Chapter 1: The Price of Touch

I came to the city for work and, somehow, ended up as live-in help—yeah, that's the actual job title—for the son of a rich family. 'Live-in help.' Sounds like something out of a weird Craigslist ad, right? I still can’t get used to saying it out loud.

Honestly, if you’d told me back home I’d wind up mopping marble floors for some spoiled city kid, I’d have laughed you off the porch and maybe thrown in a “Bless your heart” for good measure. But here I am, smack dab in the middle of a mansion that smells like lemon polish and old money, trying to act like I belong. Fake it till you make it, right? I keep waiting for someone to notice I don’t.

The young man’s tastes are... well, let’s just say they’re a little odd. Like, I knew rich folks could be quirky, but this guy? He’s got rules for everything—how to fold towels, which way to sweep the entryway. One time he actually gave me a demonstration. I swear, it’s like he’s running a boot camp—but with peacock feathers and attitude. Is this what they teach at finishing school?

I mean, I’ve heard rich folks have their quirks, but this guy takes it to another level. He’s got rules for everything—how to fold the towels, which way to sweep the entryway. It’s like living in a boot camp run by a peacock. Seriously, who comes up with this stuff? Sometimes I want to salute him just to see what he’d do.

He won't let me wear regular clothes—no jeans, no tees, just this giant apron every day while I clean the floors. I tried sneaking in a flannel once. He caught me before I even made it to the hallway. Guess I should’ve known better.

And this isn’t your run-of-the-mill apron, either. It’s big enough to double as a tent, and the fabric’s so stiff it could probably stand up by itself. I look like some weird cross between a lunch lady and a contestant on a reality cleaning show. Honestly, if there were cameras rolling, I’d at least be getting hazard pay. God, what would Grandma say if she saw me now?

And get this: even when it’s eighty degrees outside, he uses my chest as a hand-warmer. No joke—humid summer heat, shirt sticking to my back, and there he is, pressing his ice-cold hands up against me like I’m his personal radiator. Sometimes I think he does it just to watch me squirm. Boundaries? Apparently not a thing in the city.

We’re talking humid summer heat, the kind that makes your shirt stick to your back, and there he is, pressing his ice-cold hands right up against me like I’m his personal radiator. I swear, sometimes I think he’s just doing it to mess with me. City weirdness at its finest.

He just shrugs and says, "All housekeepers in wealthy families do this." Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I almost laughed in his face. Almost.

He says it with a straight face. Like it’s some kind of unspoken rule in the country club handbook. For a second, I almost believed him—almost. Who makes up these rules?

I couldn’t help myself. I said, "Do all rich family housekeepers use their mouths to warm their boss’s tongue, too?" Yeah, sometimes my mouth works faster than my brain.

I blurted it out before I could stop myself, then instantly regretted it. Great, now I’d done it. My grandma always said my mouth would get me in trouble one day, and boy, was she right.

Looking back, my first job in the city was working for the Whitmore family, taking care of their son, Julian. Wild to think how fast things changed. One day I’m hauling hay, next day I’m in a mansion.

The Whitmores were old money—the kind that donates wings to hospitals and has their names on library plaques. Their son, Julian, was something else—like he’d stepped out of a glossy magazine. Except with more attitude. That part you can’t photoshop.

Ten grand a month. Let that sink in.

Ten thousand bucks. That number still makes my head spin. I used to think a couple hundred was a windfall. Now I was earning more in a month than most folks back home saw in a year. It felt unreal.

My dad couldn’t make that much in three years back home, working the farm. Not in a million years.

Dad’s hands are rough from years of hauling hay and fixing fences. Every time I cash my paycheck, I think about how many calluses it cost him to put food on the table. Sometimes I picture him sitting at the kitchen table, counting out bills, and it makes me want to do better for both of us.

I got lucky. Miss Helen from the agency rounded up a dozen of us, and Julian picked me right away. Still not sure what he saw in me, but I guess I fit the bill.

Miss Helen was a no-nonsense woman in kitten heels who could spot a dust bunny from a mile away. She lined us up in the parlor like we were auditioning for a TV show. I half expected a camera crew to pop out from behind the curtains.

At the time, Julian was curled up on the couch, his pale, slender hand pointing lazily at me. "That one."

He didn’t even bother to sit up straight—just lounged there like a bored cat. His voice was soft, but you could tell he was used to getting his way. I felt like a prop in someone else’s play.

He narrowed his striking blue eyes and let out a soft snort. "Big chest and a nice ass. Looks useful."

I almost choked on my own spit. Never in my life had I been sized up like a prize heifer at the county fair. The other candidates just looked away, pretending not to hear. I wanted to crawl under the rug.

City folks really are something. I swear, only in the city.

Back home, people might judge you for your handshake or how you handle a tractor, but here? Apparently, it’s all about the assets. Guess I missed that memo.

Picking help by chest size and butt. Is this a thing? Should I put it on my résumé?

I wondered if there was a secret city manual for this kind of thing. Maybe a checklist titled "How to Choose Your Help: A Guide for the Discerning Elite." If so, I definitely never got a copy.

Miss Helen just patted my shoulder and said, "Ten grand a month—little quirks are normal." Like it was no big deal. Easy for her to say.

She patted my shoulder like she was sending me off to war. I guess, in a way, she was.

She wasn’t wrong. Not even close.

Money talks. And for ten grand, I figured I could put up with a little weirdness. Or a lot. I kept telling myself it’d be worth it.

But Julian is a tough one to please. That’s an understatement.

He’s picky in ways I didn’t even know were possible. Makes my mom’s Sunday potluck critiques look like a love letter. Sometimes I wonder if he’s just making up new rules to mess with me.

He won’t eat if the food’s too sweet. Won’t touch it if it’s too salty. I swear, he could taste the difference between one and two grains of salt.

Yeah, I started keeping a notebook. Had to. One grain of salt too many, and he’d push the plate away like I’d served him poison.

Clothes must be hand-washed. Floors must be hand-scrubbed. No shortcuts, no machines. Welcome to the stone age, luxury edition.

He doesn’t trust machines. Says they’re too rough. So I’m down on my knees with a bucket and brush, scrubbing tile until my arms ache. Some days I can barely lift my arms to eat dinner.

One time, Julian came downstairs and saw me cleaning. He stood there for a long time, then told me to take off my shirt.

The room went dead silent. I thought I’d misheard. But he just waited, eyes locked on me, until I finally peeled off my shirt, feeling like I was on display. I could feel my ears burning.

He tossed me an apron. "Wear this when you clean."

He didn’t explain why. Just tossed it over, turned on his heel, and disappeared upstairs like nothing was out of the ordinary. I stood there, holding that ridiculous apron, wondering what the hell just happened.

After that, he came down every day at the same time just to watch me mop the floor.

At first, I thought it was a coincidence. But after the third day in a row, it was clear—he was making a show of it. I started timing my cleaning to see if he’d show up. He always did. Every single time.

I have no idea what’s so interesting about watching someone mop. Maybe he’s got a thing for cleaning supplies?

Maybe it’s some kind of performance art to him. Or maybe he just likes seeing me sweat. Either way, it’s weird. And more than a little awkward.

Julian’s gaze got more and more obvious, and eventually I started to feel embarrassed. I mean, who gets self-conscious mopping?

I’d never been self-conscious about cleaning before, but with him staring, I started double-checking my posture, making sure my shirt didn’t ride up. My face would get hot, and I’d keep my eyes glued to the floor. I probably looked like a tomato.

While I was working with my head down, I heard Julian let out a rough gasp from the couch. The sound made me freeze, mop halfway across the tile. Was he okay?

The sound was sharp, almost desperate. It made me freeze, mop halfway across the tile. I wondered if I’d done something wrong.

I wanted to look up, but Julian pressed my head down with his foot. I was too stunned to move.

The heel of his shoe was cold against my scalp. My heart skipped a beat. I stayed put, not sure what he wanted. Was this some kind of weird test?

His voice was strangely hoarse. "Don’t look up."

He didn’t sound like himself—more raw, more exposed. I felt a strange mix of nerves and curiosity, but I kept my eyes on the floor. My pulse was racing.

I let him step on me, not daring to move. For ten grand a month, I’d let him stand on my head if he wanted.

Ten grand a month, after all.

I kept repeating that number in my head like a mantra. Whatever this was, I could handle it. I had to. I needed this job.

After a while, Julian finally lifted his foot, nudged me in the stomach, and said, "Big dummy, grab some paper."

His tone was back to normal—bossy, impatient. He flicked his fingers, and I scrambled to grab a paper towel from the kitchen counter. I didn’t even have time to think.

He lit a cigarette and stretched out his hand for me to wipe it. Like this was just a normal Tuesday.

The smoke curled in the air, mixing with the lemon scent of the cleaner. I reached for his hand, still a little shaky. My fingers trembled as I took it.

I took his hand, and suddenly realized what he’d just done. My cheeks burned as the realization hit me. I clenched my jaw, trying not to let my anger show. Seriously?

My face went red with anger. I wanted to snap at him, but the words caught in my throat. I just pressed the paper towel to his palm, wiping away the mess. This was not in the job description.

Julian really is out of line. He acted like nothing was wrong, like this was just another Tuesday. I couldn’t believe how brazen he was. Maybe this is normal for him?

Doing that kind of thing right in front of me. It felt like a test, like he was waiting to see if I’d break. I held my ground, even though my hands were shaking.

I felt a little resentful at his boldness, but still wiped his hand in silence. I focused on his fingers, tracing the lines in his skin, trying to ignore the heat rising in my chest. Why did I let him get away with this?

Julian’s hands are beautiful—long fingers, fair skin. They looked delicate, almost feminine, but there was strength there too. The kind you only notice up close.

He usually uses those hands to play piano and paint. Sometimes, I’d hear music drifting through the halls—soft, haunting melodies that made the whole house feel alive. Other times, I’d catch glimpses of his paintings, bold strokes of color hidden in his studio.

I once watched him play piano in secret, his fingers gliding over the keys like magic. I hid in the doorway, barely breathing, afraid he’d notice me. The way he moved—so sure, so graceful—it was like watching someone conjure a spell.

It was mesmerizing. I couldn’t look away. For a moment, I forgot about the apron, the chores, all of it. There was just the music and those hands.

So, I kind of look up to his hands. I guess that’s why it hurt so much to see him use them for something so... crude. It didn’t fit the picture I had in my head.

I can’t imagine how Julian could use such hands for something so filthy. The disconnect was jarring. Like seeing a preacher cuss or a ballerina throw a punch. It made my stomach twist.

Is it as smooth as when he plays piano? My mind wandered, picturing those fingers gliding over keys, then over skin. I bit the inside of my cheek, embarrassed by my own thoughts. Get it together, Cal.

Just as I was thinking that, Julian pulled his hand away. The next second, his fingers pinched my face, not gently, and tilted my head up. My breath caught in my throat.

His grip was firm, almost possessive. I met his eyes, heart pounding in my chest. I couldn’t look away.

He lounged on the couch, belt still undone, blowing smoke at me. "So interested in watching?"

He arched an eyebrow, lips curling into a lazy smirk. The smoke drifted between us, blurring the space. I felt my face go red.

"What, want to lick?" The words hung in the air, heavy and electric. I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. Was he serious?

Julian bit down on his cigarette, freed up a hand to pinch my face, and brought that dirty hand to my lips. His fingertip pried open my mouth. "Here, lick it."

My mind went blank. For a split second, I forgot how to breathe. The world narrowed to the taste of smoke and the press of his skin.

Julian is even more shameless than Old Mrs. Jenkins back in my hometown. And that woman once flashed the mailman just to prove a point. Julian made her look like a saint.

I didn’t get to lick Julian’s hand, though. He got a phone call and rushed out. The ringtone was some classical piece, sharp and jarring. Julian jumped up, yanked his pants up, and answered with a clipped, “What?”

I heard a smooth male voice on the phone, calling him, "Jules." The tone was familiar, almost intimate. Julian’s jaw tightened, and his eyes went flat and cold.

Julian’s knuckles went white as he gripped the phone. Before leaving, he changed into a suit and did his hair. It was like watching a magician pull off a quick-change act.

Like a peacock strutting his stuff. He checked his reflection in the hallway mirror, lips pursed, and shot me a look that said, "Don’t wait up."

In the middle of the night, I was woken up by a loud crash. My heart just about leapt out of my chest. For a second, I thought it was a break-in. Then I remembered where I was—rich folks’ houses always sound bigger at night.

I opened the door and saw the peacock, all wet, smashing things in the living room. Julian was drenched, hair plastered to his forehead, suit jacket hanging off one shoulder. He hurled a vase against the wall, glass exploding like fireworks.

When he heard me open the door, Julian suddenly looked over, gaze sharp and cold. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide. For a moment, he didn’t look human—more like a cornered animal.

He reminded me of a snake eyeing its prey. There was a tension in the air, coiled and dangerous. I stayed by the door, not sure if I should step in or back away.

I’ve killed plenty of snakes back home. They look scary, but once you toss them in a skillet, the meat’s not bad. City snakes, though—they’re a whole different breed. I wasn’t sure how to handle this one.

I looked at the mess Julian made and resigned myself to cleaning up. I sighed, grabbed a dustpan, and started picking up shards of crystal. No point arguing with a hurricane.

I’d just squatted down to pick up a piece of broken glass when Julian grabbed my arm and yanked me up. His fingers dug into my skin, strong and unyielding. He pulled me up so fast I nearly lost my balance.

He looks delicate, but he’s strong—he shoved me against the wall, standing half a head taller than me. His body pressed against mine, wet clothes soaking through my shirt. I could smell whiskey and rain on his breath.

Julian pressed up against me, soaking wet, and asked, "Big dummy, am I good-looking?" His voice was rough, almost pleading. I blinked, caught off guard by the question.

I nodded and answered honestly, "Yeah, you are." I couldn’t lie—not with him staring at me like that. My voice came out soft, but sure.

In all the counties back home, I’ve never seen a better-looking guy than Julian. Not even at the state fair, where the prettiest boys from three counties showed up in their Sunday best.

Julian smiled a little, seemed a bit happier. It was a fleeting thing, gone almost as soon as it appeared. But for a second, he looked almost gentle.