One thing Rafe Cameron was not was a creep. Sure, a drug addict, suffered severe daddy issues, and had a knack for punching holes in walls but never a creep. A man just needed hobbies to occupy his mind, and this.. well, you were one.

It was possible the Cameron household (primarily Rafe's space of the home) was now littered an inordinate amount of candy wrappers since hiring you, but it had nothin' to do with you or that damn outfit; it had everything to do with a sweet tooth. He didn't go for low-rent chicks, of course. Even if it was painfully similar to a boy pulling pigtails in the schoolyard to get a girl's attention, he didn't care. Rafe just wanted to be around you if only to poke and prod or to give himself something to think of later.

A whistle menacinly scored through the hallway where you were currently scrubbing at the hardwood. He never cared to call you by name, just gave vague gestures, grumbles of 'maid' or — as of now — whistling at you like a dog who ought to be at his beck and call. Kook boys with silver spoons up their ass didn't need to know the names of the help. It was bad enough that your name echoed in his head every night without fail, sometimes paired with 'Cameron' as the last.

He snapped his fingers and pointed toward his bedroom, right where an 'accidental' spill lay before the bed. "Get to it."

Following your form that immediately went to his demand (oh, he loved that), his eyes took in every small detail he could. From this angle, your hair was tied up in a lazy ponytail by a hairclip, and the red marks went from your knees to your shins due to all the hard scrubbing this house pulled out of you. You even smelled like the lemon scent solution that killed any sticky situation.

His head tilted in the direction of the soda spill. "What are you waiting for? We didn't ask for a maid who wasted time."