His Young Maid: A Forbidden Boss Age Gap Romance

them. Tired of giving women false hope by taking them on dates, I turned to a premier and private companionship service complete with promised discretion in the form of non-disclosure agreements. Dating service is what all the other men needed to call it, to justify it to themselves, afraid to admit what it really was—physical companionship for cash. But I knew what it was. Negotiated contracts—down to the details such as what days of the week you wanted her company and what you wanted her to look like—you’d be matched, you’d pay, then you’d date and fuck. There were lots of rules, making it safe, discreet. It was guaranteed casual too because they were contractually obligated, though it was inevitable that some of the clients would catch feelings.

I never did.

I hadn’t wanted to date a prostitute, essentially, for the last four months. But I was tired of not having sex and I thought it would be better than being alone.

But I was wrong.

Britta: Three Months Earlier

My cousin wraps her arm around my shoulders and squeezes me to her, tilting her head down against mine.

“You did good,” she whispers, “and she was so proud of you for doing it.”

I nod silently, not wanting to verbalize a response, fearful for another emotional rush. I’d cried so much in the last week that my face was sore and tight, like a piece of dried out leather. My body ached with fatigue, having not properly been taken care of for far too long. But you come last as a caregiver, especially when there’s no one there to relieve you.

Finally, I summon the strength to speak without sobbing. “Thank you,” I tell my cousin, who lifts her head and turns on the couch, looking at me.

“What’s next for you? Now that she’s at peace,” she reaches out and tucks a strand of my probably very unruly sandy blonde hair behind my ear. Had I combed my hair this morning? I’d dozed off around 4:30am finally, anxiety holding my brain captive all night, and I’d awoken late for the service, rushing around to make it in time.

“That’s the really fun part,” I say, giving her a small smile. It is small and I wonder if my lips even move though mentally, I’m positive I’m smiling, at least a little.

“What’s that?” she asks, reaching out and flattening the lapel of my cardigan over my dress. It’s my funeral dress. I’ve had it for years and I only wear it to funerals. As I put it on that morning, I remembered the day I bought it. It was pricey, for me at least, costing nearly $40 and not on sale, not a way I typically shopped. But my grandpa, the man who’d helped raise me, had just passed away and money seemed less important than showing up looking nice, the way he deserved. When I bought it, my mom was probably already half way to her own grave, though I didn’t know it then. Now, looking down at the faded fabric covering my thighs, exposing my dark nylons, the dress makes my stomach turn. The death dress, the one that only appears when great sorrow has flooded my life.

“Mom’s medical debt. Legally, it rolls over to yours truly,” I answer, pointing my thumbs back at myself before dropping my hands to my lap and playing at the hem of the dress, afraid to look up and see the disappointment in her face.

I’m disappointed, too.

When I’d dropped out of junior college to take care of mom, my heart was broken. I was only partially through the boring general education in my first semester, but it felt so selfish and silly to be so sad about school when, in reality, it would always be there. Mom wouldn’t.

I’d eagerly awaited reenrolling somewhere, even if I needed loads of financial aid, since I’d spent my savings on keeping us afloat when insurance failed us. Alas, this was the time things were supposed to finally iron out for me. After meeting with the lawyer from the hospital, however, I’d been informed that as next of kin and only listed living relative, mom’s debt transferred straight to me. Her only child. Her only anything. I’d learned within the first weeks of her illness that being sick wasn’t cheap. And now, after two years, she’d accrued what felt to be an insurmountable amount of debt. Culinary school – or college as my mom wanted - whatever I wanted to do would have to wait. And who knows how long.

“How much?” Melody asks, her eyes wide when I finally get the courage to meet them.

“A lot.”

I’m afraid if I tell her the exact amount, she will fill with hopelessness for me and I can’t bear to see it, not today, not after the funeral just hours before.

“Okay,” her voice is calm as she leans back against the couch, kicking off her black flats and crossing her ankles. “What’s the plan?”

It was my debt to pay back, but I knew Melody would be there for me emotionally. Though we were two years apart and lived a few hours away, she was there for me when it mattered. She was the only one.

Sighing, I kick my flats off, too and lay my head back on the worn couch, the same one I’d been sleeping on next to mom’s hospital bed for the last two years. The living room suddenly looked big without all the medical equipment.

“I’ll need at least one more job, probably two more since the part-time job at the Stop’n’Shop won’t cut it. And they won’t make me full time there. So maybe I can waitress in the evenings? I’m not old enough to serve booze so the good tips made in bars and clubs are off the table. Maybe I can sweep and clean in a salon on the weekends or something.”

I’m thinking out loud at this point, because though I knew this day was coming, I couldn’t bear to plan the