Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls! Don't sue me please!

AN: I dedicate this oneshot to the readers of my other stories. Sadly, I think I lost the will-power and energy to finish a multi-chapter story. I had this idea initially for Tradeoff but I think it would get too complicated. Probably, I'll just write that story as a Lucas/Rory. Please forgive me!

AN2: Please forgive me for my grammar mistakes. Hope you enjoy this story!

The French Maid Outfit


$43,050. My Yale tuition bill due at the beginning of Semptember.

$35,000. My bank account as of this second.

How I am going to get $10,000 in two weeks!

Pounding headache. Bloodshot eyes. A catastrophic nightmare.

And, I'm just thinking in the short term. Is it possible to make another 40k within a year? Don't think Rory!

Damn. Too late. Just got a catastrophic headache equivalent to a Slurpee Brainfreeze. Ouch!


French Maid Outfit. Check.

Feather Duster. Check.

Black stiletto. Check.

Red Wig. Check.

Stun gun. Check. The most important of all.

Don't know if this was a godsend or not. If so God must have wanted to see my cheerleading calves in a mid-thigh French Maid outfit.

At the Hartford Maid Service, the place I worked for, some deranged (in my opinion) male offered an instant $10,000 bonus for a maid under 30 who cleans with the above requirements minus the stun gun of course. The stun gun was my personal touch.

If I didn't need the money I wouldn't have even consider it. Yale is my dream. I worked so hard. I'm not going to let $10,000 get in my way of being the next Christiane Amanpour!

It was a once a week job with the option of adding hours and days by the house owner's terms. Some days they may have a party and need some extra cleaning. As long as I consistently go on the same day of the week, I get my choice of time and day.

I decided Monday at 1:00 p.m. was out of the danger zone. People with $10,000 to spare must be working right? It also fit in perfectly to my Yale schedule. Monday at 1:00 p.m. was safe. I hoped.

Then left the question should I change there or go there with the outfit on. It was a no-brainer. I'm not going to put on a trench coat in August. Jack Bauer would snipe me down as a terrorist

I sure hope he doesn't have a camera in the washroom. I envisioned a pasty shriveled old man, with a nasty grin and doing some nasty stuff. Shivers.


So now I stand in the washroom, changing with my back to the door because the washroom does not have a damn lock.

I looked in the mirror. Surprisingly, I feel quite empowered in the outfit. I wore the long red hair wig with a skinny white headband. A fiery vixen. I would fit right in an Alias episode. If the maid outfit was in spandex, I'll definitely pass as a superhero.

The apartment was a modern flat with minimal walls. The bedroom was in plain sight. He either got really good taste or he hired a designer. A big plasma TV, leather couch, leather recliner, pool table, it was definitely a bachelor pad.

It wasn't messy. Mainly, it was just laundry, dusting and the dreaded toilet cleaning.

It seems he doesn't eat at home. The kitchen was like spanking new which I was glad for since I hate to wash dishes.

Luckily, he didn't come home that day. One down, 51 weeks to go.


I was not so lucky the second week.

He came in the form of blonde hair, warm brown eyes and a fit twenty-something year old body.

He looked genuinely surprised to see me.

He wasn't the shriveled old man as I imagined but he was pasty. There's more than a 10 likeness (I'm a person who hates to be wrong). Maybe he's going to look like that when he gets old. I can't help but smile. I so want do to my evil laugh when I'm alone. I hope he leaves soon.

Why is he smirking at me like that? I hope he didn't mistake my smile as liking what I see. He's cute but I've seen better—he's no CMM.

"Hi?" he said.


"Logan Huntzberger."

He extended his hand, I shook it. I said, "Rory Gilmore", as dignified as I could, given the current situation, or better said, given the outfit I was wearing.

Remember what I said about the outfit being empowering? I take that back. It feels downright degrading in front of a stranger.

He looked me up and down, staying a little too long on my thighs. I blushed. I attempted to cover up as much as I could with my feather duster.

He smirked. "So are you a stripper or a kinky ex-lover?"

I blinked. What the hell? Is he playing dumb now? "I'm your maid from Hartford maid services." I stated, somewhat disgusted.

"Whoa! I didn't know you guys dressed like this."

"This is by your special request."

"By my special request? I've never…." He looked genuinely confused. Maybe he wasn't playing dumb.

"You paid an additional $10,000 for services done in a French Maid Outfit, feather duster, black stiletto and red wig."

Do I have the wrong house? I imagined my pasty old man anticipating my arrival at his door. Waiting and longing for a maid that never came. He's probably living in filth by now. Sad.

"Wait, did you say red wig?"


He laughed as realization came over him. "I have this friend who has a red head fetish. It doesn't seem beyond him to make such a request."

"Does this mean I don't have to wear this", my hand gestured to the French Maid outfit I was wearing, "next time?" I asked hopefully.

He looked me up and down. Two fingers on his chin looking like he was in deep thought.

"Sure." Yes!

Just when I was about to thank him he continued.

"Your contract is for a year, right? You wore the outfit for what like…two weeks? 52 weeks in a year. La-dee-da. About 192 per week. Pay me back 9600 dollars then you don't have to wear that anymore." Wait, he did all that in his head? Arghhh! I want to wipe that smug look off his face with my trusty feather duster.

I could only describe him as looking like a kid who was up to no good. What's the word…mischievous? That's it.

"How about we make a deal? I pay you back the 9600 before my contract is over. I really need the money to pay my college tuition." I put on my sad face and my Bambi-like eyes. Gets them every time. If not, my waterworks is just seconds away.

"Which college?" he asked.

"Yale. It's so expensive. I've dreamed of going for so long…." Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

Why is he still smiling?

What's going on? Most men would be eating out of my hands by now. I'm losing my touch. It's probably the red hair.

"Save the waterworks. It's not going to work on me. I've had my share of jilted lovers. Truthfully, I value you being in that outfit so much more than the money anyways."

It took me some to process what he was saying. But when I did, like the saying hell has no fury like a woman scorned.

"You cold-hearted son of a bitch!" I did a 180 on him. I'm not wasting my tears on him, even if it was fake.

He laughed. "Funny, they had the same reaction as you—my jilted lovers I mean."

I narrowed my eyes and thought there's no use wasting my breath on him. He deserves the silent treatment.

I went back to dusting his 60" widescreen plasma.

He fidgeted a bit before he said, "Well, I'll let you get to your work. I just came home to get a change of clothes. Got a lunch date."

As I dusted his plasma, I noticed his reflection on the screen. He's changing in his bedroom which was out in the open. No! He took off his boxers.

He not only got a big pasty arrogant head, he also got a pasty white ass to match.

He changed quickly. Luckily, for him and for me his back faced me. If he showed me his full-frontal, I'll seriously slap a sexual harassment lawsuit on his ass.

He opened the door to leave. "Next time you can leave the wig at home. Red heads are not my thing. I'm more into brunettes. So, same time, same place next week." He winked.



It turns out we have a lot in common: Yale, journalism and the Yale Daily News. With the exception, he was in his third year.

Our paths crossed often, but we pretend we don't know each other.

Like clockwork, every Monday at 1:00 pm, I start to work. Since the second week, he has always been home when I worked. Sometimes he would be watching TV or doing paperwork. When he wasn't busy he would even help me do some of the cleaning.

By the fifth week, I stopped taking my stun gun to work. He seemed harmless enough.

He wasn't the big asshole I thought he was. I could get use to him.


Time passed quickly. It was mid-November; months since I first started.

I was in the washroom, putting on my stiletto, the last piece of my outfit, when Logan burst in.

"I need to piss."

He went straight for the toilet. I heard a distinct unzip.

Embarrassed, I turned my back to him.

I swear he pissed a whole bottle.

I crossed my arms. "I could have been naked Logan! What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I didn't want to pee in the kitchen sink. Anyways, if you were naked, we would have been even. My most private part is exposed, too." He joked.

"Ha, ha. Very funny. I'll leave you with your little brutha." I retorted, glad to have made a poke at his masculinity.

"Little? I have witnesses to testified otherwise."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. Man whore!

I tried to turn the knob but it was stuck.

"Hey…the door seems to be stuck."


I heard him zipped up his pants, flushed the toilet and washed his hands. At least, he was a jerk with decent hygiene.

He tried the knob. "Hmm…stuck." Yeah, brilliant discovery.

So here I sat on the counter, while he stood, leaning against the wall in front of me. He was supposed to think of ways to get us out of here but he seemed to have zoned out.

"I hope you are not fantasizing about me."

His face reddened. Aha! Now, I'm sure he was fantasizing about me.

He gave me his you wish look and said "Whatever."

He called his buddy, Finn, who has a key to his apartment. Logan told me Finn would be here in half an hour.

We waited in silence.

Then I had my epiphany. How can the door get stuck when there's no freaking lock on the door? Something fishy is going on. And it smells like Logan.

Just when I was about to confront Logan, he said, "There's no better time to resolve what we have."

"Resolve what?" I replied, innocently. I knew well what he meant. There was an unmistakable sexual tension between us.

I didn't even notice when he moved closer to me. Before, I knew it; his hand was at the back of my head pushing me forward into a bruising passionate kiss. My heart was beating so fast I thought I was

going to short-circuit.

Right there, I experienced my PJ Harvey moment: Do you remember the first kiss? Stars shooting across the sky. To come to such a place as this. You never left my mind.

We finally separated after much saliva swapping and tongue dueling. I was too breathless to talk.

He brushed the hair from my face. His other hand was still on my waist, holding me close.

"Rory, I like you a lot. A lot. I've never met anyone like you. I don't want this to be a one time thing. We have such good chemistry." He looked nervous.

"Logan, I…." I don't know what to say. No guy has ever been so raw and honest with me.

"Let me finish. I haven't been with anyone since I've met you." He admitted.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He nodded. His eyes still on me. Clearly, he was smitten with me.

"How did the door get stuck?"

He grinned. "My buddies are behind the door, holding it close."

"I have one more question: do I have to wear this outfit next week?"

He pulled me into another mind-blowing kiss because he knew he won me over.

He smiled and said "Only if you want to."

The End