Page 2 of Flog Me, Sir

The Laurents came from money, both of them having grown up in privileged southern families. I’d heard hints of rumors as to how they ended up on an estate deep in New Hampshire, only a few hours’ drive from Boston. Adam’s company, JAG originated not long after, and with his wife having given birth to twins, he had been working from home more often than not. The second of the three CEOs of JAG had left for vacation a few weeks prior. A month-long cruise of the South Pacific on their own yacht, chefs and staff onboard to see to their every need.

The lifestyle of the rich and famous baffled me. Intrigued me, of course, and gave my muse all kinds of luscious fodder for billionaire romance heroes, but I prided myself on keeping grounded in reality.

I lived my fantasies—fulfilled my dreams—in the books I wrote. Dozens of manuscripts sat on a shelf in my bedroom, on my hard drive, and a cloud in cyber space, stories I used to self-heal and one day dreamed of sharing with the world. Writing had given me something to fill the long evening hours as a teenager when my mom and her latest fling occupied the couch to watch sitcoms, drunk and high as hot air balloons. Even after I moved out, barely squeezing by on a grocery bagger and waitress’s salary, I continued my love affair with words, since god knew I’d never have one with a real human.

I’d had enough disappointment in my life to last me to the grave. Choosing safe over what I wanted was the smart thing to do. I focused on what mattered—doing my job and doing it well. A friend of a friend had landed me the live-in job at the Laurents, and I’d never felt more privileged in my life. They had given me the chance at a better life, even if I did scrub toilets, mopped countless square feet of tile and hardwood, and on occasion, helped serve meals.

Being tutored beneath one of the best, I strove to please Mrs. Hummel, going beyond my usual to-do lists with a preciseness I required of myself even in my personal life.

As a kid, the only thing I did have control over was cleaning the shit hole I’d called home. Being a clean freak who loved marking things off her lists had stuck, and the Laurents loved me for it.

My attention wandered toward the gorgeous man countless times as the evening wore on, and I became enamored by the beauty of his front that outshone the perfection of his back. Dark eyes with perfectly arched brows, sensually curved lips that curved in a slow smile more often than not, melting my panties—and probably every other woman’s on the estate except Lily.

I recognized Garret Edwards from the covers of tabloids, but images on paper didn’t begin to capture the socialite’s gorgeousness or charisma. The son of a famous actor and director, Garret had lived his life in the limelight, being seen with countless women. Rumors were hundreds of women littered his past, creating a name for him, whether true or not.

Two women hung on him, one on each arm, acting like permanent fixtures, same as the cocktails in their free hands. I focused on the story in my mind rather than the heart breaker I couldn’t seem to keep my focus off of.

Guests began to trickle out the front door, leaving a mess in their wake. One final tray of empty glasses in hand, I made my way to the kitchen on tired feet, more than ready to collapse on my bed in the staff’s wing and scribble down all the words filling my mind.

“That’s the last of them,” I told one of the two extra hired hands Mrs. Hummel had brought in to help with the dishes.

She’d also hired a catering company, using their flatware and linens, but like me, she didn’t hand control over easily. She still ruled her kitchen domain, eyes bright and cheeks flushed even though she had to be close to eighty and the clock read two in the morning.

“There’s my Tillie girl!”

My heart skipped at the suave baritone I recognized from overheard conversations while sneaking through the crowd.

Garret slipped through the kitchen, sidestepping workers, a grin on his face. He focused on Mrs. Hummel, and I stared as he swept her up into his arms, planting a loud kiss on her wrinkly cheek.

She giggled like a much younger woman. “Where in the good Lord’s name you been, boy?” she asked while glowing and patting her hair as Garret set her back on her feet.

“Pining for you,” he said with a light laugh before kissing her other cheek.

“You.” More giggles escaped through her pursed lips as her gaze twinkled up at him.

I took note of the two women standing in the kitchen doorway, the same he’d had tucked to his side all night. Feigned smiles were plastered on their faces.

I turned back to soak in the presence of a god come to life, tucking away little nuances of how he moved for a new character in my head.

“Grits in the morning?” Garret asked, stooping down to peer into Mrs. Hummel’s eyes.

“My spoiled boy can have whatever he wants,” she told him, patting his cheek.

“You’re the best, Tillie girl.”

A deeper shade of pink infused Mrs. Hummel’s cheeks as she glanced around the kitchen, seeing all of us staring. Her gaze landed on me, and her smile widened, white teeth flashing. “Lissa, come here, child.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied on auto pilot, obeying even though I could feel Garret’s focus turn toward me.

I held her gaze, refusing to look at him—because I feared tripping or doing something stupid and making a complete fool of myself.

“Lissa,” Mrs. Hummel grabbed my hand, “this is Garret—the G in JAG.”

I gulped, knowing I had to look up at him.

Eyes dark as espresso peered down at me, the lashes fanning them long and thick enough to make any woman envious. A smile shone in their depths, the type that would tell anyone his character even if he hadn’t flirted with Mrs. Hummel seconds earlier.

“This is Lissa, my shadow and an absolute delight,” she said, and I blinked at the praise. “She’s also the Laurents’ greatest asset on this estate.”

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