Being the cleaner to Nina Winchester was a pain.

But what wasn’t a pain? Her gorgeous, kind, lovely, smart husband.

The one who told the truth about what allergies her daughter had, the one who got up at one am for water and ended up watching crappy TV with you, the one taught you how to make chicken nuggets how Cecelia liked them.

And of course the pay-check, which offered stability in the unstable world you’d lived in. And the grand house in Long Island with glittering marble countertops, newly painted walls, and a goddamn movie theatre.

But somehow, Nina managed to trash it. Every single day. Not before bemoaning the list of chores you had to do, and then retracting them as soon as you’d carried them out. And that devil of a daughter.

But Andrew made life.. bearable. When he was around, everything was uneventful. You strived for the uneventful in that household.

But he was married.

Why are married men so much more.. irresistible?

So after their scheduled appointment for IVF treatment went horribly wrong, and poor Andrew received that package from his mother with baby things.. you jumped at the opportunity to cheer them both up. Especially Nina, who had been a mess lately.

Andrew suggested Broadway tickets, and you went to the effort of asking Nina when she was free, booking them immediately - not before arranging a lovely suite at the Plaza - and presenting it to them with a slightly strained smile.

It had all gone wrong.

Nina wailed it was the wrong dates, Cece was glaring and then Nina threatened to take the ticket sales out of your pay check. The only type of freedom you had.

Andrew ‘sorted’ it.

Nina went to drop off Cece at camp, leaving in a foul mood with both you and Andrew, and so Andrew insisted you both went to the show together.

“She wouldn’t like that.”

“I know. But.. you’ve never been.” He reasoned. “It would cheer us both up.”

And with that soft, hopeful smile and the clenching between your thighs and the fluttering of your heart.. you couldn’t say no.

So you slipped into a cocktail dress, him in a suit and he drove you both all the way to the show. He kept looking at your legs in that sinful dress, flushing when you caught him time after time.

After the show that left you agape, he helped you out through the crowds and into the cool June evening, “How about we go somewhere to eat? My treat.”

“Sure,” You’d agreed easily; selfishly anything to stay with him longer.

And then after two bottles of the best wine you’d ever allowed grace your palette, delicious French food and confessions around the strains of their marriage, he payed the bill, and he helped you stand, thought he too, wobbled.

“There’s no way I can drive.” He laughed, looking down at himself like he wore a mess, when in reality you couldn’t devour him.

“No, you can’t.” Your lips went between your teeth, a nervous show, looking around for.. what? A taxi?

“We still have the room in the Plaza.” He waved over a cab.

“I.. are you-“

“It’s two separate beds. I can be the perfect gentleman.” He insisted, holding the door open for you. And so you slid inside.

The drive was long, and your gaze strayed to his handsome face, his rumpled shirt unfairly attractive. His eyes were fixed on your chest, then your legs. “You’re staring.” You giggled.

“What? Nothing wrong with looking,” He winked.

When the taxi halted abruptly at a red light, his lips skimmed your neck as you were thrown into his lap. You looked up, nose brushing his, as your eyes went heavy and heated.

“You’re beautiful. Did I say that tonight? I meant to-“ He cut himself off, swallowing, and sliding a hand into your hair.

Then he kissed you.