Susan Meier - Maid for the Single Dad

“You’re thinking about that crappy wife of yours again aren’t you?”

“No.”

Mrs. P. laughed. “Right. You always scowl before a morning of fun with your daughter in the pool.” Satisfied with the temperature of the milk in Henry’s bottle, she took Henry from Mac’s arms. “You know what you need? A good woman to replace the crappy one.”

Mac laughed. “It will be a cold frosty day in hell before I trust another woman.”

Mrs. P. harrumphed as she headed for the door. “Don’t let one bad apple spoil the whole bunch.”

Lacy skipped into the room dressed in a bright blue one-piece swimsuit. Mac lifted her into his arms. It was very easy for Mrs. P. to spout quaint sayings, quite another for Mac to heed their advice. Pamela had broken Lacy’s heart when she left. Henry would know a mother who only popped in when the spirit moved her. Mac couldn’t risk the hearts of his children a second time.

Ellie debated sliding into one of her Happy Maids uniforms. Nothing said hired help better than a bright yellow ruffled apron and a hairnet. But Mac had suggested she wear jeans and she wasn’t taking any chances. If she had to endure being a full-time maid, then she intended for Cain to get the recommendation into Carmichael Incorporated. The best way to do that would be to follow Mac’s instructions to the letter.

She slowed her car as she wound through the streets of Coral Gables, looking for the address scrawled on the back of the business card. Finally finding the property, she turned onto the driveway only to come face-to-face with an iron gate. She rolled down her car window, pressed a button marked “visitors” on a small stand just within reach of her car and watched as a camera zoomed in on her. She expected a voice to come through the little box, asking for identification. Instead, within seconds, the gate opened.

Good grief. How rich was this guy?

Slowly maneuvering up the wide stone driveway that was a beautiful yellow, not brick-red or brown or even gray, but beautiful butterscotch-yellow, Ellie swiveled her head from side-to-side, taking in the landscaping. Trees stood behind the black iron fence that surrounded the huge front yard, increasing the privacy. Flower gardens filled with red, yellow and orange hibiscus sprang up in no particular order, brightening the green grass with splashes of color. But it was the house that caused her mouth to fall open. Butterscotch-yellow stucco, with rich cocoa-brown trim and columns that rose to the flat roof overhang, and a sparkling glass front door, the house was unlike anything she’d seen before.

She followed the stone driveway around to the side where she found cocoa-brown garage doors and a less auspicious entryway than the front door. She parked her car and got out.

Oppressive heat and humidity buffeted her, making her tank top and jeans feel like a snowmobile suit. The sounds of someone splashing in a pool caught her attention and she walked around back and stopped. Her mouth gaped.

Rows of wide, flat steps made of the same butterscotch-colored stone as in the driveway led from a wall of French doors in the back of the house to an in-ground pool. Shiny butterscotch-colored tiles intermingled with blue and beige tiles, rimming the pool and also creating a walkway that led to a patio of the same stone as the stairs. Behind the patio was a huge gazebo—big enough for a party, not merely a yard decoration—and beyond the grassy backyard was the canal where a bright white yacht was docked.

“Ellie?”

She glanced at the pool again. Mac Carmichael was swimming with a little girl of around six, probably his daughter.

She edged toward them. Trying to sound confident, she said, “Hi.”

The little blonde wearing water wings waved shyly.

Mac wiped both hands down his face and headed for the ladder in the shallow water on the far side of the pool. “I’ll be right with you.”

She wanted to say, “Take your time,” or “Don’t get out on my account. I’ll find my way to the kitchen,” but the sight of Mac pulling himself onto the ladder stopped her cold. His dark swimming trunks clung wetly to his firm behind. Water pulled them down, causing them to slip as he climbed the ladder. By the time he got out of the pool his trunks clung precariously to his lean hips. He walked to a beige-and-white-flowered chaise and grabbed a huge towel.

“You got here quickly.”

She stared. With the blue skies of Florida as a backdrop, his eyes turned a color closer to topaz. Water ran in rivulets down the black hair on his chest. His still-dripping swimming trunks hung on to his hips for dear life.

“I…um…” She cleared her throat as attraction rumbled through her. It had been so long that she’d been overwhelmingly attracted to a man that she’d missed the symptoms. But here they were. Sweaty palms. Stuttering heart. Inability to form a coherent sentence.

Now she knew why her intuition wouldn’t let her allow Mac to leave the Happy Maids office. It wasn’t because of Cain. It was because she was attracted to Mac.

Telling herself not to panic, she could handle one little attraction, she smiled. Her intuition might have brought her here for a frivolous reason, but once Ava had told her about Cain wanting an “in” with Mac, she knew she couldn’t back out. Liz had saved her when she desperately needed someone. Now she finally had a chance to repay the favor. This was a mission. “I just had to run home to put on jeans and pack a bag.”

He motioned to the steps. “You go on up. It’s too hot for you to stand out here in this heat in those jeans. As soon as I get Lacy from the pool I’ll be in.”

This time she could say, “No hurry. I’ll be fine,” because she seriously needed a minute alone to compose herself. How did one man get so lucky as to not only be rich and live in a house that took her breath away, but also be so good-looking he rivaled the pristine Florida sky?

“Just go up the stairs and turn left, into the kitchen. We’ll be there in a minute.”

She nodded and started up the steps, feeling as if she were walking the stairs to a museum or some other prestigious building rather than someone’s residence. Of course, she wasn’t exactly well versed in what a “normal” home should look like. She’d grown up in foster homes until she was seventeen when she ran away. Then she’d slept on the streets and fought tooth and nail just to find something to eat each day until she met Sam. She’d stayed with him, enduring increasing verbal and emotional abuse until the night the abuse became physical. Then she’d run. A Friend Indeed couldn’t take her in because they were a charity chartered to care for women with children, but Liz had offered her her couch and ultimately a job. After four years with Happy Maids, interacting with Liz and the friends she’d made through A Friend Indeed, she was only now coming to understand what normal relationships were.

So, she could forgive herself for being a tad awestruck by this house. She might clean for Miami’s elite but this guy was in a class by himself, and from the outside, his house absolutely looked like a museum.

Pushing open the second door of the four French doors lining the back wall of the house, she found herself standing between a huge kitchen on the left and a comfy family room on the right. Decorated with an overstuffed brown leather sofa and chairs with shiny cherrywood end tables and a huge flat-screen TV between bookcases that ran along the entire back wall, that part of the open floor plan appeared to be where the family did most of their living.

That she liked.

But only a few steps into the kitchen, she swallowed hard. The stove had eight burners. The refrigerator was actually hidden behind panels of the same cherrywood as the cabinets. Copper pots and pans hung from a rack above the stove. Pale salmon-colored granite countertops accented the rich cabinets. A sink with a tall copper faucet sat in the middle of the center island and another sat in a counter along a far wall. Crystal gleamed behind the glass doors of all the cabinets on the right wall.