His Young Maid: A Forbidden Boss Age Gap Romance by Daisy Jane (best novels to read in english .txt) 📗

hugs and many promises to call and text and tweet and email, finally I have Britta to myself. She looks different now, under the fading sun, the toll of an emotional day settling under her eyes. Beautiful, but sad and perhaps a look I recognize, like defeat.

“What’s the matter?” I lift under her chin, lifting her face to mine, our bodies dangerously close for how impious I feel.

“It’s ugly. Can I be ugly?” sadness droops on her eyelids and I kiss her, gently.

“You could never be ugly,” I love how it’s the truth and with Britta, I don’t have to lie about anything because it’s all real, pure and simple.

“I’m jealous. I’m proud of her of course and I know it’s not about me but, well, I wish I was going off to culinary school.” Her shoulders droop with relief after she confesses, and I wrap my arms behind her and pull her into me.

“Let’s go into the city for an early dinner,” I say, dusting the top of her head with a few kisses, needing to make her happy but knowing a few things lay between us now and her happiness.

22

Brooks

She tells me about the culinary program Melody’s been accepted to while I drive us through the thick of the city traffic, eventually finding a parking garage with vacancy. She’s been so busy catching me up on Melody and the move that she doesn’t look around as I walk her through the dark garage, our hands woven together naturally. Fuck, I really had become a twenty-year-old around her. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Hey,” she looks up at the large, stories-tall mirrored building we’re standing in front of then looks at me again. “You’re right,” she says, smoothing her wild blonde hair back into the messy ponytail she’s wearing. “Thanks,” she nods, taking my hand again before steering us to the door. “I almost forgot, it’s payment day.”

The elevator carried us to the near-top of the building, where the consolidation firm hid. I hated places like this. Preying on and taking advantage of people in financial trouble. They took all their debt and lumped it together, in theory making payments simpler because then the person only had to worry about paying one bill. But the interest and the fee they charged? Astronomical and phenomenally hidden so most people—especially young women like Britta—hadn’t the slightest clue.

As we stepped out of the elevator, Britta froze and turned up to me, hesitant at first then looking embarrassed.

“I’ve been coming here alone for the last five months, I never thought I’d meet anyone who’d want to go with me to pay against my debt.”

She smiled, running her fingers down her white cardigan, which stopped right at the top of her little skirt, giving me a small look at the perfect skin that lie between there, smooth and teasing.

“Dating looks a lot different than it used to in your day huh?” she winked and bit her lip, playfully, teasing me about my age. I could take it. Because I knew she didn’t find me old. The stiff peaks under that sweater told me she found me attractive, too.

I followed her to a desk and the young man sitting behind it waved us over, shouting into a Bluetooth headset pinned to his face.

“Name,” he rolled his wrist at Britta obnoxiously.

“Moore,” she spat out, giving me a nervous look over her shoulder. This guy was impatient and rude and she was still polite, thinking she’d been too slow. My fists tightened by my side.

Using a single pointer finger, he taps a key on his keyboard and leans back in his chair, grabbing a sheet of paper from the printer.

“Sign,” he points to the bottom and pulls a pen from behind his ear. Immediately I reach for the pen from my coat pocket and slide it to her and she smiles warmly at me.

“Wait, why am I signing? Last month I put $2,500 down and I got a statement after but I never had to sign.”

She’s aware of what she’s doing with her money and it doesn’t surprise me. She’s responsible and sharp and I can see down her sweater as I stand behind her and I remind myself it isn’t the time to get a raging hard-on.

“Yeah, but you’re done now, sweetheart, so I need you to sign to close the account.” His finger taps against the balance due, where there is 0.00 typed in black ink. She blinks at it and looks back at the man, who is already moving on from us quite quickly.

“Listen, sweetheart, sign the paper, okay? I got more debt to collect,” he tosses his head forward in the direction of the elevator doors and when we look back, a pool of people has collected, arms crossed, mouths downturned.

“I don’t understand,” she says, now holding the paper as if she’s misread it.

“Sign it, and I’ll explain,” I tell her and the look on her face in that moment sent a rush of heat through my entire body. I’d live my whole life again just for that one moment.

Once we get back into the elevator, she turns to me, tears in her eyes.

“How?” she asks, tears breaking free, swimming through her lashes down her round, soft cheeks.

“I hope you don’t have a problem with me finding out where your debt was,” I say, sincerely hoping it doesn’t come off as creepy. Finding out someone’s bank information at twenty could be quirky-stalker but at forty-eight? It could be very One Hour Photo.

“Why? You know I don’t expect it or need it,” she loosens her hold on my hands as the elevator settles on the ground floor, releasing us back to the parking garage.

I pull her aside, hold her small hands in mine, smoothing her palms with my thumbs. “I know you don’t expect it. But I want you to know that the debt is paid, it’s done, it’s behind you. No matter what happens between you