Alexandra and Christophe

It was an ordinary day, but it was about to become a day like no other.

Alexandra watched as her hands’ grip on the dish slipped and the object slid through the air, like it was made of water, and crashed down onto the hard stone floor.

“Oh, drat!”  She cursed under her breath as the Cook stormed in.

“Alexandra! The dish?!”

“I...dropped it…” Alexandra muttered, her worried voice the only thing giving away that she was not from around the same area; her accent was cracked with a little French tone.

 “Well, clear it up! Clear it up!” In contrast to Alexandra, the Cook’s voice was harsh and strongly British, though mid-London unlike the other maids who had been born on the estate and lived in the country villa their entire lives.

As the cook practically threw the dustpan at Alexandra and bustled off, in walked the household’s butler, Christophe.

He was French too and, frankly, gorgeous. He had short black hair, slicked over with gel to form a parting to the right, and radiant blue eyes that seemed to shine brighter than any summer’s day.

He was barely 10 years older than Alexandra and she loved him to bits.

The End

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