But I am her employer, so I’m not surprised she’s putting on a servant-like manner.
Once again, I sweep my arm, indicating she should come in. She enters, pulling behind her a cart laden with clean sheets, towels, and other cleaning essentials. We are The Blackwood, though, so this cleaning cart isn’t the norm you’d see in other hotels. This one is carved from cherry wood with gold detailing. It’s thin and portable, filled with only enough supplies to clean one suite at a time. The sheets are expensive—a thousand dollars a pop—and the towels equally as luxurious. The cleaning supplies are natural and non-animal tested, something they’d polled and realized was important to the rich for some reason, and the toilet paper costs thirteen dollars a roll. It’s some Japanese brand made with high-quality wood fiber, treated with purified water, and then dried slowly to ensure the most supreme softness of anything to ever touch an ass.
It’s ridiculous what people will pay for luxury items. Yet, I don’t bat an eye over it. It’s how I was raised—on thirteen-dollar-a-roll toilet paper—so it seems normal.
After I close the suite door, I head into the kitchen for my coffee. The maid goes into my bedroom, where the smell of sex is probably strong.
Am I embarrassed?
Besides, my cock is happy right now. Fuck what the maid thinks.
Grabbing my espresso, I sip it while I use my phone to check my email, responding to a few items that only require short replies. When I finish my drink, I brew another cup, then pull a bowl of fruit from the fridge. I don’t bother with a plate, merely grabbing a fork from the drawer and eating straight from it as I watch the news on the small TV set into a cabinet beside the stove.
When the maid finally finishes with my room, I head that way, leaving my cup and breakfast dishes on the counter. The maid will clean it up. She patently ignores me as I walk by, but I don’t return the courtesy. I peruse her body as she bends to polish the coffee table. Briefly, I wonder what her name is.
But it’s a fleeting thought at best. I didn’t even bother to glance at her name tag—not this morning or any of the other occasions she’s been here—so why wonder now?
Shrugging, I go take a quick shower before I get dressed for the day.
The minute the master suite door closes, I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s gone. I absolutely can’t stand being in the presence of that man. Everything about him—from his perfectly wavy hair and GQ features to his arrogance sets my teeth grinding together.
I’m new at this job, only at it a few weeks, and cleaning the heir’s penthouse suite for roughly half that, he has yet to say “good morning” back to me when I arrive at his door. I mean… come on, jackass! How hard is it to just say hello to your peon workers?
Freaking one-percenters, entirely out of touch with us little folks.
I take in a deep breath, reach for my feather duster, and let it out slowly. Calm down, Bailey. Declan Blackwood isn’t your enemy, and he’s not the cause of your problems.
Which is true, but it’s just easier to throw my ire his way. I mean, the not replying to my morning greeting is irritating as hell.
Just plain rude.
In my mind, his name isn’t Declan. That first morning he opened the door, barely spared me a glance, and ignored my chirpy, “Good morning,” I’d officially renamed him Dicklan.
I snicker, thinking about it.
Dicklan, Dicklan, Dicklan.
The peeved, scantily dressed blonde with mussed hair that just called him an asshole on her way out the door probably agrees with me.
I had heard that His Highness, Declan Blackwood of Blackwood Hotels and Resorts, was quite the player; rumor down in the bowels of this hotel where the housekeepers had their breaks was he slept with a different woman each night of the week. But today was the first time I’d actually witnessed a woman leaving his suite, so I’m not sure whether it’s true.
Not any of my business, though. His sex life, lack thereof, or overabundance, doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m merely here to do my job, do it well, and collect a paycheck so I can start paying off the gobs of debt my jerk of an ex-husband left me saddled with.
After I work the morning shift here at Blackwood, I’ll drive a few hours for Uber, which is always good for a few bucks down on the Strip. Once finished, I’ll head off to my part-time casino job, waitressing drinks to cheap tippers at the slots. The moderate tippers are at the blackjack tables, thinking they have the right to grab my ass for every ten-spot thrown on my tray.