Victoria The Billionaires Maid

Maggie’s [POV]

I was supposed to be afraid of this guy. That was what he wanted me to be anyway. Why else would he be looming over me as if he wanted to do me bodily harm?

But I wasn’t buying it. Let’s go over the evidence.

Wile E. Coyote sweats.

Enough concern to pluck me out of my car like a

wilted vegetable.

Back to the Wile E. Coyote sweats.

Also, possibly the kindest, softest, most intriguing brown eyes I’d ever seen. Surrounded by a frame of inky lashes. Such a heavy fringe that snow kept gathering on them until he grew impatient and blinked it away.

But that was neither here nor there.

“First of all, there are most likely no serial killers in Turnbull or the surrounding towns. That’s extremely improbable, given the size of the population.”

“So are your dumbass statistics, but I didn’t call you on them, did I?”

I wasn’t pouting at being called a dumbass. Lord knows I’d been called much worse. As the youngest of six, I’d gotten used to verbal abuse at a young age. I almost enjoyed it.

Just because I looked small and defenseless didn’t mean I was. I tended to sneak up on people like a bunny.

Aww, she’s so cute and fluffy-CHOMP.

“Then again, you’re not making any effort to assist a stranded traveler, so maybe you are planning to Ted Bundy me. Where’s your fake cast, huh?” I gave his arms in the sleeves of his surprisingly thin coat a glance before pretending to search the snowbanks around us. “Where’s your VW Bug with the passenger seat taken out?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Ted Bundy. One of the most famous serial killers of all time. Don’t you people respect the titans in your field?”

“What people is that, exactly?”

His bored tone was making me feel stupid. So much for going toe-to-toe with this giant behemoth. He didn’t find me amusing and he had no intention of helping to free my vehicle.

So time for plan B.

“I’ll just get my bread.” There was no helping my clipped tone as I stomped back toward the ditch. Not that I could even be sure he’d heard me. With the howling wind and the crunch of my boots on the snowy, uneven ground at the side of the road, maybe he hadn’t heard a word I’d spoken.

Then his big hands clamped around my upper arms and he hauled me back as if I’d been on the verge of falling into a fire pit. “Hold it. What bread?”

“Kindly unhand me.”

He made a low noise in his throat and without looking back at him, I knew he’d done that cocked brow thing again. Pretty hot. I couldn’t move one eyebrow independently of the other, so I tended to appreciate skills in others that I did not possess.

“You have no reason to try to get back in that car.”

“Yes, I do. I need my bread before it gets cold.” I sighed. “Well, any colder than it already is. My hot bag can only do so much.”

“Your hot bag? Woman, you make no sense.”

“Stop calling me woman, and it’s an insulated bag to seal in warmth. I used it to protect Mrs. Pringles’ bread. It’s her favorite, pumpkin chocolate chip.” I craned my neck to look up at him, intending to shove his big paws off me, but his head was tilted and his lips were parted, revealing just a hint of bright white teeth.

And those dark assessing eyes were searing right through every damn layer of my clothing.

“Kindly unhand me,” I repeated, not missing the slight chatter of my teeth. I wished I could blame the cold. It was so much worse than that.

I was by the side of the road with a disabled car and a possible Ted Bundy wannabe with soulful eyes, and I didn’t even really care that he was keeping me from my bread.

Mrs. Pringles’ bread. Same difference.

“You might injure yourself further if you attempt re-entry. Let the professionals handle it.”

“Further?” I frowned. “I’m not injured.”

Was I? Quickly, I took stock. Everything still worked. Arms, legs, mouth. Definitely mouth. Sure, my heart was beating a bit too fast and my thoughts were skidding out of control, but that was normal for me. My dad called me “fanciful,” which he partially blamed on my obsession with the macabre. My mama said I spent too much time with my head stuck in a book. My brothers-all three of them-called me some variation of Magpie, my childhood nickname that had stuck like a damn flytrap. Maeve and Regan, my perfect older sisters, just sighed at my supposed antics and went on with their lives.

So yeah, mental babbling was typical for me. And often, actual babbling, though the dude hulking over me was not inspiring to foam at the mouth as I usually might.

I didn’t know men like him. The guys I attracted were safe, nice boys. The kind who went to church on Sundays and pulled their elderly neighbor’s newspaper out of the bushes and always referred to my parents as “Sir and Ma’am.” They didn’t have edges. They didn’t skimp on their manners. They didn’t miss their morning shave.

As far as assisting someone with car trouble, they would’ve been sweet and helpful and fixed the problem before I could ask. Not brusque and dismissive and now rough as the brute hauled me around and set me a few feet away from my vehicle.

“Stay there.” He pointed at me. “I’m going to take care of your problem so you can get on your way.”

“About time. Do you have a truck hoist?”

He was already moving toward my car. He studied the door for a moment, then yanked on the handle. It opened for him with only the slightest effort.

Traitorous car.

Fumbling inside, he realized my window was the crank-up kind and shut it so the front seat didn’t fill with snow. “Guess the door wasn’t so stuck after all,” he shouted over the wind.

I rolled my eyes. Sure, if I had the strength of an ox, no problem. “I asked if you had a truck hoist?”

“A truck hoist?” he echoed, clearly not paying attention as he studied my car.

“Yes, to pull me out of the ditch.”

“No, I don’t have a truck hoist. What I do have should do the trick though.” He shut the door without grabbing my bread or any of my belongings, then climbed out of the ditch, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and hit a button. Smugly, I might add.

This man did not have an air of friendly cooperation, that was for sure. As for neighborly concerns? Nope. Nada.

After a minute, his smug expression flattened. His mouth thinned out and he gazed at his phone as if he’d misdialed. He hit a button again, waited, then yanked the phone from his ear. “What the fuck?”

I tried not to blanch. Of course, I’d heard swearing before. I was a college student, wasn’t I? But in my family home, we had a tip jar. Anyone who swore put in a five-dollar bill. Forget a one-dollar bill. My parents had wanted us to learn appropriate words swiftly, and parting with five dollars of our allowance had worked fast.

Pretty sure this dude didn’t have a jar. If he did, he’d probably smash it with one of his hammock fists.

“Is there a problem?”

“No. Not. The tow truck place isn’t answering. No big.”Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

“It’s New Year’s Eve.”

“You don’t say?”

I ignored his sarcasm and lifted my voice to speak over the growing wind. The darker it got, the more frigid it was growing outside. But I’d be damned if I shivered. If he could seem impervious to the weather, so could I. “If you’re not using a national company and instead supporting a local business, it’s not surprising. This is a holiday. Therefore, holiday hours.”

“Thank you, Miss Know-It-All, but I’m well aware of this particular company’s hours. It’s a family business.”

“Your family? Yet you don’t own a truck hoist?” I cocked my head. “Seems fishy.”

“I said family business, not my business.”

“Ah, like your dad? Or your brother?”

“Look, they aren’t answering, so we’ll have to just wait.” He glanced around at the gathering snow as if he planned for us to wait at the edge of the road.

If that was the case, I was going to try to get back into my car. As much as I loved Mrs. Pringle, I knew my stomach was on the verge of roaring. That bread was going to be mine. I’d skipped lunch, and boy oh boy, I knew better than to take shortcuts. They never paid off.

“Okay. Well, thanks.” Even if he couldn’t be polite, I could. “I appreciate your…” But I wasn’t a liar. “Conversation.”

I couldn’t be certain in the near darkness, but I was almost sure his lips twitched. “Conversation, is it?”

I shrugged.

“Come on,” he said, indicating with his chin for me to head up the short incline to a dark, forbidding, tiny house.

Immediately, my back went up. And my spidey senses started to tingle.

Or that might have been my extremities due to frostbite setting in.

“No, thank you. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll just stay here and call AAA.”

“You have AAA?”

“Of course I do.” I bit my lip, vividly picturing the expired notice on my desk at home. I’d paid that, right? It had been at the top of my To Do list, but with the holidays…

Okay, maybe not.

“You seem uncertain.”

“Not really.”