Valentine Vote

  “Yes, sir, I do. In fact, I love to iron.” Phew, a task. Nothing like a task to tamp down the hormones.

  “Great, there are a few shirts hanging above the dryer in the laundry room. The board’s in a narrow closet and the iron is in the cabinet above the sink. And please don’t call me sir.”

  I nod. This guy is organized. It’s a great combination, gorgeous and organized. “So, if you’ll just show me where I can change?”

  His friend (still don’t know his name, but the one who’s doing this for his sister’s fiancé?) rubs his hands together. “Oh, boy.”

  “It’s not necessary for you to change,” Jake says. “Just do the tasks. I’m sure you’ll earn whatever Sam has paid you.”

  Now I know his name, Sam … rhymes with Spam.

  “No way,” says Sam. “This may be a gift for you, but I paid for it. I’m going to enjoy it, even if I don’t get the ladder view.”

  Men can be so adolescent. I blink a few times to keep from rolling my eyes. That would be unprofessional. “Part of the contract is that you get a photo of me in my get-up. The boss doesn’t like it when we don’t come back with a photo. He says his photo album is a great marketing tool.” Oh, geez, it sounds like I’m describing a pimp.

  “He sounds obnoxious,” Jake says.

  “Heavens, no, he’s not. Rex is a sweetheart.” Now it sounds like he’s my boyfriend. I’m batting zero. I need a moment alone. “I’ll just slip into the bathroom and change. Since Sam’s lobbied for the bikini … ” It’s just as well since I paid thirty dollars for a wax yesterday. I ease past Jake and head for the bathroom. When I close the door, the mirrors are still fogged and the scent of sandalwood wafts from the shower. I close my eyes and breathe in the spicy scent, imagining Jake’s hands all over my body, soaping from my quadriceps up. My hands creep to my breasts. I pretend my hands are his … and pinch my nipples. Oh, geez, I could go a long way with this. What if Jake were to slip into the bathroom right about now? He’d wrap an arm around my waist and ease me forward over the vanity. His thick rod would press against my back. He’d sort of roll it around my butt, and that’s when I’d take the not so subtle hint and bend deeper over the counter. He’d slip a hand between my legs and find my bud, which by this time would be throbbing. Oh, great Scot, the juices are starting to flow. Maybe I can just rub my legs together for a few minutes and …

  Earth to Amy! This is so not like me. I don’t believe in instant attraction, at least, not until now. I press my thumbs into my eye sockets, pressure points for a reality check. My brain fart must be due to lack of sleep and too many anatomical charts. I remind myself of the no fraternizing rule, which if I recall, is number nine in the Fantasy Maid Manual. Besides, this guy’s engaged. As I pull my t-shirt over my head and unzip my jeans, I think back to my previous job as a theme park hotel maid. No costumes, but the hours didn’t work with school and the money barely covered the cost of gas to get there. Yep, this job has made all the difference in paying for my education. I don’t know how else I could have realized my dream.

  By the time I’ve positioned the bottom triangle of my bikini and made sure the top provides as much coverage as a few inches of spandex allow, I fluff my bangs and salute my mirror image. I’m tingling all over. I’m usually a bit jittery at this point in the gig anyway. The unveiling (that would be me in costume) and the subsequent client reaction can be unnerving. But today I’m beyond nerves. I take a few cleansing breaths. As the manual emphasizes, “Be sexy and be strong.”

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