I creep back out of Mr. Grayson’s room and shut the door quietly. Then, I’m retracing my steps, climbing down, walking, traveling all the way back to the servant’s wing.
With any luck, I’ll be back in my cottage before the clock strikes midnight and when I come to work tomorrow, Mr. Grayson will be reduced to a monkey who scratches his own balls.
You’re awesome, Cleo. You’re fucking awesome.
I grin.
Just as I’m about to step on the stairs that will take me up to the service entrance, I hear a rustle behind me and my name is whisper-shouted.
“Cleo!”
I gasp and my fingers fumble on the wooden bannister.
“Cleo.”
I scrunch my eyes closed and bow my head. Sighing, I face the caller. It’s Maggie, the head cook.
She has her arms akimbo and her lips pursed as she watches me with accusing eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
She looks me up and down, probably noticing my stealth mode and somehow, her gaze falls on the pockets of my hoodie. “What do you have in there?"
I pat them and realize there’s a bulge where I stuck the itch powder and the key in. “Nothing,” I repeat.
Even I don’t believe myself, and I’m an excellent liar.
“Give it here.”
Time to up my game.
“Maggie, there’s nothing in my pockets, okay? I came in because I thought I left my phone in the staff room. But I didn’t. So yeah. Nothing in my pockets. Not up to any mischief or anything.”
I spread my palms in mock surrender as I finish my nonchalant speech.
Maggie watches me for a beat. Her stare is making me nervous, or rather more nervous than I already was.
“I watched you grow up, you know. I know when you’re lying, Cleopatra Paige.”
“I’m not –”
“Come on. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
With that, she turns to her right and walks into the hallway that breaks off right before the stairs where I’m standing.
Damn it.
Not exactly what I had in mind when I broke into the mansion tonight. Whipping off my hood so my long, wavy hair can breathe, I follow her.
The kitchen at The Pleiades can probably fit the cottage that I live in three times over. It’s a large circular room with industrial lights and steel countertops. It’s more or less like the kitchen of a very posh restaurant, complete with a walk-in freezer and high-end grills and whatnot.
Maggie gestures at me to take a seat in a nook with a little dining table by the window, overlooking the night.
She’s in her robe, meaning she was on call tonight, and I know that she’s a light sleeper. Just my luck.
I watch her as she scurries back and forth, collecting dishes and forks, and getting the blueberry pie out of the little fridge off to the side.
Maggie is super cute. Short and plump with a mop of curly honey blonde hair, peppered with gray.
She cuts us each a piece and sets one of the dishes in front of me before taking a seat.
“Eat,” she tells me, her motherly face stern.
I shoot her a small smile. She knows how much I love blueberry pie – actually, I love all sweet things – and she always makes sure to save a few pieces for me.
Sliding the dish close to me, I dig in. “Thanks.”
She grunts and my smile gets bigger.
Maggie points a finger at me. “Don’t. Don’t you smile at me. You’re not off the hook yet.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling and mouth sorry.
She cuts a piece of her own pie. “Now, is this about that guest, Mr. Grayson?”
I gulp the bite I had in my mouth and Maggie raises her eyebrows.
Clearing my throat, I whisper, “Maybe.”
“I told you to stay out of that.”
“Stay out of it?” I ask in disbelief. “Do you even know me? I can’t stay out of it. I won’t stay out of it. He groped Grace. Groped her. He practically groped me.” I gesture to my boobs. “And you don’t grope these without consequences.”
Grace is one of the girls on the cleaning staff. She’s shy and doesn’t like confrontation. So when I caught her crying in the staff room, I forced her to spill her story. Apparently, Mr. Grayson has been harassing her, making lewd comments and patting her butt whenever she walks by.
Motherfucking asshole.
A couple days ago when I felt a brush across my chest while I served him breakfast in bed, I thought I’d imagined it. But Grace’s story had me re-evaluating things.
So I acted. Someone had to.
Maggie studies me shrewdly