Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(13)

He lies on his back, mouth slightly open, sound asleep. It gives me the opportunity to stare at every curve, every ripple of muscle, every line, every hair on his perfectly moulded body.

The sheets bunch around the defined V of his lower stomach, daring me to push them down. I can tell he’s hard under the covers.

I stifle a laugh. I could study his face for a lifetime. That square jaw, those dark eyebrows, defined cheekbones. He told me his parents were Irish. I might need to pay Dublin a visit if this is what they are mass-producing in the Emerald Isle.

What time is it?

I didn’t have a cockroach alarm this morning.

My watch says 7:40. I have exactly twenty minutes to get dressed, run a mile to the dock and meet Megan to start our cleaning shift. I’ve no time to change, I’ll have to go as I am.

As promised, Dimitris demoted us from sales to cleaning crew. We’re receiving this week's pay in two days, after that we can tell him to shove his placard up his ass, but we can’t risk it beforehand. Talk circulates amongst backpackers about not getting paid after quitting early.

I sneak out of bed and tiptoe over to where my jeans are discarded on the floor. There is a clothes trail of destruction from when we fired everything off us in a lust haze. I dress as quietly as possible and gather up the contents of my bag.

The tip he left on the bar two nights ago slips out. I place four of the notes, making up eighty Euros, on the bedside table beside him. Twenty euros was more than enough for a generous tip.

“Goodbye, my handsome Adonis,” I whisper, stealing one final stare. He told me he was leaving for Athens this morning. With his ship sailing, so too is ours. Ours sailed the moment I let a guy I met twenty-four hours before finger me on a beach. You do that and you lose any hope of something more meaningful.

If I sneak out now, it won’t be awkward.

I creep into the bathroom to wash my face. In daylight I see just how lavish this hotel is. An extensive selection of expensive toiletries is arranged across the sink and a remote control sits on top of the bath. I spot more knobs and levers on the bath than a plane. Can that thing fly?

Pity I don’t get to enjoy the five-star treatment.

Scanning the room, I do what any normal backpacker would do. I open my bag and sneak in a few mini shampoo and shower gels. He’s leaving today, he’ll never notice. It would be a shame to waste them.

Then I tip toe towards the main door and close it behind me. Who knew I was so good at being a hussy and a thief?





5




Elly

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Megan sniggers as she hands me an apron. “Although I’m mad at you for not texting me to say where you were.”

I take it, irritated. I’m exhausted, and the last thing I want to do is clean yacht toilets. “I’m sorry, I’m a terrible friend. I didn’t mean to make you worry.” I tie the apron at the back. “Tell me how these aprons help? They don’t cover our clothes.”

She shrugs. “Dimitris wants us to look like professional cleaners.”

I roll my eyes. “He didn’t exactly look at our cleaning credentials. At least we don’t have to sell anything,” I muse. “Cleaning toilets might actually be better than trying to coax people onto boats.”

Boy, was I wrong.

One hour later, I’m stuck cleaning a massive pretentious yacht owned by the biggest pain in the ass on the Greek islands. That title is fact.

It's obvious she expects me to clean the yacht without being present as she entertains a small group of equally irritating friends. I try to clean around them as they get progressively drunker. They opened a bottle of champagne, forgot, then opened another one. Meanwhile, a nanny is entertaining the annoying lady’s child in the bedroom. The kid seems to spend most of his time on his phone, a phone way more expensive than mine. He must be no older than six or seven.

The woman is exquisite, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such a beautiful creature in the flesh. The kind of woman who looks incapable of farting and is annoyingly dainty and willowy. I imagine her to be a rich ballerina who does lots of fund raising. Despite the island heat, her long blond hair isn’t frizzy, her sweat glands don't seem to function, and her face is sculpted and contoured to perfection. It’s like she’s applied a real-life Instagram filter.

I spotted her husband on my way in. He must have a tiny dick to need a boat this big.

“Excuse me, sweetie," she says loudly and slowly, looking at me like I’ve got the IQ of a scarecrow. She beckons me, showcasing the most obnoxious engagement ring I’ve ever seen. The ring looks like a weapon. Maybe she’s mafia?

“Yes?”

“I need you.” She points at herself then me for the avoidance of doubt. “To pair the underwear and socks. Do you understand?” She rolls her eyes at her friends. “The dry cleaners are appalling.”

“No.” She wants me to match up her underwear? I’m a cleaner, not her mother.

Exhaling heavily, as though talking to me was draining her, she snaps open the dry-cleaning bag. Taking out a racy red lingerie set, she turns to me, “This,” she says loudly, enunciating every syllable and pointing to the bra. “And this.” She points to the thong. “Do you see? In these drawers.”

If she complains, I might not get this week’s pay. I’m not exactly part of a trade union so the risk is high. I remove my jaw from the floor and smile as sweetly as possible at the waif-like beauty. “I’d be honoured to match your underwear.”