She stared at him.
“What kind of position?”
“My personal household assistant.”
Catherine looked behind herself as though another woman might be standing there.
Then she looked at Riley.
Then back at Ethan.
“Is that a wealthy-person way of saying security is coming?”
“No.”
Ethan nodded toward the dresser.
“You passed.”
Her forehead wrinkled.
“Passed what?”
Five minutes later, Catherine stood in the upstairs hallway with both hands on her hips.
“You left four hundred thousand dollars in your bedroom to see whether I would take it?”
“Yes.”
“You did this on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve tested other employees?”
Ethan hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
He said nothing.
Catherine narrowed her eyes.
“How many?”
“Forty-seven.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Forty-seven people?”
“Different tests.”
“And people took things?”
“Some did.”
Catherine stared at him for a long moment.
Then she said, “Have you considered that leaving a fortune around as bait might also be slightly unusual behavior?”
Ethan folded his arms.
“The test works.”
“So does cheese in a mousetrap.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“But most people don’t use a sports car as the cheese.”
There it was again.
That almost-smile.
Catherine noticed it.
For reasons she did not understand, it made her more nervous than the money.
Three days later, she officially became Ethan Caldwell’s household assistant.
Her salary increased dramatically.
Her benefits improved.
And for the first time in years, Catherine could help Megan with school expenses without standing in grocery aisles calculating what she needed to remove from the cart.
The work itself was manageable.
She coordinated maintenance.
Scheduled deliveries.
Tracked household appointments.
Managed vendors.
Organized paperwork.
And made sure Ethan’s large, strangely quiet home continued functioning.
Her greatest enemy was the espresso machine.
Catherine distrusted it immediately.
It had too many buttons.
Too many lights.
And the confidence of an appliance that knew it cost more than her first car.
One evening, she approached it cautiously.
“Riley, we’re pressing one button.”
Riley remained supportive through silence.
“Exactly. Confidence.”
She pressed one.
The machine hummed.
A light flashed.
“See?”
Then another light flashed.
The machine hissed.
Catherine stepped backward.
“Why are you angry?”
Steam burst upward.
Coffee began pouring where Catherine had not expected it.
Milk foam followed.
Within seconds, the counter looked like a café experiment gone wrong.
Catherine shrieked.
Ethan ran from his office.
He stopped in the kitchen doorway.
Catherine stood with foam on her sleeve, Riley held defensively in front of her.
“The machine attacked first.”
Ethan stared.
One second.
Two.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite little laugh.
Not the controlled sound Catherine had heard from him before.
He actually laughed.
He leaned against the counter and covered his mouth.
Catherine looked offended.
“You have no loyalty.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You do not sound sorry.”
“I’m not.”
She grabbed a towel.
“You are a terrible employer.”
“You flooded my shoes on your first day.”
“That was panic.”
“You blamed a rug.”
“The evidence was strong.”
Ethan took another towel and helped wipe down the counter.
Their hands nearly touched.
Both stopped.
Something quiet passed between them.
Catherine looked away first.
Then Ethan’s phone rang.
He checked the screen.
His expression changed instantly.
The warmth disappeared.
“Brooke,” he said.
Catherine pretended not to notice.
The next afternoon, Brooke Anderson arrived without an appointment.
She was thirty-two, polished, perfectly dressed, and completely comfortable walking into Ethan’s home.
“Ethan, darling.”
Catherine looked toward the office.
Ethan appeared in the doorway.
His shoulders tightened.
“What are you doing here?”
“Visiting.”
“I asked you not to.”
Brooke ignored the statement and touched his arm as though the past still gave her permission.
Then she finally looked at Catherine.
Not really at her.
Through her.
“Could you bring us sparkling water?”
Catherine felt something hot rise in her chest.
Before she answered, Ethan said, “Catherine is my assistant, Brooke. She doesn’t work for you.”
Brooke smiled.
“Assistant?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
Catherine answered.
“Since he promoted me from housekeeper.”
Brooke’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
“A housekeeper?”
Her voice remained pleasant.
That somehow made the judgment in it sharper.
Catherine smiled.
“Apparently honesty is considered a transferable skill.”
Ethan coughed into his hand.
