There were a million words hovering on the tip of his tongue, but what came out was “Why in the hell are you scrubbing my toilets if you’re so filthy rich?” His words sounded harsh, angry to his ears, which didn’t make sense. What did he care? “You can buy and sell me a million times over.”

“You say that like you’re accusing me of a crime.”

“You should have told me.”

“I just did.” She dunked another French fry. “Sit down and eat your food. It’s going to get cold.”

Mick sat down. Not because she was the boss of him. He sat because he was drawing attention by looming over their table, and the last thing Sarah needed was more eyes turned her way.

“Look,” she said. “If it’s bothering you how I’ve nickeled-and-dimed you, I had to. I don’t have access to my funds at present. But if it will make you feel better, I’ll pay you back plus five percent interest once I get everything sorted out.”

“It’s not that,” he growled. “I don’t want the damned money back.” He could feel his ears and the back of his neck heat up. He’d known she was a class act, but it had never crossed his mind that she had grown up in a super-wealthy rarefied household. There wasn’t the slightest stench of a spoiled, pampered rich kid about her. “You worked hard. Earned every cent.”

She looked at him, the intelligence shining out of her deep blue eyes. “Then why are you angry?”

“I’m not ang—” He snapped his mouth shut. Sarah tilted her head, a small, barely discernable movement that suddenly made him ashamed of the lie that hovered along the inside wall of his lips. “I guess,” he said slowly, feeling his way to the truth, “I feel as if I’ve been sucked up in a tornado and have been set down in an entirely different locale, different customs, language. I don’t know how to navigate it. The status quo is all screwed up.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not . . .” He shrugged as if it were no big deal. “I’m not . . .”

“In charge?” Her voice was gentle, her face, too. “I’m still your employee . . .”

“Yeah, about that—”