Beauty Sleep

Millie heard him—she just couldn’t believe it. Tripling her rate? Just like that?

Of course he would. In Aidan’s world, money wasn’t just power—it was the answer to everything. Throw enough cash at a problem, and it vanishes. Including the fact that this man clearly hadn’t been told “no” since preschool.

Millie chewed on the offer. Not literally, but in that way people do when money and morality are trying to arm-wrestle behind their eyes. Tripling her rate would quiet the demon light blinking on her dashboard.

But canceling on a client? That wasn’t her brand.

“Generous offer,” she said, and it was. “But bailing on someone isn’t my style." Of course it wasn’t. She had principles.

She shifted gears, recalibrated. “How about this?” she said with the voice of a woman who had backup plans for her backup plans. “I can push my next appointment and come back later. Cleaning gets done, and you get your beauty sleep.”

Aidan stared at her. Not just looked—stared. And his silence dragged on a little too long, like he wanted her to squirm under it.

“Beauty sleep?” he echoed, brow arched like a man who hadn’t heard a sincere compliment in years. “You think I look like I just lost a bar brawl?”

He kind of did. And somehow, that only made it worse. Because he also looked like the kind of guy who won the bar brawl, then bought the bar, then burned it down just to watch the flames.

She shrugged. “Didn’t mean it as an insult. Just saying—you look like someone who could’ve used a few more hours of sleep.”

That earned a twitch at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, more like amusement brushing past.

“Well, thank you. And do you want to know what I think you look like, Miss Schedule-and-Scrub?” His tone was light, but there was a subtle teasing beneath it.

“No need,” she said, cool and even. “I look like someone who’s here to clean, not make conversation or entertain. Let’s keep the lines clear.”

“Oh. Okay.” He let out a quiet chuckle, unbothered. “Crystal clear.”

But as Millie held his gaze a bit too long, she felt the smirk tug at the corner of her mouth—one she refused to let land.

She didn’t say what she was thinking: that yes, he looked a little wrecked, but in the kind of way that made people want to fry him eggs and ask if he was okay. Because that would’ve crossed a line. And Millie didn’t blur lines—especially not for men like him. And that was dangerous. That kind of thinking. Because it could lead somewhere soft. And softness was never safe with a man like this.

Then silence settled between them. She waited. Then—almost imperceptibly—his expression shifted.

Shit.

He exhaled. Not just a breath. A sigh.

“Okay, fine, fine,” he muttered, dragging himself toward a bar setup she hadn’t even clocked before. Her eyes widened as he pulled out a bottle of rum. At—what—10:12 a.m.? Breakfast of champions.

“Changed your mind about that beauty sleep?” she asked, trying to sound more amused than alarmed.

He twisted off the cap. “A bit late for that, wouldn’t you say?” he said, and then he did it—took two huge gulps, straight from the bottle. No chaser. No self-preservation.

Millie’s eyebrows practically leapt off her face.

This was not part of the job description. Cleaning penthouses? Yes. Polishing marble countertops while watching a man spiral into a liquid abyss? Not so much.

“Um, I think…” Millie started. She was trying to make this work—get out with grace, with a shred of her schedule intact. “Maybe I should come back when you’re feeling… more yourself, Mr. Moretti.”

“Aidan,” he corrected again, and this time, the rum actually sloshed when he raised it, like the bottle itself was drunk too. “And honestly, you staying might not be a terrible idea.”

Ah. There it was. The pivot. The shift from hungover host to bored millionaire who hadn’t had someone tell him no in a while.

“You want me to stay?” Millie blinked at him, confused. “Okay. I can stay. You drink there while I clean. And you can pretend I’m not here.”

She was drawing a line in the sand, but he was already kicking it like a spoiled kid at the beach.

“Not possible,” Aidan said, with that smirk. “I can hardly ignore your presence.”

There it was again. That glint in his eye. Not the dull stare of a man nursing a hangover. No—this was interest. Mischief.

“Change of plan,” he added. “Stay and keep me company. Cancel your other appointments. I’ll double, triple—whatever it takes—your rate. Hang out with me while I finish this bottle. And once I’m too out of it to care, then you can start cleaning.”

Millie’s jaw twitched. She was holding it together, but barely. The man was infuriating—rich, reckless, and way too aware of the effect he had on people.

“Look, Mr. Moretti—”

“Aidan,” he reminded her again, with a smile. “Think of it this way—you wouldn’t want me leaving a scathing review on your agency’s website, now would you?”

Oh. Wow.

Millie actually scoffed—out loud. “Just... wow.” She folded her arms. “Look, I’ve got a whole day ahead of me, and it does not involve babysitting hungover clients who use bad reviews as a threat.”

There was heat in her tone, yes. But underneath it? She was irritated—but not afraid. And that? That made her dangerous in a different way. Because people like Millie—people with backbones—never backed down cleanly.

Aidan’s brow shot up, like he was pleasantly surprised by the pushback. Like he hadn’t been told “no” by someone who wasn’t trying to sleep with him in years.

“Threat? Never,” he said, so faux-innocent it might’ve been charming if it weren’t soaked in ego. “But a man of my… stature”—he let the word linger, inflated with smugness—“can certainly make life inconvenient for your agency.”

Millie’s eyes narrowed.

“You stay,” Aidan added, lifting the bottle, “and I don’t destroy your agency’s reputation with my fancy-pants connections. Deal?”

There it was again. The veiled threat, wrapped in a drunken smile and confidence.

Millie stood still, weighing her options like someone staring down a broken elevator and deciding whether to take the stairs. This was absurd, yes. Borderline unprofessional. And yet... the man was like a car wreck made of charm and unresolved trauma—you didn’t want to look, but something in you had to.

She let out a sigh. One of those slow, begrudging exhales.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll stay until noon, and that’s it. Triple my usual rate, and you leave a glowing five-star review, mentioning me by name for exceptional service.”

Aidan lit up like a kid offered ice cream before dinner. “Deal!” he exclaimed, clapping once, loud and gleeful—too gleeful.

“So… do you have a name?”

Millie tilted her head but decided to give him the smallest inch. “Amelia Foster.”

“Come, Amelia,” he said, with a theatrical wave toward the couch. “Let’s get acquainted.”

She didn’t move immediately. Just stood there, tote bag still hanging from one shoulder, watching him.

And as she finally stepped toward the couch, one thought sat quietly at the back of her mind, What the hell did I just agree to?