He took out a light beer and cracked it open.
He crossed the room back toward me, and I held my breath and pulled back as far as I could edge as he reached his feet under the desk to slip the golf shoes back on again.
Then he turned and left the room.
The door clicked shut, but I still waited several minutes to be sure the coast was clear before I emerged from under the desk.
I helped myself to a beer from the mini-fridge. Yes, Mr. Thorne, there actually is a mouse in your office. She’s been hiding under your desk and now she’s drinking your beer!
Grace had told me to help myself to the mini-fridge’s contents, along with my bagged lunch. I was allowed, but I still felt the thrill of doing something illicit, because I was sure she meant the soda, not the beer. The first sip of beer was incredible, and the second was even better.
My legs where shaking from all the excitement, and the leather sofa was calling for me to lie down and take a rest, but I still had to get the office tidied up.
I worked like a speed demon for an hour, then when Grace came to check on me, I zipped out to pick up the supplies at the nearby office supply place.
The enormous smile never left my face.
Part 3: The Gardener
It was my third day at the Thorne mansion, and I still didn’t know Mr. Thorne’s first name, nor what he looked like from the waist up. For the previous two days, Grace had whisked me through to my appointed task room and escorted me back out again, giving me no chance to wander around on my own, finding photos or clues.
I could have done some more digging online, but after a bath and dinner, I’d gone straight to sleep the night before, crashing out on the vintage teak sofa in the living room, which was quite unlike me. Mr. Thorne’s office had put me through my paces, in more ways than one!
As I parked my car along the side of the mansion, my ni**les got hard in anticipation. I peered under my blouse at my nips, peering up like ripe raspberries from within my push-up bra.
One more day, I told myself. One more room to organize, then I’d be getting paid. Under my modest tan skirt and loose-fitting blouse, I wore pink underwear, the same shade of pink as my most private regions. I’d love to show my pink to Mr. Thorne, I thought. If only I was allowed.
Why couldn’t he see me, anyway?
The best reason I could come up with was that Mr. Thorne had a girlfriend, and the staff had been instructed not to let any women near him. I knew how it was with powerful, rich men, and any sweet little piece of ass that got near them.
Governors were always having it off with housekeepers and interns. That the news about a governor having a love child would even be news was laughable. I was sure it happened constantly. And why wouldn’t it?
Say there’s some young woman who wants a little stability in her life. Maybe she makes the powerful man happy. Very happy. Powerful men are confident and smart, which makes them sexy, even if they don’t have a lush head full of hair. A hot, young, sexually available woman is exactly what a powerful man needs to make himself even more powerful in the board room. He can drive a hard bargain in the board room, then come home and drive an even harder bargain with his lover.
I could be Mr. Thorne’s lover, I thought as I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat. I could help him feel powerful.
Sure, I’d never seen his face, but I’d seen his muscular bu**ocks and his sweet, gorgeous, hard-working equipment. He could drive a hard bargain into me, all night long. I could make him very happy. It could even be a professional arrangement. I’m a professional organizer, and I could … organize his balls, for example, into my mouth.
I giggled at my little inside joke as I buzzed at the gate to be let into the side entrance.
Nobody answered the buzzer, and I was looking around for a step up, actually considering crawling over the fence—such was my attraction to the idea of Mr. Thorne—that when a man appeared on the other side of the gate, I shrieked with surprise.
He had tan skin and smoothly-shaved cheeks. He wore a hat to keep the morning sun out of his eyes … eyes that were a shade of brown-green that made my thighs weak and my knees buckle.
“I buzzed,” I said. (I know, I’m pretty quippy, right?)
“You have an appointment to see Mr. Thorne?” One eyebrow went up.
“To see Grace.”
He opened the gate. “That explains everything.”
“What do you mean?” I took a sidelong look at his body, which appeared lean and muscular under the simple white T-shirt and jeans. Gardeners could be really hot, and they smelled like earth. I wondered if this gardener was actually as attractive as he seemed, or if my mind had been altered by the idea of Mr. Thorne, and I was in some sort of permanent arousal state.
“Mr. Thorne talks to me about things,” the man said.
“Really?”
He leaned in, looked both ways, and whispered to me. “He said he smelled pu**y on his shirt. He took it out of the laundry and had me smell it. He told me to find the woman who’d been touching his shirt.”
I laughed to hide my discomfort. “Rich people are f**ked up.”
He laughed heartily. “I’ll say.” He pointed to the door. “Go on up to the house. Grace is in the kitchen, and the buzzer in there isn’t very loud.” He gestured to his ear. “Ol’ Grace’s hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
I stepped away, then turned back. For an instant, I imagined jumping up on the strong-looking gardener and wrapping my legs around his waist. He could kiss my neck and hike up my skirt while he unfastened those jeans, which had a lovely bulge in them.
“Yes, Miss?”
“Does Mr. Thorne have … a Mrs. Thorne? Or a girlfriend?”
The gardener chuckled. “You mean has he been tamed? The answer is no. He’s all yours if you want him.”
I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Why did I have to be so obvious? Mr. Thorne was way out of my league. He was a billionaire, for crying out loud, and I was a college dropout from a small town. Guys like him dated supermodels and actresses. The gardener was more my speed.
I surveyed the man’s package once more. Yes, the gardener was definitely my type. Oh, that mouth. Thick lips, the type you could suck on for days.
Before I embarrassed myself further, I thanked the gardener and ran up to the door.
Inside, I did find Grace in the kitchen, struggling to put stuffing into a turkey.
“Oh, good. You’re here,” she said.
“Why are you fisting that poor bird?”
Grace snapped at me, “Because she likes it that way. Mind your own damn business.”