Chapter Text
Coming Clean cover by Ourdramaqueen
Wednesday rang the doorbell of what looked like a recently renovated old Victorian house, its medium gray wooden siding livened up by white trim. The whole front was enveloped by a sizable porch, with a seating group to her left protected by a pull-down shade along the side and a curtain along the front, both in white. The whole property looked well maintained.
As she heard a man’s voice nearing the door from inside, she quickly ensured that the skirt of her ridiculous special request uniform was covering her adequately. Despite her opaque nude tights, she felt rather exposed. Why her boss had agreed—
The door swung open, revealing a man roughly around her age, but more than a head taller, his skin a slightly golden hue, and caramel curls framing his classically handsome face. A simple yet elegant maroon polo t-shirt hugged his toned upper body and well-defined biceps, its half zipper open almost all the way down, granting a tantalizing glimpse of his well-defined chest. She quickly redirected her eyes upwards before they could wander more.
The man—presumably her client, Mr. Galpin—blinked down at her, then shot her a quick, tense smile and stepped to the side even as he made affirmative noises into the phone pressed to his ear. He pointed towards it and mouthed “Sorry,” with a roll of his eyes. She nodded in acknowledgment and went past him through the small, dark blue painted vestibule into the entrance hall, alabaster walls with wood paneling taking at the bottom, which also made up the frame of the fireplace to the left and the grand staircase across from them. Two comfortable looking chairs stood before the large front facing window. She suspected the woodwork, as well as the gleaming hardwood floors which seemed to be running throughout the entire level, were an original feature. Straight ahead, at the back of the house, was the kitchen, which looked like a partial extension with skylights in the slightly slanted part of the ceiling leading to the outer wall. Large bifold patio doors overlooked the backyard.
Mr. Galpin waved her to the room immediately to their right, painted in a dark gray-green. The far side was taken up by a large rounded bay window, which Wednesday had seen reflected in the shape of the porch outside. Her client waved her towards the sofa sitting in the alcove and she sat primly at one end while he kept pacing, still on the phone, his bare feet—long and quite elegant, compared to other men’s—incongruous with his casual business attire of polo and black slacks. Across the room he paced, past the standup piano out to the hallway and back, to the dining room through the wide connecting doorway across from the front window. Clearly he was on a work call of some kind, based on the snippets Wednesday could hear as he answered tersely every now and then, getting more and more tense.
Finally he stopped just inside the doorway to the dining room, cutting through the other person’s ranting with eyes blazing. “No, you listen to me, Mr. Haversham. You don’t get to tell me to change my report just because you don’t like my conclusions. You knew that Lucas and I couldn’t be bought when you contracted us to evaluate the environmental impact of your new building, so don’t act surprised when we publish our actual findings, not what you would prefer us to write. Now like I told you already, I have an important appointment. If you have any actually valid complaints, feel free to call Lucas Walker. Have a good day.”
Wednesday’s eyebrows rose minutely, secretly impressed at this show of not only a spine, but some bite.
Mr. Galpin hung up aggressively, holding up his finger to Wednesday in a one moment gesture as he put his phone in his pants pocket, then closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the tension in his broad shoulders releasing along with this breath. Finally, he turned and walked toward the sofa with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that, Ms. Addams. I had the unexpected pleasure of a client’s phone call despite booking time off this morning.”
He sat and held out his hand to her. “Tyler Galpin, but you can call me Tyler.”
She hesitated a moment, then shook his hand. It was warm and firm and almost dwarfed hers.
“Wednesday,” she answered, unsure why she was feeling slightly warm herself.
“Um, I’m... honestly surprised you’re wearing the outfit,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling sheepishly as he briefly looked down at the French maid uniform she was wearing.
It wasn’t indecent—made of quality fabric, which meant the skirt was fairly voluminous due to its many folds, it went to just above her knees when she was standing. The neckline actually covered her breasts, unlike a lot of the costumes she often saw around Halloween or at some of the lower brow costume parties she had been forced to attend at other families’ houses. But it still played into the sexy maid cliché with its lack of length, her bare arms, and exposed chest. A traditional maid outfit would have covered her from neck to wrists and down to her ankles.
“My employer made it sound like it was a requirement for this particular job, not a request,” she stated, careful not to make it sound like an accusation. She had actually been sent to a tailor to get fitted, but she still didn’t know if it was her agency which paid for all that, or Tyler. Maybe she would ask him once she had gotten a better feel for him. But for now, she watched him closely for his reaction.
Tyler didn’t deny her assertion, but had the grace to look embarrassed, even as his eyes briefly dropped down to her exposed lower legs, then up to her face again. “Really, it was just an irrational impulse. You know, old house with servants’ stairs, and now me having a ‘house maid’... A silly cliché that somehow got stuck in the head of a small town boy who didn’t grow up with much.”
Tyler leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees and elbows resting on his thighs. “Listen, if you feel in any way uncomfortable wearing it, I won’t hold it against you if from now on, you show up in whatever you would usually wear for work. So just... wear whatever you feel comfortable with, okay?”
He didn’t fidget, just looked at her calmly, and she regarded him in turn, absently noting that he had hazel eyes—blue-green with golden-brown spots surrounding his pupils—and a smattering of moles on his face, neck, and chest. He seemed sincere enough.
“Thank you. I will,” she finally said.
He smiled, clearly relieved, and stood, Wednesday following. “Good. Now let me give you a brief tour and explain what I need you to do.”
The three rooms along this side of the house all flowed one into the other and into the rest of the house through wide doorways, and all had large bay windows. They went from the parlor into the dining room, in white with a white and gray wallpaper above the wood paneling, a rectangular wooden dining table seating eight in the middle, a wooden console cabinet, and a built-in, cushioned window seat. From there they went into the small living room, painted in a matte teal with billowing white ceiling-to-floor sheer curtains. A gas fireplace was built into the wall opposite the doorway and tan leather sofa, with a TV mounted above it concealed by a picture frame, and an armchair stood in the alcove. From there they turned left into the kitchen, which had a more modern look. She approved of the black cabinets, breakfast island, and appliances, though the countertops were all white.
Everything was mostly clean, certainly compared to the apartments and houses of many other bachelors she had cleaned for, just a bit dusty where he didn’t walk through or sit regularly, and cluttered with cups, mugs, empty plates and bowls, snack bags, and magazines.
As he showed her around and confirmed the tasks he’d requested, Tyler explained that he mostly worked from home. “As you were able to see, I like to move around during calls, but I’ll try to stay out of your way. My office is upstairs, and sometimes I’ll be holed up in there for most of the day, researching and writing reports.”
Wednesday nodded, about to ask him what his job was when she saw the red espresso machine on the counter. Her eyes widened. “La Marzocco? That’s a professional brand.”
Tyler gave her a surprised smile. “It’s the kitchen-sized version of their classic model. You’re a barista too?”
She shook her head. “Just an espresso aficionado who has been to many coffee shops, some of which use La Marzocco machines.”
“Ah. Well, I used to be a barista during high school and college, and I kind of got used to the good stuff, so the first expensive thing I saved up for when I got a job after finishing my Master’s was this.” He gestured to the machine and the grinder next to it. “I still don’t know what possessed me to choose the same color as the old Brasilia Excelsior we had at the Weathervane, though. I hated that thing.”
“Why?”
“Because it was a temperamental beast with a mind of its own, and it didn’t help that the instructions were in Italian.”
“You don’t read Italian?”
“Do you?”
“Of course. It’s the native tongue of Machiavelli.”
Tyler blinked, then chuckled, a challenging glint entering his changeable eyes. “Can you handle an espresso machine?”
“Of course.”
He eyed her shrewdly, the left corner of his mouth lifting into a tiny smirk. “How about this? If you can demonstrate that you won’t wreck my machine, you can help yourself to as many espresso drinks as you like whenever you are here. As well as tea, water, or any other non-alcoholic drink of your choice that I have here.”
Wednesday thrilled at the offer. She wasn’t able to regularly buy a properly good quad on her income. Being able to indulge twice a week might even be worth putting on this ridiculous costume, provided Tyler didn’t get handsy. “Challenge accepted.”
Once he’d shown her where the supplies were, Wednesday quickly went through the necessary steps: rinse the group head while grinding the beans into the portafilter, then tap it to distribute the grounds; tamp them just so and clean leftover grounds from the rim; insert the portafilter into the group on the espresso machine; push the brew button and quickly set two espresso cups under the nuzzles; wait until the machine stops pulling the shots; do it all closely followed by Tyler’s watchful gaze.
Soon, the mouth watering aroma of freshly brewed espresso wafted through the kitchen.
Tyler narrowed his eyes as she looked up at him with raised brows. “Are you sure you’ve never used an espresso machine before?”
“I never claimed I didn’t. You asked if I was a barista, which I truthfully said I wasn’t.” What she still didn’t tell him was that her parents owned one of the La Marzocco Classic models. That would have led to questions she’d rather not answer.
Tyler chuckled. “You got me there.” He reached for the cup nearer to him and lifted it to his face, taking a deep breath before blowing lightly across the surface of the dark liquid and taking a sip. “Near perfect,” he said, watching her as she took a sip of her own cup, “But then I knew that already.”
“Thank you.”
Once they had finished their espressos, they continued their tour. The only other room on this floor was a tiny half bath with a toilet and a miniature sink, tucked in between the servants’ stairs and the main staircase. Upstairs were the master suite taking up the front of the house, Tyler’s office, a guest room, and another full bathroom.
“The third floor is still unfinished and I’m currently using it for storage,” he explained as they walked down the main stairs, past a beautiful stained glass window on the half landing. “Same with the basement. So it’s just the first and second floors I need you to clean.”
“Understood. Today will be a deep clean of the common areas, kitchen, and bathrooms, and next Tuesday of the bedrooms and office upstairs, along with a general cleaning of the rest. Then regular maid service every Friday and Tuesday, as you requested.”
“Wonderful. Before I go back to work, do you need...?”
As if on cue, the ringing of Tyler’s phone cut him off mid-sentence. “Speak of the devil.” His sardonic smile turned into a smirk when he saw the caller ID. “Just give me a second,” he said to the caller, then cupped his hand over the microphone, looking at her with eyebrows raised in question.
“Go,” she waved him off, “do your job while I do mine.”
He nodded and turned towards the stairs, lifting his phone back to his ear. “Hello, Lucas. Oh, really? I have no idea why.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
Before she left out the front door to get her supplies from the car, Wednesday heard him chuckle. “Well, if he didn’t know you studied law before, he certainly does now...”
***
First she cleaned the inside of the dishwasher, then she collected all the scattered table- and flatware and filled it. It wasn’t technically part of the deep clean, but she couldn’t stand to leave that mess until the following Tuesday. Then she tackled the rest of the kitchen, including the insides of the combination fridge/freezer, microwave, and oven. The latter took the most scrubbing; clearly Tyler used it regularly.
Then she dusted and scrubbed all the baseboards, and wiped down the door frames, doors, window frames, door knobs, and light switches on the whole floor. Occasionally she could hear Tyler’s voice from upstairs, but he only made another appearance once she had moved on to cleaning the inside of all the windows. As before, he wandered around while talking on the phone, and though he did stay out of her way like he had promised, she could feel his eyes on her every now and then. Never for too long, never too overt, but while she had always had a sixth sense for being watched, she found herself aware of his attention in a way that was unfamiliar.
But she told herself firmly that she was here to do a job, and as long as he didn’t try anything, she didn’t care if he looked.
Finally, Tyler finished his phone call and leaned in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, where she was just finishing up cleaning the glass on the bifold patio doors.
“Wow, this looks so much better already. I’m going to take a break, if you’d like to join me? No obligation, obviously. I’m sure you want to get out of here as early as you can.”
She could feel his eyes on her legs as she climbed down the ladder while drying the last of the patio doors, but he was looking at her face by the time she stepped onto the floor and turned around. “I haven’t had a good quad over ice in a while,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching up as his eyes widened in surprise.
“A quad? Are you sure?”
“Oh, please. I used to drink one to help me sleep.”
Tyler snorted. “All right, it’s your stomach and nervous system.”
While she poured the dirty water down the toilet, Tyler made their drinks.
“Macchiato?” she asked as she lifted herself up on one of the stools at the breakfast bar.
Tyler nodded, and watched as she took a sip of her quad over ice. “Up to your standards?”
“It is adequate,” she quipped back, the corner of her mouth ticking up minutely.
Tyler grinned into his own cup, and for a while they sat in companionable silence.
“What is your job, if I may ask?” Wednesday finally said. “I hear you talking about data and maps and buildings and various types of outdoor environments.”
“Oh. I co-own an environmental consulting firm and do a lot of GIS/data analysis. That’s geographic information system—”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that,” Wednesday said. ‘You use it to visualize geographic data. It’s sometimes used in archeology too, or natural disaster documentation and prevention.”
“That’s right.” He sounded pleasantly surprised.
“Did you know that some of the first known instances of the use of spatial analysis came from the field of epidemiology? In 1832, French geographer Charles Piquet created a map to provide a visual representation for the number or reported deaths due to cholera per every 1,000 inhabitants of the forty-eight districts in Paris. And in 1854, John Snow, an epidemiologist and physician, was able to determine the source of a cholera outbreak in London by plotting the residence of each casualty as well as nearby water sources in the area, enabling him to identify the water source that was responsible for the outbreak.”
“I did know about London, but not Paris. How come you know that?”
Wednesday shrugged. “I just always had an interest in epidemiology and other subjects which are generally deemed ‘macabre’.”
Before they could talk more, Tyler’s phone pinged with a notification, and he had to get back to work. Wednesday deep cleaned the mini bathroom under the stairs, then the guest and master bathrooms upstairs, and lastly the baseboards, door frames and doors, and light switch plates in the second floor hallway as well as the staircases including banisters. When she was done, Wednesday stashed her supplies in the car, then returned upstairs to knock on Tyler’s office door.
“I’m done for today,” she said when he opened it. “If you would like to check on my work...”
Tyler, who had been leaning against the frame in a way that emphasized his toned upper body in a rather irritating way, waved her off. “You obviously know what you’re doing. If I notice anything, I’ll let you know next time.”
“All right. I’ll be leaving, then.”
“Oh—hang on,” Tyler said, rushing to his desk to pick something up. When he returned, he held out a key to her. “For the house. Sometimes I’m so immersed in my work that I don’t consciously hear the doorbell, so this way you won’t be stranded on the porch for half an hour.”
At Wednesday’s surprised look and hesitation to take it, Tyler leaned down and grinned. “I know where you work, if anything disappears from my house.” When Wednesday snorted, he added, “Besides, I have read your feedback.”
“And yet you let them send me?”
“It’s why I asked them to send you.”
Wednesday’s eyes widened.
Tyler simply kept holding out the key to her, looking at her calmly, until she finally took it, her fingers tingling where they brushed against his. “Thank you,” she said softly, “I will see you Tuesday.”
She whirled around in an effort to hide her flush from him, hurrying across the hallway and down the steps as he called after her, “I’m looking forward to it. Have a good weekend!”
***
Tyler finished working a little later than usual to make up for the time he’d lost that morning. Then he made dinner—a pork chop with a small baked potato and green bean salad—and after cleaning up, he sat down in front of the TV to catch up on the latest Star Trek series, which he was several episodes behind on.
He went through his usual bedtime routine and slid under the sheets, turning the light off, his phone resting in its charging station.
He couldn’t fall asleep.
The whole night—hell, the whole day—the image of Wednesday in her French Maid outfit had been hovering in the back of his mind, and now that he wasn’t doing anything anymore, it took center stage. God, it really was perfectly fitted to her slim curves, showing off her bare arms and chest—the fact that it wasn’t low cut somehow just made it all the more enticing—and her shapely legs. The way the above-knee skirt highlighted them, even clad in opaque tights, just made him curious to see the curve of her hips and the swell of her ass. It was enough to almost drive him insane.
Tyler groaned and rolled onto his front. What he’d told Wednesday was true: He had asked for her to be sent because of the reviews. From a simple “Very thorough, but felt compelled to point out how I could organize my apartment better,” over “Good, conscientious cleaner, but borderline offensive,” to “Gets the job done quickly and thoroughly, but don’t expect pleasant conversation.”—the list went on. But he had been looking for a maid, not someone to exchange pleasantries with, so it was only her ratings for cleaning and maid services which mattered to him, and hers were the highest among her colleagues. Tyler had no problem dealing with someone who was blunt. His years in customer service had taught him well.
But if he was entirely honest, it was Wednesday’s photo that had first captivated him, and the image of her wearing a French maid uniform had immediately sprung to his mind. Somehow it just suited her, and like he’d told her, it suited the house. He wasn’t even sure why he’d had such a strong reaction to her picture; she wasn’t the only good-looking cleaner/maid in this agency’s employ. Maybe it had been the fact that she was the only one not putting on a fake smile, just staring down the camera—and him, through the screen—with eyes that seemed dead, but if you looked carefully, held a fire deep inside. He’d seen little sparks of it today, and he wanted more, wanted to see it kindle, for it to come alive and warm him with its flames. He wouldn’t mind if he’d get burned a bit.
And he certainly was playing with fire. It wasn’t only her looks—the elegant line of her shoulder flowing into her neck, her twin braids which should look childish, but somehow made her look even sexier, her captivating dark eyes, and her plum-colored lips begging to be kissed...
Tyler moaned as his hips rolled into the mattress, stimulating his hard cock as images filled his mind: him bending Wednesday over the dining table and lifting up that billowy skirt so he could palm her shapely ass; rubbing her pussy over her panties until they were soaked, then sinking inside of her tight, wet opening and fucking her; her throaty voice begging him for more until she clenched tight around him...
He came hard into a tissue, the tension he’d been carrying since he’d opened the door to Wednesday finally dissipating. At least for now—she would be back every Tuesday and Friday, after all.
But she’d be wearing the regular, practical uniform that all the cleaners working for her agency wore, and so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and touch or to constantly look anymore. At least not as much as when she wore the French maid outfit.
As his heartbeat and breathing calmed down, he finally fell asleep.
***
When Wednesday let herself into Tyler’s house the following Tuesday, she found herself in an irritatingly good mood. She told herself it was just the prospect of an unlimited supply of espresso, but deep down she had to admit that she’d actually enjoyed his company and conversation, and was hoping she’d get to receive more of both today.
The first floor was quiet; he was probably in his office. She started tidying, collecting items she didn’t know where to put on the kitchen island so she could ask him for their correct places later, then went upstairs and knocked gently on the office door.
“Come in,” Tyler called, and she opened the door to find him at his wide desk in front of the dormer window in the mansard that projected out from the main room, typing furiously on his keyboard, gaze fixed on one of the two large monitors in front of him. “I’ll be right with you,” he murmured, typing some more, then reading and finally clicking on something with his computer mouse, before sliding his chair slightly over so he could look at her past his monitor.
“Hey, Wedne... sday...” He trailed off, blinking with his mouth still hanging open a bit as his eyes trailed down her form, then up again.
Wednesday had to keep herself from grinning when he finally looked her in the face, his eyes wide. ‘Hello, Tyler,” she said nonchalantly.
“You... you’re wearing...” he croaked, his face taking on a bit of color.
“The French maid outfit? Yes, I am.”
Tyler’s brows drew together in a confused frown. “Why? I meant it when I told you...”
“I know. But I actually found it quite comfortable, and it is much more my color palette than the usual uniform.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory of the scrub-like outfit of ocean blue pants and pastel blue vests with the agency’s logo on the chest which all cleaners usually wore. “Besides, you’re right.” She swept her hand down the front of the skirt, “It does fit the house.” She tilted her head. “So as long as you’d like me to wear it, I will.”
Tyler blinked several times in rapid succession, clearly trying to find words. “I—if you really don’t mind—”
“I don’t.” She narrowed her eyes. “You would have no doubt if I did. Remember my reviews.”
Tyler chuckled, looking down at his keyboard for a moment before smiling warmly at her. “Good, then. But if you ever want to wear something else, just do it.”
“Agreed.” She clasped her hands in front of her and said, “But I came here to ask whether you would like me to start deep cleaning the bedrooms and office now or later.”
“Ah, of course. If you could start in one of the other rooms, I can finish up my task here and I’ll let you know when I go downstairs to make some calls.”
“Very well. I’ll start in the guest room, then.”
She got on with her work in the guest room, her body doing everything by rote while her mind was crowing with glee as her suspicions had been confirmed.
He asked for me specifically, and he asked that I wear this outfit, and it wasn’t just because of an impulse or a silly cliché that got stuck in his head when he was young.
His pupils had dilated as soon as he’d seen her. Granted, it could have been because he had looked up from the bright computer screen, but the room was well lit. Combined with his flush and his stammering, she could only conclude that he had a thing for French maid outfits. The thought should have been disturbing, but for some reason, it wasn’t. It thrilled her.
How fascinating.
She’d bide her time and figure this out.
***
They took a coffee break together again, and Wednesday asked Tyler how long he and his friend had co-owned their environmental consultancy.
“Oh, about two years now. We both worked for other companies at first, after we got our Master’s degrees.”
“And that was when the Hembach & Co. scandal broke?” At Tyler’s surprised look, she shrugged. “I might have looked you up after last Friday. What made you go whistleblower?”
Tyler frowned. “Hembach’s C-suite lauded my work and recommendations on how to minimize the impact of their new factory complex on the wetlands near their proposed construction site. But then I found out they were planning to just quietly not implement most of them, which would have endangered the wetlands and snowballed into a much bigger impact on the immediate surrounding area, probably farther, especially downriver. I went to my bosses, and they just shrugged it off. This happened a lot, they said. Basically they didn’t care, as long as they got paid. The federal and state EPA and were no use either, they were too understaffed to enforce their own rules. So I consulted with my old friend Lucas, who had a Master’s in Environmental Law, and then went to the press. And thanks to us finding the right reporter, it kind of blew up from there. Cost me my job, but then I didn’t want to stay with people who had no integrity, anyway.” He took the last sip of his macchiato and set the cup down in its saucer. “And then Lucas proposed that we open our own company, and here we are, two years later.”
Wednesday mulled this over. Hembach & Co. had actually gotten their building permit revoked and got dragged to court, and ended up paying a hefty fine, too. The plans for the factory complex got scrapped completely, and the case set a legal precedent. Finally, she asked, “What inspired this zeal to protect the environment?”
“It’s silly, really,” Tyler said with an embarrassed smile, “But when Lucas and I were in high school, our biology teacher showed us Sir David Attenborough’s documentary Breaking Boundaries. Have you seen it?
She shook her head.
“You should. It lays out how humans are pushing Earth beyond the boundaries that have kept the planet stable for 10,000 years, based on a set of nine planetary boundaries as identified by a group of 28 internationally renowned scientists, within which humanity can continue to develop and thrive for generations. They include climate change, ocean acidification, land-system change, and biosphere integrity. Hell, every single person on this planet should watch it. Though that may cause a panic; but really, it should. Maybe we all need to panic so shit finally gets done, instead of politicians talking big at their annual COP Panels, and then doing very little to reach even their watered-down environmental goals.”
He looked at her and grimaced. “Sorry for the rant. The reluctance of governments and companies to take the few necessary big steps that would have the biggest positive climate impact is a bit of a sore point.”
Wednesday scoffed. “Don’t be sorry for being passionate about a cause that is essential for the future of humanity.”
A notification pinged on Tyler’s phone, again signaling the end of their coffee break, and they both got back to their respective jobs.
Tyler was in his office for a while, but it wasn’t long until she heard him come down the stairs again, his bare feet slapping softly on the hardwood with every step. She was very aware of his eyes on her as she was wiping down the kitchen counters, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she realized, fighting down a blush, she kind of liked it.
Another piece of the puzzle.
***
They settled into a comfortable routine over the coming weeks. The regular cleanings took up much less time than the deep cleanings, especially since Wednesday was there twice a week, but it was a whole house and there was always plenty for her to tidy up. It wasn’t that Tyler made a complete mess—in fact he was fairly tidy overall—so much as he wandered off when a call came in, and then forgot that he had left a half-empty coffee cup or a small bowl of nuts or snack-sized bag of chips or whatever magazine he had been reading laying around. At least he didn’t leave any dirty laundry strewn about, and he washed it himself, too.
“You know I don’t need to come by twice a week; I could easily do all this in one weekly visit and save you some money,” Wednesday pointed out to Tyler one day during their habitual coffee break.
Tyler looked down into his cup, a wry smile on his lips. “You’re probably right.“ He chuckled self-consciously, “This will sound pathetic, but while I like working from home, it... it does get lonely sometimes. It’s comforting, knowing that you are here, even if we only talk for a few minutes every time.”
Wednesday studied him, the sadness and yes, loneliness that hung over him despite the gentle, self-deprecating smile he gave her.
“No,” she said softly, “That’s not pathetic, that’s human.” Knowing that he enjoyed their little conversations as much as she did made warmth spread inside of her, but before that feeling could claw its way out, she cleared her throat. “And well, it’s your money, so if you want to pay for my twice-a-week presence even though it’s not technically necessary, who am I to complain?” She slid off her barstool and grabbed his cup and saucer to put it in the sink alongside hers, pausing to say over her shoulder, “I also enjoy our coffee talks.”
She could feel his warm gaze on her back until he stood and she heard his bare feet softly padding away towards the stairs.
***
It was the Friday after when Wednesday paused in her dusting of the dining room when a new framed picture on the cabinet to the left of the fireplace caught her eye. It was a photo of the kitchen, looking towards the backyard, with a dog—an English Cocker Spaniel, by the looks of it—sitting on the rug between the kitchen island and the living room doorway.
“That’s Carrie,” Tyler said from behind her, having snuck up on her on his quiet bare feet. “She died a year ago.” He stopped next to her, looking at the picture with a melancholy smile. “She was already nine years old when I got her from a shelter four years ago. She was my first dog since Elvis. My parents had gotten him when I was a kid, and he died when I was seventeen.” Tyler took a deep breath. “I’m not sure yet if I’ll get another one. Not anytime soon, at least.”
For a while, they both stood there, looking at the picture silently. Then Wednesday said softly, “It was the week after Halloween. I was six years old. I took my pet scorpion, Nero, out for his afternoon stroll, and we were ambushed by some boys from our neighborhood who were passing us on their bicycles. They wondered what kind of freak would have a scorpion for a pet. Two of them held me down and made me watch... while the others ran Nero over until...” She took a breath, feeling Tyler’s eyes on her profile. “It was snowing when I buried what was left of him. I cried my little black heart out. But tears don’t fix anything. So I vowed to never do it again.”
When she finally looked up at him, she saw anger in his face. “Those bastards! If I could go back in time, I’d beat them all up before they could hurt a hair on Nero’s head!” He blinked and frowned. “Well, or scale... no, scorpions don’t have those either, do they?”
Wednesday had to struggle to keep her face straight. “Their exoskeletons have segments. And they do have bristles on their legs.”
“Before they could hurt a bristle on his legs, then,” Tyler answered somberly.
It only took a moment before they both broke into chuckles.
“I appreciate the sentiment. Thank you,” Wednesday said.
Tyler smiled at her softly. “Of course. Nobody should have to go through that.”
It was only now that Wednesday realized how close they were standing to each other, and yet she didn’t feel the need to step back. Or look away from his eyes, which seemed to be closer than they’d just been a moment ago...
They both jumped back when Tyler’s phone rang.
“S-sorry, I...”
Wednesday nodded, lifting her duster and turning back to the fireplace, hiding her burning face from his sight. “Of course. Work is calling.”
***
Tyler cursed himself later that night as he sat on the sofa with a glass of whiskey, some action movie on the TV which he wasn’t even paying attention to as he stared at the spot where he and Wednesday had been standing so close. Where he had almost leaned in and kissed her—
He slammed his eyes shut, but that only made it so much easier to imagine her eyes closing, the press of her soft lips under his, her twin mounds pressing against his chest as he pulled her against himself, her arms wrapping around his neck and her fingers carding through his hair as her mouth moved under his own, their tongues entwined...
Him fucking Wednesday into the leather sofa, her cunt so snug around his cock and dripping with her arousal, the top of her French maid outfit scrunched up underneath her perky little breasts so he could feast on them, licking and sucking and biting her nipples as he pounded into her hard and fast and she moaned and writhed underneath him—
Tyler groaned as he came all over his fist and stomach.
Even as he basked in the afterglow, breathing hard, he cursed himself for giving in yet again to his perverse fantasies. Wednesday was working for him, she trusted him; he had no right to fantasize about her, no right to look at her with want, but he couldn’t stop himself. If he was a better man, he would ask for another cleaner to replace her, someone he could treat professionally, but the thought of not seeing her anymore was unbearable.
Wednesday was like a drug he thought he could grow immune to by exposing himself to her in small doses, but in fact, he was only getting more addicted with every exposure, with every little detail he found out about her.
But you fantasizing about her doesn’t harm her, the devil on his shoulder whispered. As long as you treat her with respect and keep your hands to yourself, it’s fine. You can do that. And if not, that is when you know it’s time to let her go.
He firmly ignored the angel on his other shoulder asking him if he would actually be able to go through with it when—not if—the time came.
***
His resolve was soon put to the test. So far, they’d tried to mostly keep out of each other’s way when he was wandering the house during one of his phone calls. But it seemed like Wednesday was gravitating towards him more and more with every visit, and vice versa. Soon he found her cleaning his office while he was there, quietly and unobtrusively, until she reached past him with a murmured apology to pick up an empty cup or glass or bowl of chips, her breasts barely brushing his shoulder; or they passed each other in a doorway close enough that the bottom of her skirt brushed his leg; or he found that he had subconsciously drifted into the room Wednesday was cleaning in while he was talking on the phone, his eyes absently following her movements.
At least their coffee breaks were still the same, relaxed and filled with conversations about whatever came to their minds. Tyler learned that Wednesday had been an aspiring teen author, determined to beat her literary hero and nemesis, Mary Shelley, by publishing her first book before she turned nineteen. She had taken a gap year after high school to polish her novels about teen detective Viper de la Muerte and find a publisher, but to no avail. Disappointed, she had decided to study Applied Forensic Sciences in college, but found the thought of working with the corrupt police distasteful.
Tyler had snorted and disclosed that his dad was a small town Sheriff. When Wednesday offered her sincere condolences, he’d struggled not to pour out his whole tale of maternal loss and practically raising himself with an absentee-yet-overly-controlling paternal figure.
Wednesday admitted that she had mostly chosen Applied Forensic Sciences to make the mysteries Viper solved more realistic, and so she decided to put this knowledge to good use and give writing another go. However, to not live on her parents’ dime, she needed a day job. Since she didn’t really have many other marketable skills and wouldn’t have lasted in customer service or hospitality (“I’d have killed my first imbecile within the first day,” were her exact words), she took up cleaning, which paid decently and still left her enough time to write.
Tyler liked her. She was so easy to talk to, now that the ice was broken, and he didn’t take her sometimes blunt comments about the way he organized his house or his tendency to leave mugs and plates and snacks lying around personally. Wednesday was smart, and not just book smart, yet at the same time she seemed very naïve about certain things due to a lack of practical experience. She had a very unique outlook on the world, which he wanted to hear more of.
And she still drove him mad with want every time they orbited one another during work. The fact that she started wearing sheer tights instead of opaque ones didn’t help.
The first time he noticed that she was in fact wearing stockings—which was only noticeable because she was standing on a ladder to remove cobwebs from the ceiling in the parlor—he had to immediately turn around and walk away. He desperately tried not to blank on the conversation he was having with one of his clients as vivid images flashed in front of his eyes, his hand wrapping around her thigh, sliding under her skirt and playing with the edge—
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Turei, but could you repeat that?”
***
Wednesday didn’t know what had gotten into her, or why. All she knew was that feeling Tyler’s eyes on her felt good, that hearing him talk to clients or coworkers on the phone in an assured tone, firm and authoritative, but always in control of himself even when she could tell he was frustrated or angry, did something to her. And she wanted more of it. It was stupid and unprofessional and could only end badly, but she craved him in a way she had never come close before.
She could tell how much he wanted to touch her sometimes, hearing the way his breath stuttered and seeing how his pulse jumped when they were close. She’d seen from the corner of her eye how his hand had twitched when he’d seen her up on the ladder in his parlor, had felt his eyes fixed to the strip of skin above the edge of her stocking underneath her skirt, before he abruptly turned and walked back the way he’d come.
She wanted to make him lose control, but she was afraid that if she pushed too hard, he’d push her away out of a misplaced sense of chivalry and remorse. So she took her time. Leaned past him to dust or pick something up from his desk as he sat there, brushing him lightly with her hand or arm or chest or hip. Made herself... available within arm’s reach, or nearly so.
And finally, after a few weeks of this acclimatization, Tyler started giving in to his impulses. The first time he absently brushed against her as they passed in the hallway, she had to force herself not to visibly or audibly react as a thrill shot through her, the side of her arm warm where it had touched his.
But the real turnaround came a few cleaning days later. He had baked some double chocolate espresso muffins the previous night, and while Wednesday was handling the espresso machine, Tyler squeezed by her on his way from the tableware cabinet to the cooling rack carrying two breakfast plates, murmuring “Excuse me” while briefly touching her elbow with his free hand—despite the ample space between the kitchen counter and the island. Wednesday had to take a moment to calm down her racing heart before she was able to insert the portafilter. Her vulva was still pulsing gently through their subsequent discussion of their favorite Clive Barker horror movie.
***
Tyler didn’t know what kind of temporary madness had possessed him to press so close to her, nor how he had gotten away with it. Wednesday hadn’t flinched away, hadn’t reacted at all apart from the briefest pause, hadn’t looked at him afterwards as if she was appalled or disgusted. She had simply made their drinks, then sat next to him at the breakfast bar as usual and passionately argued with him about whether Candyman or Hellraiser was the best Barker movie.
Tyler voted Candyman. He liked how soulful and almost folksy it was. It was a legend like Bloody Mary, and it felt like a folk myth that could have been passed down through the generations in his small hometown of Jericho, Vermont. And sue him, he also enjoyed the dark gothic romance vibe of it.
Wednesday voted Hellraiser, because creeping around museums and ancient houses and messing with things you were not supposed to appealed to her. It was also more horror, pure gore and torture (or “torture porn”, as Tyler called it), more ritualistic and inhuman in its grossness. She was particularly fascinated by the movie’s depiction of hell and demons, especially the lament configuration.
Afterwards, he felt elated and like the worst creep at the same time, especially when Wednesday’s matter-of-fact assertion that she found the power difference component in Hellraiser compelling kept replaying in his mind. He couldn’t allow himself to read more into it than it was, and yet...
It was like now that his resistance had developed a first crack, more appeared at her every visit. The next time she was over, Wednesday was wiping down the banister on the main staircase when he walked up the steps, and the bow of her apron ties swinging with her vigorous movements made it impossible for him to resist reaching out and pulling on it lightly. Not anywhere near enough to undo the knot, but strong enough for her to feel it. He could have sworn he heard a snort over his own voice talking to Kent from the office, and as he walked up the second flight, he saw the corner of her mouth was curled up into the slightest smile.
He just couldn’t help but stand closer to her when an occasion presented itself, but in an effort to control himself, he kept his touches superficial—light brushes, nothing indecent per se, touching almost exclusively the fabric of her skirt or apron or poufy sleeves.
One time they were so close, with her having just wiped down the kitchen countertops, that a hint of her discreet perfume teased his nose with hints of flowers, spices, and woods. Without thinking he leaned in and drew in a deep breath closer to her neck, asking her what scent it was.
Her breath caught, but her voice was firm when she told him, “Carmilla. After the vampire novel.”
“It suits you. It smells delicious,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying, though what he really wanted to say was, ”You smell delicious.” Of course his blasted phone had to ring just then. Or maybe he should call it blessed—he wasn’t sure what he would have done otherwise.
For a while, the nearness and light touches were enough. He thought maybe they had found an equilibrium.
On a Friday which he had taken off—the first one in a while—he was sitting on the sofa in the living room with a glass of water on the end table beside him and a book in hand when Wednesday came in, holding a bucket and an oddly shaped tool. It looked a bit like an extra small clothes hanger with a short wooden handle instead of a hook, but the copper-colored covering on the horizontal bar seemed bumpy, not smooth.
“What is that?” he asked, curious.
“A hair remover. I’ve noticed your rugs still hold some dog hairs along with human ones and some lint, and vacuuming can only do so much.”
And then she promptly got down on her knees on the far side of the rug and started pulling the thing over its surface towards her, methodically moving side by side and back towards him. If that was not enough to raise his heart rate, then the fact that her skirt rising up slightly in the back due to her position was revealing a strip of creamy skin between it and the sheer black over-knees she was now wearing instead of thigh-highs certainly did it.
Tyler forced himself to take a deep breath followed by a long sip of water before lifting his book up to his face, crossing one leg over the other as casually as possible to hide the way his cock was stirring inside his cargo pants. They were loose, thankfully, but he discreetly adjusted the open ends of the plaid shirt he wore over a light t-shirt for additional camouflage. His eyes were scanning the words on the page, but his brain didn’t take any of them in, and he found that his gaze kept returning to her form as she slowly made her way across the large rug. He didn’t dare look anymore when she got close, staring at the page so hard that he startled and almost dropped the book when her fingers lightly touched his bare ankle, sending an electric shockwave through him.
“I’m sorry, but I need you to move so I can clean this part of the rug,” she said softly, looking up at him from her kneeling position, expression blank as usual.
But was her voice a little breathier than normal? Were her pupils a little wider than was appropriate for the brightness of the room? Tyler couldn’t tell through the haze he was in.
Finally, he snapped shut his mouth, which he only now realized had been hanging open, and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he mumbled.
Only then did her fingers leave his ankle, leaving it feeling like it had been branded by her cool touch. He pulled his feet up and curled them under himself, leaning more into the corner, and hummed absently as Wednesday thanked him and continued her work.
He was glad that he habitually kept his fingernails well trimmed, or his right palm would have bled from how hard he curled his fingers into a fist, just to keep from reaching out and stroking her raven hair or worse—
When she was finally done and left to dispose of her bucketful of hair and lint, Tyler banged his head against the pages of his book, barely able to bite back a groan. He was completely and utterly fucked.