Page 8 of The Billionaire and the Maid

“I don’t know,” she replies. I watch as she spins her blow-up unicorn in a circle.

“How am I supposed to have a serious conversation when you’re literally riding a unicorn?”

She giggles. “You’re sooo boring, Chaseticles. Seriously, just hire someone,” she adds.

This version of Laurel drives me crazy. “Right, and what if the press finds out?”

She sighs. “Then, have Tate find you someone.” She pauses. “What about one of your old hookup buddies? What’s that one’s name…Kelly, no, Sandy, no…” She trails off as she taps her cheek, deep in thought.

“Tiffany?”

She smiles. “Yeah, that’s the one. She’d probably pretend in exchange for a trip somewhere or some diamond bracelets.”

I groan. “Her parents play tennis with my mother. That would be bad,” I explain.

“Oh, right. I don’t know. I mean, what about an escort service? I have this friend—”

“No. Just no. I’m not doing that.” I have to draw the line somewhere. I’ve never hired a date before and I’m not about to start now. If only I could find someone who felt obligated but also wasn’t trying to get with me.

“Well, you’ll figure it out. You always do,” she says as she twirls around in the water.

“I’m going to go. You’re making me motion sick,” I declare as I try to look anywhere but at my screen.

“You are such a party pooper,” she whines in her exaggerated annoying voice, the one she uses when she wants me to do something.

“Later, Laurel-loo,” I say.

“Byyye,” she says as she disconnects.

I stare at my desk. I need to go to my office in the city. I’m getting stir-crazy out here in Storyview Falls. My phone rings and I glance down. It’s Ward Smith, my assistant. The one thing I love about Ward, he’s one hundred percent all business all the time. He’s also hilarious and extremely trustworthy. In fact, I trust him more than I trust my immediate family. I love my family even with all their quirks and ridiculousness, but aside from my grandfather, I have massive trust issues with them. Or at least that’s what my therapist tells me.

“Hey, Ward,” I say as I place the call on speaker so I can scroll my email.

“The samples are wrong,” he announces in a strained voice.

“What?” I yell as I look at the email from the vendor where Tate had allegedly ordered my textiles.

“They just came in and I checked them. You wanted a gray-on-gray muted print, right?”

“Yes,” I reply as I look for the confirmation email from Tate.

“Well, we got green-on-green,” he says blandly.

I find the email and click on it. The email itself looks fine, but when I open the attachment, I find the error. Damn it, Tate! He finally orders my textiles and he gets it wrong.

“He ordered the wrong thing. Shit,” I grumble, cursing myself for having this conversation when Tate was trying to leave for dinner.

“It’s not the end of the world. I’m glad they sent the sample first. It’ll push us back a week, but you should still be able to get the prototype shoe done before your presentation,” he encourages.

“Can we expedite it?” I ask as I silently pray to the textile gods that they can deliver it quickly.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Just did that. I’ll call our contact over there when we get off. She’ll help us out. She owes me a favor anyhow. Maybe we can get it in less than a week.”

I laugh, suddenly feeling slightly better. Thank God Ward always has favors to call in. How he does it, I don’t know, but I’ll take it.

“Thanks,” I reply as I stare out my window. I can see into the formal dining room. The maid is in there mopping the floors and she’s clearly jamming out to something as she provocatively moves her hips.

“I’ll call her now. If there’s any other issues, I’ll let you know,” he says.

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