Chapter 2

Two

Charlotte

I stop outside of the cleaning agency and lean back against the building, taking a moment to breathe before going inside to get my assignments for the week. The sun is beginning to dip low between skyscrapers, businesspeople rushing along the streets of Chicago to get home. Technically, I’m one of them. I spend my days working as an executive assistant to an up-and-coming tech wizard, requiring me to be hyper-focused from nine to five, and I would gladly saw off an arm in exchange for going home right now and drowning in a pint of mint chip, but my second job beckons.

Suck it up, sweetheart.

If I look hard enough into the distance, I can see the silhouette of Chicago General.

Now that is where I want to spend my days. Truly making a difference. Saving lives. Getting people through their hour of need. Currently playing in my headphones is a medical podcast. Stuffed into my back pocket is the New England Journal of Medicine. I eat, sleep and breathe surgical breakthroughs. But I have a long road ahead of me if I want to walk the halls of Chicago General one day in a white coat.

For me? That means working two full-time jobs.

Tech office during the day. Cleaning houses and office buildings at night.

No way am I going to graduate med school owing over two hundred thousand dollars to the government. I’d rather wait until I’m forty-five to start practicing than let them suck interest out of me for two decades. I’ve seen it happen firsthand. How easy it seems in the beginning to accept a loan. Free money that doesn’t have to be paid back for years. It’s so exciting. And then it comes due. It crashes down on the borrower’s head like a falling piano. Paying back a loan is like tossing money into a black hole. The number never goes down. And it’s not just a number on a page. For some people, it means fear and stress and forgoing food.

My family learned that lesson, among others, the hard way.

So for the last month since graduating with my bachelor’s, I’ve been working two jobs and saving my money, keeping the faith that one day I’ll have the satisfaction of graduating medical school with zero debt attached to my name.

Every once in a while, though, I can’t help wondering what if…

What if I’d accepted the gift from Doctor Dean Fletcher?

The memory of him towering over me sends a little thrill shooting down to my toes, my pulse ticking fast in the smalls of my wrists. I have to close my eyes whenever the sensation of him washes over me, because his image demands my attention. There he is. Backstage at my graduation. Tall and fit and brooding. Rich brown eyes. A hard set mouth. Gorgeous in an old-world way. Almost like he should be walking the moors of Scotland in a wind-whipped overcoat, a wooden cane in his hand. Instead, he wears scrubs. A white coat. Perpetual exhaustion. Lord, though, he smells like the forest after it rains.

For years, I thought of him as superhuman.

Not a typical male who falls victim to human weaknesses. Such as sexual desire.

But if I’ve learned one thing from my mother, it’s this. A man doesn’t do anything nice for a woman unless he’s going to get power out of the deal. Power to expect sex. Power to make decisions for the woman. To overwhelm and control.

I plan to spend my life avoiding any such entanglements. Just as I did when I received the email from one Doctor Dean Fletcher offering to pay my medical school tuition. A succinct no thank you was sent back in his presumptuous direction and I went about my life. A life that includes working pretty much twenty hours a day.

Speaking of which…

I check the screen of my phone, seeing that I’m a minute late to report to the cleaning agency. With a blown-out breath, I turn and push through the glass door, joining the line of other cleaners awaiting their assignments. Maybe I’ll get lucky this week and they’ll staff me at a hotel. It has happened once before and I loved it. Getting my work done quickly, then pretending as if I’m a guest. Sitting down in one of the plush chairs and looking out over the skyline, as if the world is my oyster and I just need to crack it open.

“Miss Beck!” One of the staffing agents waves me to the front of the line to the understandable dismay of everyone in front of me. “Come here, please. We’ve got a special request for your services.”

Someone snorts. “Guess she’s providing more than a clean house.”

“Listen, if it paid well…” says another woman, “I’d spread ’em, too.”

“The customer would have to want your bony ass first,” mutters the first lady.

Shoving ensues, followed by laughter. “Go to hell, Pamela.”

I stop beside the two women having the conversation. “I don’t…spread anything. Seriously. It’s not like that.”

“Nobody’s judging you, honey.” Pamela eyes my body pointedly. “Work with what you’ve got—and you’ve definitely got it.”

It’s pretty clear that I’m not going to convince them I’m not sleeping with customers to make extra money, so I continue up to the desk, accepting a piece of paper from the staffing agent. “Congratulations, you’ve won the golden ticket. A full-time night gig cleaning a townhouse over in Gold Coast.” She leans in close. “If I find out you’re cleaning the customer’s pipes instead of their windows, I’ll fire you so fast your head will spin.”

“I’m not,” I sputter, face heating like a furnace. “I wouldn’t.”

She sighs. “Look, you’re young and very attractive. A lot of men have fantasies about this kind of thing. Porn featuring maids has its own damn category.”

With a shiver, I fold up the piece of paper and tuck it into my purse. “I’m constantly disappointed by the human race.”

“You and me both, girl.” She waves me off. “Next!”

Forty minutes later, I’ve lugged my cleaning supplies onto the red line and gotten off at the Division Street stop. Now I’m walking to the townhouse listed on the piece of paper. There is no name on the work order, apart from a set of initials—D.D. Something about this job puts me on guard, but there’s no way I’m going to pass up the chance, in case it does turn out to be a dream gig. Coming to the same place consistently is the fervent wish of every cleaner, because it means a guaranteed income. It means you’re in one safe place, not being moved around constantly, increasing the chance of being placed somewhere that isn’t secure. On top of the obvious benefits, I’ve always loved Gold Coast with its stately homes, greenery and proximity to Lake Michigan.

It’s near-dark now and wind is carrying off the lake, blowing my hair around. Walking down the sidewalk past two mothers pushing strollers—which easily cost more than my rent— I gather my hair into a high ponytail and brush the travel wrinkles out of my uniform. Black skirt, sensible shoes, a white, tucked-in blouse. Not exactly comfortable clothing in which to clean houses, but the staffing agency bills itself as “cleaners to the elite.”

And this customer definitely fits the description.

I stop in front of the townhouse and whistle through my teeth.

Wow. I was half expecting it to be a fake address, but no. It’s real—and it’s spectacular.

It’s built from white limestone. Four stories high. There are flickering carriage lamps on either side of the sweeping stoop. Vines climb up the walls, veering around windows, all the way to the ornately corniced roof. This place houses a millionaire or I’m Mrs. Claus.

With a gulp, I climb the stairs and re-shoulder my bag of cleaning supplies.

Waiting for the owner of this dream house to answer, I turn and look out over the neighborhood. Kids coming from the park, couples strolling to restaurants, yoga moms huddled over to-go cups of coffee. I’d love to give my mom this kind of security. This kind of view. Our current one is an abandoned gas station.

Someday, Charlotte.

Someday.

I turn back to the door, my stomach jumping at the sound of a lock disengaging.

It’s going to be a rich widow. That’s my guess.

But no. I’m way off.

The big wooden entrance swings open to reveal a very grim, very irritated-looking Doctor Dean Fletcher. “Hello again, Miss Beck,” he says tightly.

My mouth is hanging in the approximate location of my knees. The sudden appearance of the man I’ve been fantasizing about for the last month is a shock, to be sure. I’m struck dumb by the utter masculinity of him. He’s a veritable god in the medical field. They literally refer to him as the Messiah. Patients have actually come out of anesthesia after being in his operating room and questioned whether or not they’re still alive, because they think—truly believe!—they are looking into the divine face of their maker. He’s that mighty and commanding and…disruptive to my woefully untouched female parts. “What…this is your house?” I manage, finally. How long have I been standing here gaping at him? “You’re DD?”

He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, studying me beneath his dark brows with unabashed intensity. “Yes. Doctor Dean. Once I paid upfront for a month’s worth of your services, they were happy to put whatever I wanted on the order.”

“Meaning…you left out your last name intentionally so I would actually show up.”

“Correct.” A muscle pops in his cheek. “You want to play a cat and mouse game, Charlotte, I’ll play. Contacting you through proper channels isn’t working.”

My pulse flutters wildly in my neck. It has been a month since graduation and he’s made several attempts since that initial email. As tempting as his overtures have been—opera tickets, Chanel scarves, orchids—I haven’t bitten once. “Maybe you should give up.”

Those sharp eyes trace down my body, before zeroing back in on my face. “That’s simply not an option.” Without waiting for a response, he pushes off the doorframe and steps aside, gesturing toward the interior of his house, which I can already see is magnificent. A fire roars in the rear living room. Classical music beckons. It’s decadent. I bet there are sunken tubs and walk-in closets in this stupidly perfect place. “Please come in. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Dinner?” I sputter. “I’m here to clean your house.”

“It’s already clean.”

“Then I have no reason to be here,” I say, lifting my chin and turning on a heel, prepared to march back down the steps. Before I make it an inch, there’s an arm banding around my middle and I’m being lifted right off the ground, cleaning supplies and all, over the threshold into the townhouse. My back is pressed to a chest sculpted by the angels and his breath warms the crown of my head. I should be focused on the fact that I’m being kidnapped. I should be screaming for help. But I’m too stunned by the sinuous roll and flex of his muscles against my spine to do more than wave at the closest passerby. “H-help?” I say weakly.

Wow. You’re pathetic.

“Don’t make a scene, Charlotte,” Doctor Fletcher says briskly, carrying me through the foyer and down the pristine length of a hallway toward that crackling fireplace. “Resign yourself to the fact that you’ll be spending the evenings here and we can move on.”

“I’m not one of your residents.” Finally, I find my guts and start to struggle, not that it does any good, since he’s built like a Marvel superhero. “You can’t order me around.”

“Believe me, I know that.” His stubbled chin rasps up the side of my neck and he releases a shaky exhale in my ear. “God help us both if you were. The temptation to order your panties off in the middle of a shift would be too much to bear. If I had that power over you, I’d lose my license, wouldn’t I? And I’d deserve to.”

“How…” I whisper, winded by his statement. “How dare you talk to me like that.”

That’s what I say out loud. Even though I’m covered in goosebumps. Even though the idea of this man in his white coat, with his highly skilled hands, ordering me to take off my panties makes me terribly wet. My tummy is flipping and squeezing in the most disconcerting way and this man. This man is the only one who has ever aroused me. That’s one of the reasons why I try so hard to avoid him. The power he has over my body is scary. A couple of harshly delivered lines and I want to get on my knees, beg to be ordered around.

Beg for things I don’t understand.

“You’re right.” We stop in the middle of the living room. I’m still being held in his arms, my feet inches from the royal blue Aubusson rug, the fire warming the fronts of my shins. Slowly, he lets me slip down the front of his body. And when my bottom drags over the huge bulge in his pants, I gasp, my knees turning to jelly when I try to stand. Doctor Fletcher catches me, though. Takes the cleaning supplies out of my hands and sets them on a nearby table. Then he pulls me into his arms and turns me around, so that I’m looking up into his sternly handsome face, those brown eyes studying my features with rapt intensity. “You make it difficult to be civilized, Charlotte.”

“How?” I breathe, unwisely allowing him to slide a big hand down my spine, stopping right before the curve of my backside, his fingertips tucking ever so slightly into the waistband of my skirt. “How do I make it difficult?”

“By existing,” he rasps, a line appears between his brows. “You’re an anomaly to me. I can’t figure you out. I offer to pay for medical school and you turn down the money, in favor of cleaning houses? Your actions make little sense to me. And you refuse to meet with me long enough to understand why. Why would you resist your calling when I’d make it so easy to pursue it?” I’m finding it impossible to answer his questions because those fingertips are sinking further and further below the waistband of my skirt, his mouth coming dangerously close to mine, his proximity holding me in thrall. As if he’s injected me with anesthesia to weaken my resistance. “You send me a brief email to decline my offer and that’s it. You cut me off. You refuse the gifts I send. You ignore my calls. And yet…” That hand continues its journey into my skirt, clutching my right cheek, pulling me roughly up against him, so I can feel his erection against my belly. And I moan. My head falls back and I let out the neediest sound ever uttered in history. “And yet, you want to be fucked as badly as I want to fuck you, don’t you, Charlotte?” His quick breaths bathe my face. “I’m not imagining it.”

Do not answer that.

As a card-carrying virgin, I don’t even know how to have sex. Or if I’d even like it. Just another reason this attraction to Doctor Fletcher is so confusing. It’s as though my body knows something that my brain hasn’t been privy to yet.

“How much…” I stop to wet my suddenly dry lips. “How much money can you possibly have? Do you just drop nearly three hundred grand on every woman you want to sleep with?” I shake my head. “That’s insane.”

“No,” he pushes through his teeth, dragging his forehead side to side on mine. “I don’t. Only you, Charlotte.”

Breathless, I whisper, “Oh.”

Look. I’ve never claimed to be gifted with eloquence.

“I offered to pay for medical school because you’re clearly remarkable. I’ve read several of your journal submissions, going back to when you were only sixteen. Spoken with your professors. You love medicine. And I want people like you in my field.” Inside my skirt, his fingers trail up and down the strip of my thong where it’s positioned in the valley of my bottom. “The fact that I want to rail you like a dog is an entirely separate issue.”

My brain blinks.

Shakes its head.

“Aha!” I manage, unevenly, somehow managing to extricate myself from his embrace and step back, warding off his big body with a shaky hand. “You see, that is impossible. To keep those two things separate. Sex and financial obligations. I’m not a fool.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Then don’t expect me to believe you would offer me full tuition if you didn’t also want to sleep with me.”

“You believe my offer was a bribe. So you would go to bed with me.” A muscle pops in his cheek. “Quite simply, that is utter bullshit, Charlotte. I met this beautiful, gifted girl by chance and…” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Jesus, she fucking bewitched me. That’s the truth. And I can’t help it—I want to take care of her in all ways. In bed and out. I never intended it to be coercion.”

Weirdly, I…sort of believe him.

There was a crazy live wire of attraction between us that day at graduation. If he’d kissed me behind that stage, there’s no way I would have been able to resist. A kiss, maybe even a lot more. I definitely didn’t give him the impression that he would need to pay to have me. He made that offer unprompted. And when I turned it down, he continued to pursue me. There is no mistaking the fact that he wants me. Physically. Looking into his eyes, I can also see clearly he didn’t intend to bribe me.

Why do I have an even more compelling urge to run for the exit now?

Because of one thing he said.

I want to take care of her in all ways.

If I was in a relationship with this man, he wouldn’t let me clean houses. He wouldn’t let me work a day job that I’m overqualified for. He’d wear down my resistance until I accepted the tuition money. He’d spoil me in this cushy townhouse. I’d get comfortable—and then he’d have me. I’d be stuck, controlled, desperate to keep the status quo because I’m suddenly reliant on his good nature, all of my independence sucked out through a straw. In a way, men are a lot like the loan companies. They’re the only option. They’re all a person has got to keep their apples in the air. And they do you dirty with interest. Well, not me.

“Very well,” I say. “I believe what you’re telling me. That your offer wasn’t a bribe.”

“Good,” he says, his relief evident. “Now—”

“But I’m still only here to clean your house. That’s all‚” I manage, my body still smothered in awareness. Staunchly, I ignore the desire prickling every nerve ending I possess and pick up my cleaning supplies. “Where should I begin?”