Page 17 of Flirting with my Billionaire Boss

“You put them in the freezer,” she says, looking exasperated with me.

I pull out the drawer of the freezer and put them in there. “I guess you’re going to tell me the chicken nuggets go in the freezer too.”

“Of course, they do.”

Martha gets a phone call, and she hobbles back toward her room to talk to what sounds like her mom in Mexico. She told me on the way back from the doctor that her mom lived there.

What a relief. Now I could cook dinner in peace without Martha correcting every single thing I did. Who cares if the fish sticks are in the fridge instead of the freezer? I’m about to cook them anyway. I look at the instructions on the back of the box. It looks like I’m going to need a pan of some sort to cook them in. Rummaging around in the massive kitchen, I find a pan that matches the picture. After dumping the fish sticks onto the pan, I arrange them like the picture and heat the oven to 400 degrees like the box says. This isn’t hard at all. What was I worried about?

While the fish sticks cook, I pull out the list of chores Martha gave me that she usually does on Thursdays. Cleaning the bathrooms? Gross. This wasn’t in my original job description. Hopefully, I can get through it without throwing up too many times. My stomach feels queasy just thinking about it. I go to the supply closet and jangle around in there, finally coming out with a caddy of cleaning supplies, a bucket, and a scrub brush with a long handle inside some sort of caddy. I hold them as far away from my body as possible. I don’t want any bathroom juices getting on me.

How many bathrooms are in this house, after all? Do I need to clean them all today? This could take me all night. I roll up my sleeves and get scrubbing. After about fifteen minutes of work, Martha pops her head into the bathroom to check on my progress.

“What are you doing?” she shrieks.

I jump, and the long-handled brush flies through the air, smacking her in the face. “Oh, sorry,” I say.

“You don’t clean the sink with that brush,” she says.

“Why not? It’s doing a great job.”

“That is the toilet brush. It’s only for the toilet. You don’t want disgusting toilet water in the sink.”

“Oh, I guess that is pretty gross.” Now I’ll have to clean the bathroom all over again. “What am I supposed to clean the sink with?” I ask.

“Use a bucket of water mixed with cleaner and a soft rag,” Martha explains.

“This bucket?” I say, holding one up.

“Yes. And the cleaner you have on the floor over there,” she says.

“Okay,” I say.

Martha sniffs the air. “What is burning?”

“Burning? I can’t smell anything but bathroom cleaner.”

“No. Something is burning in the kitchen.”

“Oh no. The fish sticks!” I go back to the sink to wash my hands because bathroom germs and kitchen chores don’t mix. That’s when the smoke alarm goes off, practically deafening me. I race back to the kitchen. Martha is already opening the oven. A billow of smoke puffs from the inside. That can’t be good.

“So much for dinner.”

“Didn’t you set a timer?” she asks.

“Yes. For fifteen minutes. It was supposed to go off.”

Martha puts her hands on her hips. “What timer?”

“The one over the stove.”

She hobbles over to it. “You forgot to turn it on. The time still says fifteen minutes here,” she says. “Do you even know how to cook?”

“How hard can it be? I followed all the instructions. I even spread the little fish sticks out like the picture.”

“What’s that smell?” Weston says, coming into the room.

“I burned your dinner.” I hang my head in shame.

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