housekeeper

6. Meeting the boss for the first time.

Startled awake by unfamiliar sounds in my home, my mind races to the possibility of an intruder. Grasping the nearest object for defence, I tiptoe to the kitchen, peering around the door frame at the ajar refrigerator.

"Hey! What are you doing in my kitchen?" I demand, gripping the tennis racket tightly (admittedly not the ideal weapon, but it offers a sense of security).

The fridge door snaps shut, revealing a man whose appearance strikes a chord of recognition. Dressed in dark blue swim shorts, with a towel rolled up and draped over his shoulders, he gives me a flashing grin. He's even more striking than his photos suggested, and tall—towering at what must be 1.84 meters, while I stand at 1.73 meters. My gaze travels from his toned abdomen, across his smooth chest, up to his stubble-framed face, and finally meets his captivating green-brown eyes. His damp black hair is tousled atop his head.

"I was searching for milk; my housekeeper forgot to buy some," he explains.

"Mr. Lavens?" I utter in disbelief, realizing who's before me.

"In person. And you're Vanessa?" he inquires, placing the milk on the counter.

"Yes, sir," I reply, a hint of timidity in my voice.

"Please, call me Dave, as I mentioned in the message. 'Sir' is all I hear at work."

I'm speechless, gazing at him.

"Cat got your tongue?" he teases. Shaking my head, I reply, "No, but I'm sure I purchased milk for you."

"Not the full-fat milk I asked for," he remarks, eyebrow arched. "She was out," I fib. "All of them?" His grin is too wide. "Yes, no. Except the priciest one," I confess.

"Next time, get the more expensive one."

"Uh... no, Dave. I wasn't sure if that was permissible, and I feared maxing out the card."

He bursts into laughter. "A thousand euros, replenished weekly, is a limit you're unlikely to hit. Just ensure you get the correct milk next time. Enjoy your morning, Vanessa." He claims my milk and strides into the living room.

"Wait, what about my milk?"

"Take some from the villa; the skimmed milk there won't be used anyway," he said. I trailed him until he left my house, reeking of chlorine, with his swimwear and flip-flops on. It was only after he departed that I noticed the wet footprints on my floor. He had walked right in from the pool, leaving a watery trail. Annoyed, I stormed to the kitchen, grabbed my cleaning supplies, and wiped away his tracks with a squeegee and dry mop. Is this what it's going to be like every time I forget something? Will he barge in and rummage through my cupboards or leave puddles in his wake? I hope it doesn't become routine; my privacy is precious to me, even if he is my boss and my lodging is complimentary.

The rest of the weekend passed with little sight of him. Though I prepared meals daily, I discovered on Sunday morning that the food remained untouched in the fridge. Frustrated, I sent him a message:

"I don't prepare meals just to discard them later. Best, Vanessa."

I place the food containers in the freezer before preparing for my appointment with Stephanie.

It's just past 2 pm as we settle on a terrace, observing the passers-by with coffees before us. I'm brooding over the food he left and my illusion of privacy.

"Vanessa, you're unusually silent about work. You haven't grown weary of it, have you?"

"No, it does become quite lonely. In your flat, I had the pleasure of conversing with you before and after work. Over there, I'm by myself. And as you know, he came back yesterday morning."