Page 2 of The Naked Cleaner

Time. It’s funny how I can lose hours drafting client proposals and budgets and getting a tiny bit excited about how it all adds up. Another deal in the can with a healthy paycheque making its way into my bank account. Not that I ever look at it, apart from when I do my taxes. I don’t have many outgoings and the normal things that people save up for, cars, holidays, kids? I can honestly say I don’t want for anything. I dabble in shares and investments, but other than that?

I’m just not interested. Not at all. No happily ever after for me, thank you.

The doorbell jerks me out of my headspace with a shrill, and I almost trip over my own feet in frustration as the bell just keeps going and going and going. And going.

“What theFUCK!” I shout as I stumble across the floor, taking the corner into the hallway a bit too fast, only to fling the door open with a slam, staring angrily at the no-doubt brain-dead, deaf and dumb idiot standing outside my flat.

A dude.

And my heart does a stupid jolt.

Because. Hello. Dude. Wow.

“Andreassen?” The dude says, and I kind of shiver.Fuck.

I haven’t felt like this in years. Like someone speaks and it goes straight to my gut, like his voice has somehow winded me. Not that that is the full truth, but hey, the guy is hot. Seriously cute. Ruggedly handsome with his dark locks, golden skin and stupid beanie. I don’t get impressed by random hot dudes. I don’t. It has happened once, or twice and never led to anything. And everything else has been a waste of time. But. Wow. Just... Wow. I should perhaps turn on the charm? Smile?

“Yes?” I snarl instead, because I have zero social skills. I may be well versed in proposals and quotes and wowing potential customers with my immaculate economics and skills and training. I can talk shop until I am blue in the face. Dealing with actual humans?

“Have I got the right place? I mean, I am here from Naked Clean Copenhagen? 2.30 appointment for an initial clean?” Mr Hot Dude says. He’s as tall as me. Kind dark eyes that twinkle when he shoots me a little smile. Dimples. Skinny, but kind of built. Legs that go on for days. Big feet. Those dimples though.

“Ehhrm. Yes. Oh. Okay.” That’s me. Holding a great conversation, as always.

This is the part where I should apologise and slam the door in his face. This is the part where I should throw the guy out and text Jonas a bunch of angry emojis and threaten to cut him out of my will. He may be my best friend, and someone I have known since we were both snotty kids in high school, but this is when Jonas Rojas-Soto deserves a proper phone call, so I can shout at him and make him regret this totally stupid idea. I bet it is his idea. Damn him. Instead I stomp back into my office and the guy follows through the door, carrying some kind of wheeled box and a couple of brooms and mops into my cramped hallway. And a cordless hoover of some kind. At least that is what I think it may be. Some kind of sucking contraption.

Which makes my mind dive headfirst back in the gutter.

I would suck this guy’s dick,anytime. Just say the word.

“So, I’m Louis, I’m the owner of the company. Thank you for entrusting us with your weekly clean and if you have any special requests, just let me know, otherwise I will get started and will be out of your hair as soon as I am done.”

“Ehhrmm.” I say.

Smooth. Very Smooth.

“Where can I put my clothes?” The dude asks. Louis. I think I heard Louis. The guy’s name is Louis. Louis. Wow.

“Anywhere?” I say, wondering what the fuck the dude is on about. He’s wearing a beanie, threadbare t-shirt and shorts. Short socks. Posh trainers. And a load of junk around his wrist. Not enough clothes that he should be removing anything. Apart from perhaps the hat, but then it is February in Copenhagen and who the hell wears shorts in winter anyway?

“Feel free to relax, unless you prefer to go textile.” The dude says. Louis says. And I snap back into reality.

“What?” I’m either losing my shit, or the guy, this Louis, is speaking Mandarin. Despite the fact that he is speaking perfect Danish. I think. Or he might just be totally weird. Not that I know what to say, because now I have kind of lost my ability to speak. Breathe. And live.

Louis has just stripped naked. Not just taken his top off, no. He has gone and dropped his pants and lost his shirt and is busy untangling the lead to something and lifting contraptions out of the box-thingy and there is shit all over my hallway. Stuff. And a totally naked man. Naked. I can see his crack. I can see his bloody balls when he leans over.

“The fuck?” I finally shriek.

“Cool isn’t it?” Louis turns around and is grinning harder than he probably should, considering he is naked. And his dick is right there, and it’s a fucking gorgeous dick too, and I hide my face in my hands and shriek. It’s not cool. This is not cool.

“It’s a steam cleaner, throws out steam so hot it kills ninety-nine per cent of common household bacteria without using chemicals. I use it on everything, and you should see how clean things come out. It’s very satisfying to use.” Louis says cheerily, dragging a lead across the floor, then stopping to look at my spaghetti junction of leads plugged into the large surge-protector plug bank on the floor.

“I bet it is.” My mouth says as I’m cringing in fear and embarrassment and sheer panic. There is a naked dude in my hallway. Staring at my plugs. He will mess up my plugs and unplug something he shouldn’t and fuck andFUCK!The naked dude is in my living room. I need help. I need to ring 999, 112, 911, whatever fuck the damn number is these days.

“I did burn my balls once when I lost my grip on the damn nozzle. It wasn’t pretty. Mr Holte, whose flat it was, almost had a heart attack when I came running into the kitchen screaming and tried to get my balls under the cold tap. “

“No shit.” My mouth responds like it’s running in automatic, as I am hyperventilating into my hands. Please just stop talking. Please just take your fucking burnt balls and leave.

“So, Pontus is it? Is it all right that I call you Pontus?” Louis has taken a few steps back into the room. Into my office, and his hands are firmly placed on his—naked—hips, as he turns around the room and surveys the ceiling. “Cobwebs. Easy. I’ll sort them first before I start clearing the floor. Is there a recycling station in the basement?”

---