Page 14 of Man of the Year

“What about laundry?”

“Rosalie handles that. You are here for cleaning and cleaning only. As well as handling the cleaning for the other staff members.”

I raise a brow. “Pardon me?”

“The kitchen and lounge area at the back of the house—we take our breaks there. You will be responsible for cleaning that area, dishes, trash, and so on.”

So, I’m the cleaning lady for the staff—that’s a downgrade.

“You will do everything Rosalie tells you to do. The main focus is the coming party this weekend. Don’t forget, you’re a temp.”

We’ll see. It takes all my willpower not to bite back with a snarky comment.

There’s a gym and a theater at the far end of the mansion, but we turn around and walk back through the living room and hallway toward the staff area. To my disappointment, there’s no sign of Geoffrey Rosenberg or Nick.

“Are there any rooms I should avoid when Mr. Rosenberg is at home?” I ask Julien.

“Rosalie will curate your schedule.”

“I mean, right now? Are we disturbing Mr. Rosenberg?”

“He is out.”

Damn it.I need to be more alert about when the boss is home or not.

I spot Rosalie at the far end of the living room, dusting the paintings. She smiles at me, and I give her a tiny wave back.

She likes me. I’ll make sure shelovesme and trusts me with cleaning the rooms that Mr. Serious here told me are off limits.

We are about to walk into the staff hallway when I look back at her. Rosalie’s not dusting anymore. She stands still and watches us, her smile gone.

Odd.Maybe not so friendly after all. Maybe she’s not dusting but following us.

The staff stairs take us to the second floor.

“So we don’t use the main staircase?” I muse.

“No,” Julien says curtly.

He is a man of few words. Getting him to talk is like pulling teeth.

“Is anyone besides the owner allowed to walk the house as they please?” I ask.

“Nick is,” he replies curtly.

Sounds like Nick has access to pretty much anything. If I were to guess, Nick is Rosenberg’s pet, and I just so happen to be on great terms with him.

“Master bedroom.” Julien points at the closed door and keeps walking.

“Aren’t you going to show it to me?” I ask, but he ignores me.

“Guest bedroom.” He motions toward yet another door. “Guest bedroom and a bathroom. Another one.” He doesn’t bother showing them to me.

I’m almost trotting after him. His stride is wide, and the house tour is too rushed, as if I’m wasting his time, and he wants to get it over with, which is probably the case.

I take in the paintings on the walls, the sculptures, and art pieces here and there. There are no pictures of family or friends. No mess. No personal items.

There are seven bedrooms in the house but all in all over twenty rooms—I lost track. Why would one person need such a big house for himself?

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