Victoria The Billionaires Maid

You’re going to be a daddy. Those were the last words I ever expected to hear. As one of the fabled Hamilton twins, I enjoy my life just as it is. Why wouldn’t I? Check out my stats. Co-owner of Hamilton Realty, a multimillion-dollar business. Doting uncle to my niece, Laurie, and my soon-to-be nephew. All-around sexy, single guy who doesn’t do strings ever. Then I went to Vegas with my sister-in-law’s best friend, Sage. Choices were made. Alcoholic beverages were consumed. Virginities were taken. Hers, not mine. Then Sage announced I’d knocked her up. And oh yeah, she doesn’t expect me to take an active role, because she knows I can’t handle anything except my d*ck. Say what? She’s so wrong, and I’m going to prove it to her. I’m going to claim my baby and Sage. Sage’s [POV]

“Earth to Sage. Hello. Anyone home?”

My best friend Ally’s voice only vaguely registered behind me. I just needed one more minute. This was a very important task that couldn’t be put off a second longer.

In the Facebook search bar, I typed Moose Masterson. Hmm. Moose wasn’t his real name. What the heck was it? Chewing on my thumbnail, I dug through my memory banks from high school and grinned. Murphy Masterson. Bam! My thumbs blurred over the tiny keys and triumphantly, I waited as Facebook searched for the man who had to be my one true love. Or my one good hookup, which would suffice until I found a candidate for the love stuff.

My results were a big fat goose egg.

Undeterred, I spun to ask Ally if she remembered Murphy’s middle name when my best friend skidded to a halt behind me, far closer than I’d expected. She was carrying a partially full coffeepot, and she flailed as we collided. I tried to steady her, but the coffeepot bobbled, and the next thing I knew, I had thankfully not entirely scalding liquid soaking the front of my newly cleaned restaurant uniform.

“Fudge!” I shouted, and approximately half of the restaurant’s patrons turned to look at us. That was only like three people since we were halfway between the lunch and dinner rush.

Ally was nearly nine months pregnant and as round as the big table in the back, but she’d managed to maintain both her footing and her composure. Unlike me. Of course, her new perfume wasn’t Eau de java.

I didn’t even like coffee. Well, unless it was as close to ice cream in a cup as possible.

She patted my ample chest with the napkins she was yanking out by the sheaf from the nearest table dispenser. I couldn’t even be embarrassed about extreme nipping right now. Holy crap, that had been hot.

“Are you okay? Are you okay?” Ally repeated, setting down the coffeepot and shuffling to the next table for more napkins. “Oh God, did you get burned? Thank the Lord you starch your apron to within an inch of its life. It’s probably liquid-proof.”

“Funny. Leave this. I’ll take care of it. Oh, and do you remember Moose Masterson’s middle name?”

She didn’t reply. Guess that wasn’t important right now.

My cobwebbed lady garden could wait until the rest of me had been dried off.

I shook my damp phone and set it on a nearby booth as I untied my soaked apron and peeled it away from my top. Raising my brows, I deliberately wrung out the apron onto the newly polished floors.

By me. Who would be washing them again, since Ally was not in the condition to be doing such tasks? God forbid she squeeze out a football-sized child if she bent over wrong.

This was what I got for looking for love on company time.

“I’ll clean this mess up as soon as I switch to my backup shirt.” Holding my soaked apron far out to my side, I walked between the tables toward the storage room, squeezing out my shirttails with my other hand as I went.

Why the heck not? I’d be cleaning up the floor again anyway.

I swiftly realized why not when Greta, the new day-shift manager, bellowed through the kitchen as I hurried through it toward the break room. “Why is that floor a blooming mess when we’re about to serve our dinner patrons?”

“It’s my fault.” Ally hurried into the kitchen, her hands full of wet napkins. “I spilled coffee on Sage. It wasn’t her fault.”

“Sage, who was very obviously breaking our electronic resource policy during work hours?” Greta gave me a hard stare.

“I’m sorry,” I began, hunching my shoulders.

Showed what I got for chasing wild hair into certain sex. There was no such thing as certain sex in my world. Wasn’t that why I had endured almost half a dozen near-V-destroying misses?

“Get cleaning that mess up. Mitch will be in soon, and we don’t want him to see this place looking like a wreck.”

“On it,” Ally said. “I’ll take care of it before I leave.”

“I don’t think so.” I flew forward to grab her arm, though I’d already started unbuttoning my shirt. But hey, modesty wasn’t important compared to protecting my preggo bestie.

“Like Hades. You go sit down and rest those swollen ankles. Or go back to filling the ketchup dispensers like you were earlier.”

“But”

“No ifs, and, or buts. You’re going out on maternity leave this week. I’ll be darned if you do anything to cause my nephew to pop out early.”

Okay, so the child wasn’t technically a relation of mine, but close enough. I intended to spoil him as if he were family just the same.

Ally rubbed her lower back. “My kid isn’t that touchy, and neither am I. Besides, it was my fault. The balance is all off right now. I’ll take care of it.”

Evidently, Greta was not moved by our touching display of bestie concern. “I don’t care which of you ladies gets out there and cleans up that coffee, but one of you better get your behinds moving right now or else.”

I was about to tell Greta what exactly she could do to my behind as in kiss it when the sharp click of expensive shoes made me turn around.

And came face to chest with Oliver Hamilton.

He towered above my five-two by about a foot. Or three. Even though he was an identical twin, there was no doubting which Hamilton I was eye-to-pec with right now. Seth never wore full suits, instead often pairing dark jeans with a jacket and shirt, sans tie. Oliver seemed to wear nothing else. I’d only seen him in jeans twice, and once was when he was helping Seth with some work around the house. The jeans had looked fresh off the rack. Just as today’s suit looked custom and exquisitely cut to fit his chiseled frame.

He had no business being back here. It was bad enough that Seth showed up in the diner’s kitchen all the time, but now Oliver? But Oliver went where he pleased and was rarely told no.

“Hello, I don’t think we’ve met,” he said in his smooth, deceptively calm voice. His eyes, however, blazed like charred embers from a fire. So dark they could’ve been black, especially when he looked pissed.

Like right now.

I blinked. “You forget to take your meds again, Hamilton? What are you doing back here? Employees only.”

But he wasn’t speaking to me. No, his attention was squarely fixated on Greta, who seemed caught between squirming and fluttering at being under the relentless scrutiny of such a dominating man.

Either that, or Greta’s tighty-whities were a size too small. Which would explain a lot.

“Oh, I know we haven’t.” Greta was instantly all aglow, a bright smile wreathing her normally stern face. She pushed past me and held out a hand to Oliver. “My name is Greta Conrad. I’m new in town. Just moved here last week. Old friend of Mitch’s. He owns The Rusty Spoon,” she added proudly, as if Oliver would be impressed by her important friends.

I hid a smirk behind my hand. Not so much.

Oliver just stared at her hand without taking it. “Lovely. Let me tell you who I am. My name is Oliver Hamilton, and Alison is my sister-in-law.” He jutted his chin at Ally, who was turning the shade of the tomatoes lined up neatly on the kitchen island. “So, I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from making physical demands on a woman who is nine months pregnant. Or else I’ll be forced to contact my lawyer, and no one wants that, do we?”

“Oliver,” Ally said weakly. “I’m fine, and I only have two days left-”Content held by NôvelDrama.Org.

“Do we have an understanding?” Oliver interjected, staring hard at Greta.

Greta’s smile was long gone. She nodded quickly, then pinned me with a look. “What about this one? Is she your sister-in-law too, or can she actually work to clean up the mess she caused?”

I bristled. Oliver hated me. Lord only knew what he’d say. Probably tell Greta I could clean the floors and the toilets too, for good measure.

“She’s on a break right now.” His gaze dropped below my face and lingered. “She must be, since she isn’t even fully dressed.”

I let out a startled squeak and grasped my half-open shirt tighter to my now heaving bosom and raced into the back hallway. I beelined for my locker in the break room, moving as fast as my sensible soles would carry me.

Thank heavens the break room was empty. See, the universe could be benevolent now and then.

Talking to Greta and Ally with my shirt half open over my granny bra hello, DDs require more support than your average demi cup was one thing. The line cooks had been on a smoke break out back, and I’d been flustered enough not to give them a second thought. Jean, one of the other waitresses, had probably come in and gone out without my notice, but she probably wore granny bras too.

Oliver, however, was a very different story.

Rule number one of having a mortal enemy never let them see you sweat…or walking around in your underwear, especially if it wasn’t remotely sexy.

I spun the combination on my locker. Okay, so he wasn’t my mortal enemy. We didn’t have any grievous reasons not to like each other, except that he slept with any female who moved, and I couldn’t get any action unless I paid for it. Not that I should hold that against him, but I did because he was a humorless boob who took himself far too seriously.

And who had just swept in and defended his sister-in-law and me, sort of like a knight in Hugo Boss.

I tossed my wet apron into the bottom of my locker and whipped off my shirt, dropping it in the same pile. I’d tidy up later. The important thing now was to grab my highly revealing tank top great job in choosing a spare shirt, past Sage and apron. Well, after I used some of the tissues I kept for emergencies to blot my considerable cleavage. At least the coffee hadn’t done much more than slightly irritate my skin. The pinkness was already beginning to fade.

Small favors, because an ER trip for burned boobs was the last way I wanted to spend the afternoon.

I peered into my bra and peeled the cotton away. Ick, some of the coffee had soaked through. I didn’t have a spare bra with me. My locker was only so big. At this rate, I’d need to store an entire new outfit in there.

Handily, my loft was close by. I could sneak out and run over to my place, then take a quick shower and scrub my cheeks until I stopped blushing like a…well, a virgin.

I tugged out my tank top and spare apron, slipped them over my head, grabbed my lanyard with my apartment keys, and slammed my locker door shut.

And turned to find Oliver standing in the doorway, arms folded over his distractible chest.

“Jesus Christ! You’re like a goddamn cat, always sneaking around.”