here, because he felt a sudden need to clean somethingâhimself. Women like her got under his skin and not in a good way.
They used to, but what was the saying about repeating historyâs mistakes? Liam had zero intention of doing that.
âWell, no. I guess itâs not a problem.â She tapped one of those ridiculously priced nails on her surprisingly non-collagen-enhanced lips. âWonât you come in?â
âUh, yeah. Sure.â Mac would kill him if he said no. This had been his baby sisterâs first account. Thatâs why sheâd selected it for him, sheâd said; she knew he wouldnât lose it for her.
So he sucked up his innate prejudice against the Cassidys and Rachels of the world, and took the step up into the foyer beside her.
She was smaller than sheâd first appeared now that
they were on the same level.
Then he got a look around the place. No way would they ever be on the same level.
Rich
dripped from the chandelier with the pear-sized crystals. It wove through the gold-threaded rug, vined through the marble floor, and scented the air with the hint of millions.
Liam had money, but this . . . Even the froufrou little dog had a gilded cage. This was on the level of the Donald Trumps and Conrad Hiltons of the world.
And Mitchell Davenports. The Trump-in-training had turned a small construction business into a residential and commercial design and management firm in an enviable amount of time. But none of this was actually Cassidyâs of course. She lived off
Daddyâs
money.
Cassidy Davenport was more Bryanâs or their pro-ball player friend Jaredâs type than his these days. He was done with women who looked down their noses at men who couldnât give them what they wanted.
He glanced at Cassidyâs nose. Perfectly pert in that rhinoplastic way of the rich, but sheâd never get the chance to look down it at him. Heâd learned his lesson, and women like her, while not a dime a dozenâbecause they upped the ante to about a hundred thou a dozenâwere so far below women who knew how to make their own way in the world that all he felt for her kind was anger at such uselessness.
But he wasnât here to judge; he was here to clean. For four frickinâ weeks.
He should have folded that last hand. Taken his losses and lived with them. But Manleys didnât go down without a fight. It was how heâd made his own fortune, inconsequential though it was when compared to this place. The one he was supposed to be cleaning.
He gripped the vacuum wand and planted it in front of him. âWhere would you like me to start?â
âI guess the bedroomâs as good a place as any.â
Seriously? Did she really think heâd fall for that? Was she slumming today? Pissed off at the boyfriend or something? Wanting a little spice?
âSharon always started in the bedroom, then worked her way out. She said it kept what sheâd already cleaned from getting messed up again before she finished. Makes sense to me, but if youâve got another routine, Iâm okay with that. Whatever you want to do is fine.â
Sharon. The maid. The one he was here to replace.
Liam glanced at the bucket of cleaning supplies and vacuum cleaner as if heâd never seen them before.
Thatâs right. He was here to clean house; not
play
house.
Liam bit back a chuckle. As if sheâd be interested in him that way. Heâd forgotten he was in the green golf shirt and cotton pants that constituted a Manley Maid uniform. He didnât feel very manly in it, and with the vibe he
wasnât
getting from Cassidy Davenport, he probably didnât look it, either.
He should be glad. He could get through this nightmare without having to fight off a society babe who thought sheâd have some fun with
the help
. Been there, done that, ripped off the diamond-studded T-shirts. And wished he could have shredded them, but