Page 32 of One Night with Cinderella

They knew going into it that the fire would fade and their dalliances would end without either taking offense. It was the perfect way to have Gabe Cress without having Gabe Cress. It was their sexy and salacious little secret.

She could only imagine the reaction of his family if they knew—especially his mother. She’d spent five years in their home and had come to know them well. Nicolette Cress was firmly against the mingling of family and staff. Monica doubted her sudden wealth or famous father would change the fact that she would always be Monica the Maid in the woman’s eyes. Mrs. Cress would never want to equate a former servant to herself. For any reason.

Just hope she doesn’t find out about Chef Jillian, she thought with a hint of spite as she remembered the sexy note she’d stumbled upon in the kitchen.

That made her chuckle.

“All done, Ms. Darby.”

Monica turned and eyed one of the building’s housekeepers, standing in the living room with her hands locked in front of her in the usual gray uniform dress and comfortable shoes the cleaning staff wore. “Thank you, Olive,” she said after reading her name tag.

“You’re welcome,” she said with a polite nod.

Monica was surprised when the middle-aged woman stopped on her way to the front door and turned.

“Yes?” she asked, feeling more like Nicolette Cress than herself.

It didn’t sit well with her.

“I just noticed we never have to actually clean for you. It’s always spotless,” Olive said, glancing down at her shoes.

Monica knew the show of deference well. Again, she felt ill at ease at her switch in status. “I’m so used to doing it for others, that’s all,” she said.

“Yes, but if our supervisors were to know, they would assume the housekeeping staff is not doing a good enough job for you,” she explained.

Right.

Monica gave her a soft smile. “I understand and I will try to do less,” she said, knowing firsthand the security provided by having a job.

Olive said nothing else and continued out the door, quietly closing it behind herself.

Monica gave Phoebe a small smile at the long look her aunt gave her with all-too-knowing eyes.

“Give it time,” she said.

“I’m bored out of my mind. There is only so much shopping and spa treatments I can do. I want—need—more,” she said. “I’ve always worked. Always. I’ve never had a choice but to work. Even when I traveled with James, I worked alongside him or took odd jobs as a waitress or cashier to eat up some time before we were on the move to the next location.”

“James?” Phoebe asked.

“Ex. Long story.”

“I have plenty of those long stories in my seventy years.”

“I don’t have but the one, and I plan for it to be the only one,” she said.

Phoebe chuckled. “Life is too long to believe you will only fall in love once,” she advised with a twinkle in her eyes.

“My focus is on starting a business or nonprofit,” she asserted. “Not love.”

“Doing what, now?”

“I remember the fear and loneliness I felt at aging out of the foster care system and receiving no real financial assistance from the state to start my adult life,” she began. “I’m considering asking my attorney, Choice Kingsley, to help me start a nonprofit to help foster care children in the same predicament.”

Phoebe’s eyes were sympathetic as she eyed her niece. “That sounds like something worth investing some time, and with the rest, you give yourself room to adjust to your new life.”

“You’d think after growing up in foster care and learning to adjust to different environments that I’d already know that,” Monica said, coming back across the sunlit living room to reclaim her seat on the sofa across from the other woman.

Phoebe’s eyes were sad, although she gave her a soft smile. “I would have raised you and loved you if I’d known, but I didn’t. I swear I didn’t,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

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