and splash in some milk and sugar, happy I’m the only person awake at this hour. It’s barely seven in the morning, and I’m loving every moment of silence. Even the cook seems to have decided to leave me alone today.

An enormous room, the kitchen somehow feels cozy. It’s probably the tan and brown granite the designer chose for the backsplash. Even with all the stainless-steel appliances and white cabinets, this room is warm and welcoming. It may be my favorite room in the house after my own.

Just as I lift the cup to my lips to enjoy that first sip of coffee for the day, my heart sinks as the sounds from last night begin again. Shaking my head, I sit down at one of the two islands in the center of the kitchen and silently mourn the loss of peace at the estate.

With every second that passes, the racket grows louder and louder. Someone’s playing some kind of music that sounds like it wants to be salsa but whoever’s playing the instruments have no clue about that kind of music. Or maybe it’s that another one of the crew begins to play music in their room that clashes with the first person’s, creating nothing but an auditory horror.

It doesn’t matter because the end result is the same assault on the silence and my ears.

Before I can finish my coffee, all six of them flood into the kitchen and begin to make breakfast for themselves. Each person talks over the others, and I’m sure no one is actually listening to anyone but themselves. They laugh, presumably at their own jokes since they can’t hear anything else, and in a matter of minutes, I feel like I’m trapped in the world’s busiest beehive, except this one involves pancakes and something the personal trainer brings out of the refrigerator that smells like feet.

None of them acknowledge my presence, which is fine, but it’s almost like they insist on pretending they’re the only people in the house. Since Mia’s not up yet, I have to wonder why none of them are worried they might wake her.

I consider asking, but I can’t seem to get the words to form as I watch in dismay while they demolish the kitchen that had been clean before they arrived just a few minutes ago. One of the women, the one I think might be that ridiculous life coach who was making goat noises last night, gives me a sideways glance that may be a glare, but that’s about all the acknowledgement they afford me as they buzz around like the most annoying bugs ever to exist.

When I stand up to set my dirty coffee mug on the counter, I have to push my way through the trainer and his stinky breakfast and one of the two hair stylists to get even near to the sink. The woman huffs her irritation that I’ve interrupted whatever the hell she’s doing with an onion bagel and the jar of peanut butter she’s dunking it into, but I ignore her and deposit my mug where Andrea told me we put the dirty dishes.

“You know, you could wash that,” one of the women says behind me. “It’s not like it’s that hard.”

Something snaps inside me, and I whip around to see five women and Mitchell staring at me with looks of disgust on each of their faces. So they’re disgusted with me? Well, they have no idea how much I already can’t stand them. Forget all that nonsense about jumping to conclusions. I was right with my first impression of all of them. They’re rude, presumptuous, and whatever the fuck the woman next to the sink is doing with the damn peanut butter is downright gross.

“You know what’s not that hard? Remembering that the world doesn’t revolve around you? Oh, and if you think I’m talking to someone other than you, you’re wrong. You burst into the house last night like you own the place, waking everyone up with your bullshit, and guess what? None of it is funny or charming or whatever the hell you think you are. Nope. Just irritating. Some of us actually have jobs here that involve something other than focusing on our own needs, so why don’t you get the hell out of the way so we can do them?”

I think the last time I had that many people staring at me with such anger was when Cash, Cade, Alex, Wilder, and I came home from jail and we had to face all of our parents at once. At least they had some feeling of affection for me. These six look like they’d hog-tie me and roast me over a fire if any of them were strong enough to take me.

In the silence, their hatred for me comes through loud and clear, so I leave without having a single thing for breakfast, just another reason I can’t stand any Mia’s crew. On my way upstairs, Andrea catches me looking all happy, like any of what’s happening around us is normal.

“Good morning, Liam. Did you have breakfast already?” she asks in a chipper voice.

“No,” I grunt out, still fuming from all those people ruining yet another day in my life.

“I’m sure Cecelia would be happy to make you anything you want. I know you don’t tend to eat like we do, but she’s a fantastic cook. We love having her working here for us.”

Something about the way she says that stops me cold, and I turn around and march back down the stairs to ask her about who all works here and why we all need to live here. The noise in the kitchen returns as each of those selfish people begins talking again, no doubt ignoring everyone else in the room once more.

I point toward where they babble on and on and shake my head. “What is this? How can people live like that? They show up last night making enough noise to wake the dead, and this morning they get up and it’s the same decibel level of nonsense. How long will this continue?”

Andrea glances toward the kitchen and then smiles at me. “Oh, they’re here until Mia goes out on tour. This is her routine when she’s getting ready to go on the road. Everyone lives with her here and they spend every waking moment together getting in synch.”

The way she explains it makes it seem perfectly normal that a circus has moved into Mia’s house. Sure. Who doesn’t have a hoard of obnoxious people storming in at midnight and then taking over?

Then I realize the worst part of this all. “They don’t go until she does, and they’ll be around all the time when she’s out on tour?” I ask in dread as images of chaos fill my mind.

I’ll never have another peaceful moment on this job. Fuck.

Nodding her head enthusiastically, Andrea answers, “Oh, yeah. They’re Mia’s people. She can’t do a tour without them. She’d be lost.”

I wish they’d get lost. Permanently.

“Okay. Thanks. It might be a good idea for you to inform me ahead of time of any people joining the household, Andrea. My job is to protect your daughter. It’s ten times more difficult when I don’t know the circumstances of who’s living here.”

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