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“What kind of man?” Delilah asks.

I blow my bangs out of my face, frustrated. “Ridiculously hot. Talented. Successful.”

“You’re adorable and immensely talented. I don’t see the problem.”

My eyes press closed, trying to think of a way to convince Delilah that things just don’t work out that way. Or at least, they don’t for me. Though I’ve always tried to look on the bright side of every situation, lately…all I see is failure.

My failed attempts to gain recognition as an artist.

My failed relationship with my ex-boyfriend.

My failing pancreas.

I’m a sinking ship, and based on my light internet stalking, at twenty-eight, Shane has already had a successful ten-year baseball career with a bright future ahead of him. I wouldn’t want to drag him down—and that was if he was even interested in me.

Which he’s not.

I drop the mop in the bucket. “Can we just let this—”

My skin prickles with goosebumps as I hear the slide of elevator doors opening in the background.

Shoooot.

The homeowner is here, and I still have the juice bottle open on the counter, the contents of my purse scattered beside the dirty Pyrex cup. Stooping to pick up the bucket, I hustle to the kitchen as fast as I can without sloshing dirty water everywhere. A faint thud comes from the entry, like the homeowner dropped a bag on the floor.

“What’s going on?” Delilah asks, but I ignore her, shoving the juice back in the fridge and hastily washing and drying the measuring cup.

I slide across the floor before opening the cabinet. A rush of victory coats my skin because I’m almost in the clear. But then, I freeze, fingers still wrapped around the glass handle.

It suddenly smells like pine and spice and…the main bedroom.

My chin twitches right, finding black-sweats-clad legs, hoodie-covered arms, and strong hands holding a stack of letters beneath the open cabinet door. Even with his face obscured, I know.

“Willow?” His voice is as familiar as his scent.

“Shane?” I lean backward, peeking around the wood dividing us.

When his focused gaze crashes with mine, I gasp, dropping the cup. Without taking his eyes off me, Shane catches it before it hits the counter.

Then, the strangest thing happens.

The corner of his mouth twitches like…like he’s happy I almost shattered a glass measuring cup all over his freshly cleaned kitchen. Or maybe it’s just an involuntary facial tic? His lips quickly firm into a hard line, his free hand clenching his mail.

“You’re my maid?”

Chapter 4

Shane

“We’re called house cleaners,” Willow tells me, taking out an earbud.

Whoever is on the line cackles like an unhinged person before Willow pulls her phone out of her back pocket and hangs up on them. The phone immediately pings with two rapid-fire texts before she silences it with a frown.

“Right,” I grit out, unable to think of anything else to say because the person I’ve been thinking about nonstop over the last week is standing in my kitchen.

I want to ask her a million questions. How is she feeling? Is she adjusting to her diagnosis? Can I do anything to help? Does she ever think about that moment outside the ER, with my hand on her knee?

Forcing myself to create distance, I turn toward the large center island and set the measuring cup and the stack of envelopes on it. I usually pitch my fan mail straight into the trash, but for some reason, I don’t want to do that in front of Willow.