Faking It as the Maid: A Fun and Sexy Romantic Comedy Read online

  Faking It as the Maid

  By Emily James

  Copyright

  Copyright 2020: Emily James

  Cover Design 2019: Lara Wynters

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, distributed, shared, or transmitted in any form or by any means uploaded to any type of file sharing or retrieval system without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Editing by: Randie Creamer [email protected]

  This novel uses U.K English spellings.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

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  Books by Emily James:

  Chapter 1 | Avery

  Chapter 2 | Ben

  Chapter 3 | Avery

  Chapter 4 | Ben

  Chapter 5 | Avery

  Chapter 6 | Ben

  Chapter 7 | Avery

  Chapter 8 | Ben

  Chapter 9 | Avery

  Chapter 10 | Ben

  Chapter 11 | Avery

  Chapter 12 | Ben

  Chapter 13 | Avery

  Chapter 14 | Ben

  Chapter 15 | Avery

  Chapter 16 | Ben

  Chapter 17 | Avery

  Chapter 18 | Ben

  Chapter 19 | Avery

  Chapter 20 | Ben

  Chapter 21 | Avery

  Chapter 22 | Ben

  Chapter 23 | Avery

  Chapter 24 | Ben

  Chapter 25 | Avery

  Chapter 26 | Ben

  Chapter 27 | Avery

  Epilogue | Ben | 18 months later

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  Books by Emily James:

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

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  Books by Emily James:

  The Love in Short series

  Operation My Fake Girlfriend (OMFG) Book 1

  Sexy With Attitude Too (SWAT) Book 2

  You Only Love Once (YOLO) Book 3

  Leaving Out Love (LOL) Book 4

  The Power of Ten series

  Ten Dates - Book 1

  Ten Dares - Book 2

  Ten Lies - Book 3

  The Faking It series

  Faking It in The Kitchen

  Faking It as The Maid

  Mistakes of My Past (A New Adult Romantic Suspense Novel)

  Chapter 1

  Avery

  FRIDAY NIGHT IS IN full swing at the Dancing Moose Pub. There’s a plethora of punters, happy to have finished work for the week, kicking back by swigging wine and beer, and safely tucked away from the blisteringly Baltic mid-November conditions outside.

  A band plays soft rock from the corner of the large room. Groups of friends tuck into freshly made comfort foods, and colleagues congregate and slap each other on the back, congratulating one another for completing another successful week. There’s a couple in the corner whispering into one another’s ears and kissing behind their menus.

  Then there’s me, Avery Anderson. Sitting alone in one of the tan, winged-backed chairs pulled close to the roaring open fire. To an outsider, maybe I look like I came in for a post-work drink and to warm myself by the fire. Maybe they’d think I’m sitting here waiting for friends, family, or maybe a boyfriend to come meet me. They’d be wrong. Very wrong. I’m here because today I got fired from my job. Donovan, my boss of six months, said he was sorry but he couldn’t afford to keep me on at the bar.

  To anyone else, I might look like I belong in this bar, surrounded by my peers. They might not have noticed my carefully glued-back-together boot that still lets the water in at the seam, or the faded colour of my grey used-to-be-black sweatshirt. To anyone else, I might look like I’m putting my feet up and enjoying a glass of vodka and lemonade after a hard day. In reality, I’ve stretched my feet out to get them as close as possible to the fire in hopes that my socks will dry out before I attempt the three mile walk home. My drink of choice is tap water. Steve, the barman looked at me like I was deranged when I ordered it, then he winked at me and said, “Heavy night last night, was it?” I half-heartedly chuckled at his joke and nodded, then he poured me my water and told me to come back when I need something stronger. I have a feeling if I sit by the bar he will continue to encourage me to order something that costs money, so I carry my water to one of two spare chairs at a small circular table, and push my feet as close to the flames as I can get without them catching fire.

  There’s a game my mother and I used to play, many years ago, before she died. We’d watch the people around us go about their lives, and then let our eyes settle on one. From there, we’d invent their backstory. It could be as salacious or mundane as we wanted. Often it depended on our moods, or the type of day we’d had. When I was a child, my chosen tributes were all rich and happy. As an adult, I’m able to play this game to better represent the different facets of society. Of course, in this particular bar—in the finance district of the city—they are all rich and no doubt happy.

  My eyes rest on a woman happily sipping a fancy cocktail and chatting to her group of friends.

  Let’s call her Susan.

  Susan has four friends and together they look like glamorous extras from Sex and the City. She’s single but probably wishes she wasn’t.

  She just can’t seem to find “the one.”

  Susan gazes at a small group of three handsome men who are seated over in the corner of the bar, not far from where I’m sitting. She breathes in, pushing out her chest.

  They’re all wearing designer suits and leather shoes, so shiny you could use them to apply your make-up. They’re sipping beers straight from the bottle and ignorant to Susan’s meandering glances.

  Susan turns away from her friends and looks longingly over to the corner where one of the three guys—the one with the wavy blond hair is buying shots—and it’s obvious she’s got her sights set on the dark-haired fella with the navy suit.

  Good choice, Susan. He’s probably the one I’d go for too.

  He’s taller than the others by quite a margin, and his shoulders look broad and strong. His glossy dark hair is long enough to touch his ears, but he wears it swept back from his face. He has a nice face, obviously handsome with well-worn smile lines around his mouth, like he’s having both a good night and a nice life.

  Oops.

  He catches me staring, so I concentrate on sipping my water and casually turn my attention back to Susan.

  She comes from a family in the suburbs. Her mum bakes shit at the weekends and drives it up to her high-rise penthouse in the city, because she worries Susan’s too busy to cook. Her mother still texts her goodnight and reminds her how much she is loved, because, well, no matter how old she gets, to her mother, Susan will always be her baby.

  Susan and I are from different worlds. My mother died when I was fifteen. She was an addict, and in the end it killed her. Mostly, the only texts I get are to remind me that my phone credit is running low. The list of people to bake me shit and check I’m doing okay is embarrassingly small.

  While Susan continues to try to catch the eye of the dark-haired, handsome stranger, I look away and focus on the dancing flames of the open fire. Warm and inviting, this spot is a million times more enticing than the frigid, almost bare room I rent that contains just enough facilities to exist—but not enough to live. It’s certainly not a place I can thrive, like the people in this bar all appear to be doing.

  When I look back at the hot guy in the suit, he’s staring at Susan. She smiles politely and he looks away, pretending to listen to his friends as they jostle him and line up drinks on the bar. I say pretending, because he’s tilted his body away from his friends, towards the fire. He’s gnawing his lower lip and his eyes have lowered contemplatively to the flames. Behind him, his friends haven’t noticed that they’ve lost his attention. The blond guy pays the barman with a fifty-pound note like they’re easy come, easy go.

  With his attention on the fire, I continue to watch the dark-haired guy. He’s got an interesting face. Dare I say kind, friendly even. Not that he couldn’t pull off intense and angry. His sheer size is intimidating. His eyebrows are dark and thick, framing dark eyes which are now deliberate in their slow movement upwards, and then his chin lifts and his eyes rest on mine. Suddenly I’m overly interested to know the colour of those eyes. He’s too far away to know for sure, but I guess they’re a warm brown. For a second I let his eyes hold my gaze and admire his good looks. The broad curve of his jaw is scruffy in that designer way, and his nose is straight and perfectly proportioned. His hair is dark and regal, but I imagine it would lighten in the sun.

  While his lips quip up in a small, coy smile, as though he’s aware I’m checking him out, and he wants to let me know he’s enjoying it. I remind myself that he is most likely not just ruggedly handsome. From the way his suit fits, as though designed specially to hug every hard angle, I’m guessing he’s probably rich, professionally employed, and educated. And I am none of those things. I am just a girl in a bar, who lost her job today and will probably be homeless come December if she doesn’t figure something out. But he doesn’t see that. His cheeks lift into a breezy smile and he points to his bottle of beer as if to say, Would you like one?

  I demurely shake and flick my head in Susan’s direction, as if to say, Mister, you should concentrate on Susan. She looks nice and is much more your style. I can’t compete with her.

  Then I ignore his attention and turn my head to Susan, who drives a Mercedes and shops designer online because she’s just can’t find the time with her corporate lifestyle to hit the shops. Her wardrobe probably spills over with this season’s couture. I’m wearing worn denim and a frayed sweater. The rest of my clothes are kept in the battered old suitcase that followed me around foster homes throughout my teens. I’ve never been inside a Mercedes, and I walk most places because it’s often a choice between dinner or bus fare, and I quite like food... when I can afford it. Though, these days, it’s starting to feel more and more like a luxury item.

  Susan has a nice apartment, overlooking the ocean, with heating that switches on in the winter. I have one room and a bathroom, with peeling paint and rising damp. Last winter the walls were black with mould so thick the smell lingered on my clothes.

  I pull out my ancient phone and study it. Wouldn’t it be nice if just for once, fate handed me a free pass? Maybe Donovan will call and apologise. Tell me he’s made a mistake, and he recognises that I’ve worked my butt off for him, so he’s keeping me on, despite the failing business he’s facing. We’d laugh about the “almost predicament” I found myself in and come rent day, I wouldn’t be hiding behind the hollow door, pretending I’m not in when Sean, the muscle that collects the rent, shows up.

  I sip my water and glance at the clock. In my peripheral vision I notice that suit guy is still staring at me. He nods to something his friend has said, but I can feel his attention on me.

  It’s ten forty-five and the bar will be closing in awhile. I’ve got a long walk ahead of me, but I want to make the most of the warm fire before I return to my fridge of a room. I hate the cold. The heating at my place is almost constantly on the fritz. Once I’m cold, it always seems to take me longer to warm through than other people. My mum used to say it’s because I’m all skin and bone, course she hasn’t seen me since womanly curves took hold. That’s probably why suit guy is staring at me. Even with a neckline that covers my collar bones, there’s no denying the weight of the curves that exist beneath.

  My breasts have been a curse since puberty—attracting attention, I could do without. Like when Mrs Pattinson, my foster carer, told the social worker that she just couldn’t tolerate my “womanly ways” distressing her husband, any longer. What she meant of course, was that she couldn’t stand him looking through the keyhole in the bathroom door again while I showered.

  I lean back against the leather chair and let my head loll to one side. The heat of the fire warming my feet is comforting, and I try not to let it bother me that other people might notice the hole in the sole of my boot. If I can just stay here for awhile longer, tomorrow I’ll deal with the task of handing out more resumes and daring to hope for more in life and to one day go back to university. Today, after being told there was no more work for me, with immediate effect, I spent half the day walking the city, applying for positions. Now, I don’t have any energy left. Tomorrow things might seem brighter. A couple more weeks and there’ll be plenty of bars and restaurants looking for staff to help calm the Christmas rush. If I can just hang on until then, life will be fine.

  “You look comfortable enough to take a nap,” a deep, yet smooth voice suggests and my eyes spring open.

  Suit guy is sitting on the small, circular coffee table, right next to my feet. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees so that our eyes are level. On the floor by his feet, his beer bottle rests within his reach, as though he intends to stay awhile, and in his hand is a goblet filled with an opulent looking violet liquid.

  I was right, his eyes are a warm brown. Like melted chocolate but with hazel flecks when the light catches them in just the right way. With his dark brown hair and rugged strong jaw, he’s a thing of beauty. I bet Susan’s heart would pound right out of her chest if she got this close.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. You looked kind of...” His dazzlingly straight and white teeth nip the corner of his full and soft lower lip while he searches for the right word. “... lonely, over here all by yourself. The barman said you were drinking water?” He tilts his head to the side, questioningly. I guess to normal folk, it is a strange beverage to order in a bar. His cheeks lift in a wry smile. “You looked like you could use something a little stronger.” Thick dark lashes clamp down over his right eye as he winks at me.

  My feet are mere inches from his narrow hips, which broaden out into a strong chest and thick shoulders, wrapped beneath material so sleek and well-fitting I’d guarantee his suit is custom-made. He is beautiful to look at, there’s no denying it. The friendly smile he’s got going on, could easily turn sinful and dark. The way his eyes burn into mine with interest, holds me captivated and I wonder what he wants with me. My immediate guess is that he’s probably after a good time and figured what the hell, when he saw I was on my own. But still, having his attention is so flattering it sends a thrill creeping up my spine.

  When I don’t answer, he continues, “I bought you one of those fancy gin drinks all the women go crazy for, according to the barman. I hope you like it.” He holds the huge goblet out for me to take. “But I could get you something different if you don’t like gin?” His thick, dark brow quips up into a question.

  My mouth opens but I clamp it shut as I consider my dilemma. Good-looking—scratch that—hot guy, offers down-on-her-luck woman fancy drink she wouldn’t mind trying. Where’s the danger in that?

  He could be a deranged psychopath. With the luck I am having lately, that would be plausible. But I don’t think he is. I like the way he’s looking at me. Goose bumps are rising beneath my skin and I’m feeling a lot warmer than I was five minutes ago. Maybe I can chat with this guy. Let’s call him, Stud. He’ll buy me a few drinks, maybe he’ll get me a burger on the way home because it’s late and he notices my stomach rumbling like it has been all day. We’ll go to his place, because why on earth would I take Stud to the hell-hole that is my place? He’d be attentive all night and I’d probably feel really special, like he could actually be someone I could get to know and come to rely on. Then, he’d tell me he’d call me. Maybe I’d own up about what a hard time I’m having lately, and he would say, “Hey, there’s this great job going at the firm I work at,” and I’d get all excited because, boy, could I use a great job. Then, he’d make me coffee and programme my number into his phone, and after we’d kissed goodbye, I’d walk home thinking my luck was about to change, and then I’d wait. But the phone wouldn’t ring because guys like him don’t date girls like me. I could leave my damned boot in his apartment and he wouldn’t comb the city looking for its owner. Because why would he? Stud will eventually marry someone like Susan who he can show off to his family, and I’ll be left behind, living at Pretson Villa’s – the worst apartment block – on the rough side of the city, with all the other hard-working folk who cannot catch a break, wondering what on earth ever happened to that guy who never called.

  Stud puts the drink beside him on the table and his brows draw together.

  “Do you speak English?” he questions slowly as if in doubt.

  He’s gorgeous but also arrogant. My hand covers my smirk, which I disguise as a cough. Stud is probably so used to women falling at his feet, to him it’s more likely I don’t speak English than him to believe I’m just not interested in his advances.

  I’m at a crossroads. I could say, “Yes, I speak English, but no thank you for the drink.” He’d walk back to his friends and tell them he wasn’t interested in me after all. Maybe he’d tell them that up close I look like a troll, or that he thought I was boring. Or, I could pretend I don’t speak English and save us both the plethora of hope and lies. He could take this nice drink over to Susan and they could talk about the fuel consumption of their luxury cars and the state of the stock market. They’d have really beautiful children who would grow up to be doctors and politicians. Maybe they’d change the world for the better?