Page 41 of Rayna's Daddy

He sat a rolled napkin with silverware next to the plate.

“Since Joan won’t let me cook.” I shrugged. “And, I’m sure catering to my every whim is not part of your job description. Just sit the tray on the table and I’ll take it from there.”

I stared at my feet.

“Ms. Smith?”

I lifted my head.

“It is my job description to look after you.” He smirked. “I can show you my contract if you’d like.” He teased me.

I giggled.

“Really, whatever you need.” He nodded. “It’s my pleasure.”

I sat in front of the jumbo stack of pancakes.

“They don’t really expect me to eat all this, do they?” I snagged the plate of bacon and dumped it on top of the stack of pancakes. I moved a single pancake onto the empty plate.

“Just eat what you can, but you can be specific about your order, too.” He nodded. “Next time.”

“Or, I could cook it myself.” I winked.

“Mr. Grant doesn’t do much cooking in here.” He moved toward the door.

“So I’ve been told.” Did the kitchen not work? All those pretty appliances couldn’t all be for show.

“Also, the housekeeper arrives Monday through Friday from ten to one o’clock. If you’d like to get out of her hair, you can hide out in Mr. Grant’s office. She’s not allowed in there.” He opened the door.

“Do I need to get out of her hair?” I lifted a fork full of pancake to my mouth.

“She’s bristly.” He nodded. “I avoid her, and I carry a gun.”

“Ohh, can I see it.” Learning how to shoot was on my ninja wish list.

“Maybe later.” He saluted and left.

When the maid knocked on the door and entered. I had finished breakfast and was reading on my phone.

She stopped in front of the table and frowned.

“Hi.” I stood up. “I’m Rayna.”

“Good morning Ms. Smith.” She said with a thick European accent and a curt nod. She didn’t offer me her name. Her lips pierced together as if she smelled something bad. She didn’t blink. Her makeup was sharp. She had contoured angles in her face, or maybe that really was her face shape.

“Well, I’ll just get out of your way.” I stood up slowly.

She gave me another sharp nod and stepped into the kitchen.

I picked up the plate of remaining pancakes and sat them on the counter.

“Please leave it.” She grabbed the plate. “I will clean up after you.”

“Oh, I-I was going to w-wrap them up.” I stuttered. “I could eat off these all week. I could just heat them up —”

“Nope.” She dumped my pancakes into the trash. “Mr. Grant, does not use his kitchen.”

Was it a freakin’ company motto?

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