“The thing about happiness is this.” He slid his arms around her and pulled her close. “Sometimes it’s in the place you least expect it, like in a house full of ghosts and with a girl who carries bleach in her purse.”
“How do you know I carry bleach in my purse?”
“You like things clean,” he said and smiled. A real smile. “Lucky guess.”
She tensed in his arms as she realized how well he already knew her, how he was inching himself into her life and making it nearly impossible for her to stop what was happening between them—not that she wanted to. But the very fact that he had so much power over her already was terrifying.
“Jane, I’m so damn sorry. I hope you know that. You’re…you’re perfect and I yelled, ruining the entire evening. Holding you in my arms feels so right that I don’t ever want to let go.” His lips found her ear. “I’m sorry I yelled. I was just taken back, but now that the scent of my father’s shirts has worn off, and the dog doesn’t look as threatening, I get it. They’re just things. Sometimes things catch you off guard, though. I was prepared for the pictures in the house—or at least I thought I was, even the blinds—but the dog? It just reminded me of that moment, a moment that I’ve always wished I could take back. A moment I’ve always blamed myself for.”
She burrowed her head into his neck and sighed. “Now I’m the one who’s sorry, I wish I could make the pain go away.”
“You already have.” He smiled, “Besides, I think I’d rather spend my energy making love to you than fighting ghosts that you seem to be able to push away with one kiss.”
“You can’t fight a ghost, you know.” She tried to ignore the way her body was already responding and yearning for more of his touch. “You make peace with them.”
“I may need help doing that. I’m not really sure what peace looks like.”
Jane hung her head, fully aware that what she was going to say applied to her—and her situation with her family—as much as it applied to him.
“Peace looks like letting go, Brock.”
*
Jane was behind on cleaning, which meant that she needed Brock’s help more than she wanted to admit, because it also meant she had to spend more time with him.
And she wanted to, she really did.
But the more she got to know him the harder she fell, even though she tried not to. Not because she didn’t want to fall for him, but because a part of her was afraid that he would leave—or that the end wouldn’t be happy. Even though his kisses promised a future, she was still afraid to hope for one.
He was funny—really funny, but in a way that wasn’t flashy. He didn’t need to be the center of attention, even though he often was. He was happy standing in the background.
Just like she was.
It wasn’t fair.
It felt like every time he kissed her, he took pieces of her heart away. And she knew that when he returned to his normal life he would either have to explain her to his grandfather and hope for the best, or realize that maybe a maid wasn’t the best type of match for someone like the great Brock Wellington.
She wasn’t sure if she could take that loss on top of the death of her father, the realization that her sisters weren’t ever going to care for her the way she cared for them, and the start of a life where she might have to go against her father’s dying wish. What if she lost Brock, too? It would break her.
She wasn’t just falling for him romantically, but he’d become a friend, someone she could talk to. A face she looked forward to seeing every morning and kissing every night.
It had been two days since they’d initially slept together, followed by two more glorious nights in bed.
And now they only had one week left together.
The days were already going too fast, folding into one another. Before she knew it—before she was ready—they would both pack their bags, shake hands and drive their separate cars back to the city.
“You’ve been scrubbing that same spot on the floor for the past few minutes,” Brock said, casting a shadow over her. “I think you’ve done the best you can do. Maybe move on? Either that or keep going and you’ll end up in China.”
She tossed the sponge back into the bucket and turned, hands on hips. “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?”
“Absolutely.” He nodded. “After all, I’m a professional cleaner now.”
“One room, Brock. You cleaned one room.”
“And it shines. You can eat off those damn floors.”
Jane shook her head. “You didn’t even finish!”
“Priorities, Jane.” He dipped his head, brushing a kiss across her mouth. “I was distracted.”
“And now?” she asked, breathless. “You want to distract me?”
“Is it working?” He kissed her again.
“Brock!” She pushed against his chest. “I have to work.”
“You’re fired.”
She gasped.
“Was it something I said?”
Angry, she turned away and kept cleaning. The room filled with tense silence but she kept scrubbing; this time she moved to a different spot.
“Jane?”
Scrub, scrub, scrub. Hot tears ran down her cheeks.