The Ugly Girlfriend (The Lonely Heart Series) Read online

  Good grief, she thought to herself. This place is a wreck.

  “And you say that you’ve been here a year?” she asked, taking out a notepad and pen.

  “Yes. When I first arrived here, I had a crazy work schedule that I just assumed would calm down at some point. Needless to say that it never did.”

  “So you want my team to go through all the boxes too?” She scribbled something on her pad.

  He looked at her hands. “No, some of those boxes are going to be picked up soon. My ex is coming to get them in the next couple of days.”

  LaToya looked back at him. He had a pained looked on his face. It must have been a touchy subject, but she had to find out what exactly he wanted.

  “I can have those boxes out in the garage by the time that you’re ready to start the process, if she fails to collect them. It’ll just be my things in here by the time that you start.”

  “Okay.” She put her foot on the first step of his wooden stairwell and looked back at him for approval.

  “Please, go on,” he urged.

  His eyes told her that he had a very uneventful life. Most single men had places that they didn’t want the cleaning service to invade. They would always walk her through each room, scanning it first for inappropriate objects like panties, dildos, porno. If they spotted something, they would immediately grab it up and stuff it away for later. Only later, she would get the contract and find it anyway. She had just about seen everything since she started her business. However, Mitch let her meander around alone. Yep, uneventful.

  As she made her way up the crowed staircase, she noticed that he kept averting his eyes to the front door.

  Holding on to the stairwell banister, she looked down curiously at him. Was he trying something?

  “Are you waiting for someone?” she finally asked.

  “Yes, but she won’t be here until 3:45,” he explained. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Alright.”

  LaToya went up the stairs and looked around at each of the disheveled rooms. The huge master bedroom was basically an office with a bed in it, piled high with papers and coffee cups, blueprints and binders. The guest bedroom down the hall had been turned into a home gym, and the last bedroom was locked. She twisted the doorknob and then let go. Maybe this was his private place. Every man had one. There was no telling what was inside. And she didn’t want to know.

  She looked at the bathrooms, the game room and the study and then came back downstairs. He was still standing in the same spot with his brown, leather boot propped up behind him on the wall.

  “Are there any other rooms?” She asked looking at his foot.

  He quickly removed it like an admonished child and looked at the small dirt mark it left on the satin-finished paint. “Yes, there are more down each hall,” he said, bending down to wipe the mark. Realizing it would need more care than a touch, he finally raised back up and guided her to the main hall. “The living room, dining room, uh, the kitchen are down this corridor. It’s a real monster in the kitchen, by the way. And the den and the media room are down the other corridor along with a guest bathroom and a few closets and what not.”

  She walked behind him, watching his every move. He seemed nervous, which was typical for new clients. No one ever really liked having someone in his or her home.

  After quickly looking through the other rooms with him, she finally made her way to his disheveled kitchen, where she sat down at the paper-covered table and pulled a contract from her backpack.

  He sat down across from her with a cup of coffee and put the white porcelain to his lips.

  “And this gets me services three times a week?” he asked, still looking down at the paper.

  “Yes.” Her voice was calm and soothing. She averted her eyes away from his mouth. “And you can decide on having a team to come in and clean it once and one person to keep it up on a regular basis, or you can pay to have a team of three to come in three times a week on a regular basis. The team is obviously more expensive but also quicker. It’s really dependent upon your own preferences.”

  “Oh, I don’t need all of that. The team can come once, and then the main person can come three times a week,” he laughed nervously. “I’m not rich.”

  I can’t tell, she thought to herself. “I understand,” she said, pulling out a shiny, silver pen. It was her lucky closing pen, responsible for countless contracts. She’d had it since she started her business.

  “Who will come in three times a week? And can I get a background check on them?” he asked.

  “More than likely it will be me. I’ll come in for about 2 hours, three times a week. Once we get the house under control, it will drop to an hour. But I have to be honest, Mr. O'Keeffe...”

  He looked up from the paper quickly. His emerald eyes sparkled. “Please, call me Mitch.”

  “Okay, Mitch. It’s going to take a lot of work to get your place up to par.”

  “I know.” He scratched his head. “It’s sort of embarrassing how horrid this place is.”

  Not as embarrassing as last night, she said inwardly. “I assure you that I’ve seen a lot worse. And yes, I will give you my information so that you can perform a background check.”

  “Well, if it’s you then...” He didn’t finish his sentence, but he did give her an approving smile, warm with true sincerity. Taking the pen, he signed the contract quickly and sighed. “Thank you for this, LaToya. I really appreciate your help. You don’t know how much I need some organization in my life.” He placed the pen down beside him and smoothed out the white paper.

  “Well, I appreciate your business. And that’s what my service is here for…to make your quality of life better,” she said, hearing the doorbell ring.

  “Speaking of quality of life,” he said with a low growl. Standing up from the table, he never took his eyes off her. “Would you please excuse me for a moment? I have to see my son out to my ex-wife, or she’ll think I’m procrastinating on purpose.” His voice was low.

  “Sure,” LaToya said, putting the pieces together. His ex. The locked door. His kid had been upstairs.

  Nodding at her, he stuffed his balled-fists into his pants pockets and strode out of the room in a slow mope.

  About fifteen minutes later, as LaToya sat curiously and patiently waiting, she heard a door slam loudly. The bang made her sit up in the chair. What the hell, she thought to herself. I hope I’m not getting into any mess.

  Shortly after, Mitch walked back into the kitchen with his head down. Instead of coming to sit at the table, he walked directly over to the kitchen island and planted his large hands on the cool ceramic tile beside a pile of blueprints and coffee mugs. Swallowing hard those words of disgust that sat at the tip of his tongue, his bulging Adam’s apple moved under the weight of his frustrated reflex.

  LaToya thought he looked as if he wanted to hit something. Clearing her throat, she motioned towards the contract. “Is this a bad time?” she finally asked. “I can always come back.”

  “No. No.” His voice was solemn. It was apparent that he was pained terribly. He tried to recover from an obvious argument. In a quick motion, he turned to her and folded his large arms in front of him. His bulky muscles tightened under the thin plaid shirt. “I took my son to the dentist earlier, and he asked me on the way back to the house why me and his mom were getting divorced. When I tried to explain, he got upset and locked himself in his room. I imagine that it must be really difficult for him to understand.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Nine,” he answered with a small grin. “And big for his age.”

  “Any siblings?”

  “No, we never got to that.” He forced a smile to lighten his mood or at least lighten his brooding features, but she could see his sadness. It was apparent as the wedding ring that he wore. Catching her glancing at his hand, he shifted in his stance. “Enough about me. I’m sure that you don’t want to hear my problems.” He walked back to her. The chair screeched agains
t the tile floor as he pulled it from under the table. “Let’s talk about how this cleaning service can help me begin to get my life back.”

  With a comforting nod, she passed him the service documents.

  Chapter Three

  LaToya looked at the scale and cursed. Four more pounds? Ridiculous! Stepping down, she slipped on her robe and moped into the kitchen. What should she fix for breakfast? She wanted scrambled eggs and bacon, butter-covered pancakes and coffee, but she settled for dry toast and a boiled egg. It was enough to make her gag. Losing weight was like trying to get laid, virtually impossible for her.

  Loading into her car after she was fully dressed, she pulled out of her garage and dropped the top to her Mini-Cooper. Ah, there are some joys to life, she thought. The dry wind blew through her curly, long braids, and the sun soaked into her skin, making her feel alive. Hidden behind black shades, she turned up Erica Badu on her radio and sang along in a horrible octave that made her laugh.

  At the stop light, she glanced over to the passenger seat and eyed the black bag. In it were her dreaded running shoes and workout clothes. It sat there every day, and nearly every day it went untouched. But today, she planned to use it as soon as she finished the O’Keefe house. There was something in the air, something that made her feel good, and she was going to channel that energy into a workout that would burn some calories and shrink her waist. But first, she was headed to the see the Irishman.

  Three weeks had passed, and the clean up was going quite well. Mitch didn’t lie when he said that he worked a lot. With his son always gone and his mind focused on some major project that had him locked inside his bedroom, the house was mostly empty.

  Normally, she would come in mid-day, turn on the television and watch soaps while she cleaned or listen to audio books on her I-phone. In fact, she was close to dropping him down to one hour three times a week, so that she could fit in another client to ease the workload on her other staff.

  When she arrived to the house, as usual the place was empty. Putting away the keys, she set down the cleaning baskets and turned off the alarm.

  “Mitch?” she called out. “Are you here?”

  There was no answer.

  Feeling extra giddy, she decided against watching soaps today. Instead, she slipped her buds into her ears and pushed play. She would settle for listening to her newest crime novel while she worked. At the moment, she was craving action and adventure. The Medlov Crime Family series would fit her need perfectly.

  Setting her watch to a timer of exactly 60 minutes, she picked the baskets back up and headed to the living room to start there and work her way through the house.

  Evidently, Mitch had been in the scotch again, because there was a lonely half-filled tumbler by a chair in the corner across from the fireplace next to a book about winning in the workplace. Picking up the glass, she thought about her scale and the black bag. If she walked from one part of the house to the kitchen every time that she found a dish, could that be considered exercise?

  Convinced that it could, she turned and headed to the kitchen. As the woman’s voice in her ears spoke of dead bodies on the floor of an office building found by a security officer, she walked through the corridor into the kitchen and headed straight to the sink. Placing the glass beside a pile of dirty dishes left since after her last visit, she stopped and wondered if Mitch ever cleaned for himself. It would be a complete miracle to come in and not find coffee cups everywhere. Too engulfed in her thoughts to see, she didn’t even notice there was someone in the room with her.

  Turning around, she screamed a loud yelp when she saw Mitch leaning over in the refrigerator. He appeared soaking wet with a towel wrapped firmly around his lower waist, revealing rippling muscles that tore out of his abdomen.

  Startled by her as well, he jumped up from his leaning position as his towel fell down to the tile floor, pooling around his ankles.

  It couldn’t have been in slower motion for LaToya. Her reaction to turn her head was stopped by her need to pull the ear buds from her ears. The woman’s voice was adding to her complete confusion.

  “Oh my, I’m so sorry,” she said, covering her eyes finally and looking away. She nodded her head profusely and batted her eyes.

  “I didn’t...know you were here.” He scrambled to the ground and quickly retrieved his white towel. With trembling fingers, he wrapped himself again as he walked. “So very sorry, Latoya!” His voice drifted off as he walked fast down the hall. She could hear his feet as they moved, patting against the tile.

  Leaning against the counter, she shook her head. The pump of her blood through her veins pounded in her ears. The replay in her mind made her buck her eyes. What in the hell was that? Who knew that Mitch had a package like that? Muscles everywhere. A penis the size of... a package of cookie dough. Wow, he was beautiful. She nodded her head again. And he was deaf. How could he not hear her screaming his name earlier?

  Getting herself together, she put away her I-phone and made a conscience note not to use her audio books ever again in this house. Then suddenly, she had a taste for cookies. She’d probably eat Nestle baked cookies for the rest of the week. Opening the refrigerator door, she looked inside.

  By the time that she got upstairs to clean, Mitch was fully dressed. He sat in his bedroom at the desk with a pencil clenched in his mouth and another one behind his ear. The lamp beside him illuminated his damp, brown curly locks of hair and the mole on his neck.

  She tapped her knuckles on the door and waved after she’d stared at him for a while. “Hey,” she said softly.

  “Hey.” He smiled shyly.

  “Sorry about that, Mitch. I’ll do a better job of making my presence known in the future.”

  “My mistake, really,” he said, turning around in his seat. He stood up and waved her inside. “Are you ready to clean in here?” He barely made eye contact.

  “I’ll come back. I know that you’re working.” She clung to the door entry.

  “Are you kidding? I need a break. I’ve been at this for like twelve hours already.” He extended his hands out, plated his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.

  LaToya tried to avert her eyes away from his pants. His perfect muscular frame was always hidden under micro-plaid, long sleeve shirts, curled up to the elbows and khakis pants that hid his long, bow legs. While she could always tell that he had a body, she didn’t know he had a body. She was impressed and depressed, having never had a man that looked like that before.

  “I made you a peace offering,” she said, pulling a plate of cookies that she’d just baked from behind her back.

  “Did you?” He walked over to her. The smell of soap and cologne filled her nose as he approached. He looked down at her and smiled only inches away from her. His green eyes warmed her heart. “I’m going to go and get another cup of coffee. Would you like one?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, taking her eyes off him. Who was she kidding?

  “Alright,” he said, taking a cookie from her plate. Tasting them, he brought attention to the perfect curl of his lips. “Umm,” he said in a deep, erotic growl. “These are delicious.”

  She smiled and gazed back up at him, unable to help herself. He looked better than the cookies. Her heart skipped a beat. At the moment, he looked better than anything that she could think of.

  “Thank you very much, LaToya.” His voice was low and soft.

  “You’re welcome. Just keep your clothes on, okay.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Remembering himself, he stepped past her. “Sure you don’t want some coffee?” He raised his brows.

  She shook her head.

  He looked down at the floor and smirked. “Well, I’d better leave you to it then.” Excusing himself, he left her alone in the room.

  As she went over to his nightstand to pick up his multitude of half-full coffee mugs, she noticed the divorce papers sitting under the light with a huge coffee ring on the front page.

  Not your business, she thou
ght to herself. Quickly, she turned to get back to work. Picking up a pile of clothes to take to the washroom, she wondered what type of woman would divorce a man like Mitch. He seemed nice and more importantly normal. His list of sexable qualities where numerous:

  1. She loved his accent. It was like butter.

  2. All words rolled off his tongue like a romantic French love song.

  3. He was responsible. Every once in a while, she’d accidentally look at the bills that he left thrown on the desk. Never once was there a past due notice. That was one of her pet peeves. If you could make the bill, you could pay it on time.